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capslocked · 1 year ago

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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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catharticconsolation · 5 months ago

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requests bot dump: valentine’s release

the iron claw.

♡David Von Erich- white wedding (by billy idol) Honeymooning on tour after a quick, rushed wedding was not the most romantic thing in the world. But to David, it was perfect, watching you sleep all soft and hazy next to him in a shitty motel bed. Because he’s with you.

♡Kerry Von Erich- someday we might (fallingforyou by the 1975)- Kerry’s been seeing you around, in the crowds of his matches, hanging around and cheering and so, so excited. Yet it still shocks him to see you in the back alley outside the venue, long after the fight is done, hands holding out a pen and a picture for him to sign, all alone in the cold.

shameless.

♡Lip Gallagher- enough for me to love (gypsy by fleetwood mac)- No one ever thought that Lip Gallagher would settle down. But here he is, with a girl and a baby boy, his little love, and a finally stable job. Maybe he’s healing.

♡Carl Gallagher- think you might hate me (girl, so confusing by charli xcx)- Neither of you know what’s going on between the two of you, and yet the bitterness and the hatred seems so, so satisfying.

challengers.

♡Patrick Zweig- jesus can always reject his father (family tree by ethel cain)- Patrick is in love with the pastor’s daughter, and communities like to turn on those who are different.

♡Patrick Zweig- make me dream of you (wicked game by chris isaak)- The world doesn’t know you. The world knows you from the stage, from being half naked and wrapped round a pole. But Patrick knows the real you, and he wants you.

misc.

♡Chandler Bing- so full of love, could barely eat (work song by hozier)- Chandler doesn’t often find himself being serious, but when his baby is upset, he suddenly knows just how to be tender, as if it’s second nature.

♡Carmen Berzatto- the street where mothers weep (i want you by bob dylan)- Family dinners never go well in the Berzatto household, and Carmy seems even more on edge just trying to keep you happy during your first time amidst the chaos. But he gets snappy, as always, and he always comes out as the asshole.

♡Kenickie Murdoch- born to handjive, baby- Kenickie is a sleaze, always has been and always will be. But it doesn’t deter you from hanging around, prancing around on his arm at every school dance.

♡Bob Dylan- melt back in the night, babe (it ain’t me, babe by bob dylan/ joan baez)- It’s easy for Bobby to switch up between oh so loving to closed off and empty. And yet, on mornings like this, you just wish that he’d come back to bed.

♡Spencer Reid- les (by childish gambino)-Spencer is getting tired of hiding you, and he might just be a little tipsy in the back of a taxi, sending the sneakiest of pictures of you to Morgan. He’s always said that he hates secrets.

♡Jake Peralta- crawling back to you (do i wanna know? by hozier)- Jake knows that he’s annoying, and he likes to think that he knows when to stop. But no, he doesn’t stop until you get scolded by the captain, and all of a sudden, he feels awfully, terribly sorry.

notes: these are all requested bots, sorry if they aren’t very good or valentines themed, it’s just that i didn’t really have much time to make anything else. credit to @toastray for the amazing dividers!

the link to each bot is the little red heart, happy Valentine’s Day, remember that bots aren’t real people, take a break if you find yourself getting too attached x

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slut4b1ls · 6 months ago

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—LATE AT NIGHT

BILLIE EILISH X F!READER (smut)

summary: Billie texts you at night, asking you to come over..

It was a typical Friday night, you were laying in bed after a long day. You had on just your underwear and a baggy T-shirt you usually slept in. As you were about to put your phone away, a new message popped up.

„You up?” 1:24am

It was a text from Billie. You and her weren’t particularly close. She was a friend of your friend whom you’d seen a couple of times. The thing is, even though you’d met her more than once, you weren’t quite sure what to call the thing that was between you two. You definitely felt something for her; the effect she had on you was undeniable. Just a look from her could make you weak in the knees and Billie was completely aware of that. It didn’t take long for the two of you to give in, fucking the tension between you away. From that point on, every time you saw each other, it would end up in the same way.

„I was just about to go to sleep” 1:25am

„What’s up?” 1:25am

Billie wasn’t the type of girl that would catch feelings for someone quick, in fact, she was the complete opposite. You on the other hand would catch feelings pretty quick and that’s how you ended up in this not so easy situation. Billie had her needs and you were the perfect pray for her, would quickly get attached and in need of her validation.

„You think you could come ovr?” 1:27am

„I can call you a cab” 1:27am

Billie wasn’t a bad person; she just knew when and how to take advantage of a situation. In the end, you were also getting something you wanted too, right?

„It’s pretty late…” 1:28am

„Come on baby” 1:28am

„You won’t regret it, I promise” 1:28am

It didn’t take long for her to convince you. Just minutes after her last message, you were out of your apartment and stepping into a taxi she called for you. The drive to her house wasn’t long, as you were just minutes away, you texted her to let her know you were almost there.

As soon as you arrived, you got out of the taxi and hurried to Billie’s door. You knocked exactly three times, just like you always did. The door opened almost instantly, and Billie’s gaze traveled over you, checking you out, going from your feet to your eyes.

"Didn’t take you long, baby" she said with a playful smirk. You smiled and glanced at the ground, trying to avoid her piercing stare. "Tried my best to get here as soon as possible" you replied, looking back at her.

"That’s my girl" she said, her voice low.

After a moment of intimate silence, Billie stepped aside inviting you to come inside. She closed the door and as you walked further into her house, you felt her hand slip into yours from behind.

Before you could fully turn around, she tugged you closer and pulled you in for a kiss. Her lips met yours with hunger, and the way she grabbed the back of your neck to deepen the kiss made you weak in the knees.

After pulling away, she lead you to the couch in her living room. As you both sat down, she pulled you in for another kiss. A soft escaped your lips and you could feel her smile against your mouth "You know I love it when you come to me like this" she murmured, her tone teasing.

This wasn’t the first time she’d texted you late at night, asking you to come over and help her to relief. In fact, it has been happening pretty often since you two met. Though as for now, the only thing you could focus on was the way her hands were lingering on your body.

Billie’s fingers trailed up your sides as she slowly pulled of your shirt and tossed it onto the floor. She broke the kiss and leaned back slightly to take a good look of your exposed body. "I’ve missed this," she said, her voice low and full of desire "You can’t even imagine how badly I needed you."

She slowly leaned into your neck, her lips brushing your skin. Her hand slid under your skirt, and with a smooth motion, she pushed your panties to the side and started carressing your clit. "You’re so vulnerable like this," she said now pushing her fingers inside you. "So wet for me and we are just getting started."

As Billie was working you up, you couldn’t help but start moving your hips slowly on her fingers, seeking more.

"So needy.." she teased you with a smile. "Get up and bend over for me, baby."

Without hesitation, you got up and leaned over the couch, resting your elbows on the backrest, positioning yourself for her.

"Just like that.." she murmured approvingly.

You heard Billie unbuckle her pants and as she got closer to you, she lifted your skirt lightly and positioned the strap she had on so that it would go in perfectly.

The thing that always drew you back to her like a little puppy was that she was so undeniably good at pleasuring you. She understood the game and knew exactly how to play it.

Without a warning, she started thrusting into you, her hands on your ass. "Take it, baby" she said with a raspy voice. "You will take anything I give you, won’t you?"

"Anything" you said softly, following it with an even softer moan.

"You’re such a needy slut.." Billie whispered, her hands going on your waist. "Available for me anytime."

You leaned even more forward, straightening your arms on the backrest. "Take what I give you" she said increasing her speed "Because no one will ever be able to pleasure you like I do."

Her words were making you crazy, your heart started racing faster. "Bill… I’m really close.." you said, your voice sounding completely weak.

"And we’re not even done.." she said smirking at your words.

The room was filled with moans and sweat, the moment felt like forever. As you reached your final orgasm, your body tightened and Billie could feel it on your skin. She pulled out of you and leaned to give you a kiss on the lips.

"You did so good for me, baby" she said, zipping her pants. "Go take a shower, I will join you in a second."

a/n: Finally!! First smut everrrr. Please let me know what are your thoughts and if you have any suggestions I am open to listen and learn. Sooo nervous posting this but I hope you enjoyed. Love you allll🙈💙

tags: @hkkuugu @certifiedwomenlover @hopingforgoodblogs @canthelpit0 @billiesbabygirll @mybluebossanova @slutforabbyanderson

If you would like to be added to my taglist to be updated when I post a new fic, let me know!!

masterlist.

#—fanfics*ೃ༄#billie eilish #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish fic #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish smut #billie eilish x you #billie eilish x y/n #wlw #oneshot #billie x reader

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luvgam3 · 6 months ago

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Workwife!Shoko to fuel my delusions ♡

Cw: afab!reader, nsfw under cut, hospital coworkers au, wholesome flirting turned more, shoko the p☆ssy destroyer, a fwb situation…

Workwife!Shoko who instantly took a liking to you the day you started working together. She was tasked with training you for the whole week, in all reality she was dreading it— but upon seeing your dazzling smile and hearing your bubbly voice that all melted away.

Workwife!Shoko who only ever let you touch her. Whether it was resting your head against her shoulder after a long shift, or looping your arm with hers as you walk through the halls between shifts. You even clung to her during your smoke breaks— your knees knocking together as you blew smoke into the frigid air.

Workwife!Shoko who started inviting you out every Friday night for a drink at a nearby bar. You’d walk side by side, subtle flirting flowing in-between conversation. The flirting got bolder as liquid courage flowed down your throats. Her hand would find punches on your clothed thigh under the table, the dingy light swinging overhead doing nothing to hide the glint of lust in her eyes as she watched you sip at your beer unknowingly.

Workwife!Shoko who was used to your drunken kisses. By the end of the night neither of you could drive, so you’d sit in the backseat of a taxi and babble to one another. Your simple goodnight kisses— a quick peck on the lips— evolved into you littering Shoko with kisses before you even got out of the cab.

Workwife!Shoko who now has a section in her closet for your clothes and scrubs for when you spend the night. Your bras are always in her laundry bin or left on her floor. The first time you spent the night at her house was when you both had off the next day, so it’s not like you had to rush home and change before your shift— you only made that mistake once.

Workwife!Shoko who loves to tease you at work after a particularly intense night. ‘Awe you’re limping, are you okay?’ ‘You’ve got a little bruise on your neck, did something happen?’ Ugh she loves watching your cheeks flush as you turn and storm away. She knows you’re limping because she had your legs hooked over her shoulders for hours on end, bullying her strap into your tight little cunt. She knows she’s the one who left that hickey on your neck and just “forgot” to tell you before you left.

Workwife!Shoko who will catch you on your lunch break, dragging you into a supply closet just to hike up your scrub top and yank down your bra to suck on your tits as you grind against her leg. You’ll be starving for the rest of the day but the feeling of her hot tongue against your skin lingers for hours.

Workwife!Shoko who doesn’t care if you date around. You’re still friends after all. Just know that once your heart gets broken (yet again) she’ll be at your door with takeout and beer. Friends make each other feel better… her way just ends up with your face pushed into a pillow while she laps at your pussy like it’s the only thing she’s eaten in days. Her hands grasping at the globes of your ass as you tremble and whine, spit and tears wetting your pillow.

Workwife!Shoko who keeps her nails short because of work but learned that it has its benefits. It’s so easy to finger fuck you in the backseat of her car when her nails are always perfectly trimmed!

Workwife!Shoko who usually tops, but even she has her days where all she wants is to be taken care of— and boy do you deliver. She’s taught you well, your hips piston into her with reckless abandon as her fingers fist the sheets. You eat her out like an expert, only coming back up to mash your lips against her in a desperate needy kiss, your chin dripping with saliva and her. You even tie her hands behind her back on days where all she can think about is regaining her control even when she doesn’t really want to— you’re such a lifesaver— pulling at her confines as you plow into her, her ass bouncing with each thrust of your hips as she whimpers.

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #shoko ieri smut #shoko ieri x reader #jjk shoko #jujutsu kaisen shoko #shoko x reader #shoko smut #shoko ieiri #jjk au #jjk headcanons #my wife shoko <3

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ohisms · 1 year ago

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↪ 𝑺𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 , updated . ( a collection of various settings meant to inspire drabbles or be used as prompts . )

001. the seaside , as the sun is setting .

002. a cabin in the middle of the woods .

003. a picket-fenced home in the suburbs .

004. a dark bus stop lit only by street lights .

005. a private jet miles high in the sky .

006. a funhouse’s room of mirrors .

007. an office building , bustling and busy .

008. the back row of an empty movie theater .

009. a run - down motel room .

010. a loud house party on a suburban street .

011. a university lecture hall during a class .

012. the rooftop of a very tall building .

013. a great ballroom during an elegant party .

014. the back of a wailing ambulance .

015. the wine cellar of a large mansion .

016. behind the school’s gymnasium .

017. a boisterous bonfire at the lakeside .

018. an otherwise empty parking lot .

019. the shady bar of a noisy , dark club .

020. the grounds of an empty summer camp .

021. a large hedge maze , easy to get lost in .

022. a neglected or derelict treehouse .

023. a spacious , light-filled meadow .

024. an underground illegal fighting club .

025. an abandoned scrapyard .

026. a large penthouse overlooking the city .

027. an apple orchard in the middle of spring .

028. an empty playground with squeaky swings .

029. an extravagant greenhouse .

030. the base of a large waterfall .

031. a spacious walk - in closet full of lovely clothes .

032. a solemnly quiet hospital room .

033. the dark depths of an abandoned mine .

034. the deck of a fishing boat at night .

035. the thick crowd of an audience at a show .

036. a long , winding road .

037. the scene of a violent crime .

038. a fork in a hiking trail deep in the wilderness .

039. a cramped dressing room .

040. a dusty antiques shop full of relics .

041. the street of an unfamiliar city at night .

042. between the tall shelves of a thrifted book shop .

043. a building abandoned during construction .

044. a house without power or running water .

045. a mysterious trail found in the woods .

046. the back of a taxi stuck in traffic .

047. the inside of an elevator that won’t move .

048. fairgrounds during a large event (or after hours) .

049. a garden bountiful with flowers or produce .

050. a childhood home or bedroom .

+ 30 more setting prompts : 1 / 3 / 2024

051. the site of a horrible accident .

052. a closed pool , after everyone has left .

053. a home holding horrific memories .

054. by the side of a dangerously quick river .

055. a private hotel room .

056. a police station in the middle of the night .

057. a ferris wheel carriage under a sky of fireworks .

058. a lavish , invite - only party .

059. a public transit stop as rain is pouring down .

060. the back of a taxi going in the wrong direction .

061. the underworld .

062. a dusty , forgotten attic .

063. on the set of a television show or movie .

064. a lighthouse overlooking the raging sea .

065. in a post - apocalyptic bunker .

066. on a ship hundreds of miles from the nearest coast .

067. on the rooftop of a perilously tall building .

068. a tent pitched in the middle of the woods .

069. a crowded stadium during a football game .

070. the morgue during an identification .

071. an otherwise empty library during a late study session .

072. a place that feels familiar , yet you've never been here before .

073. a long hallway that seems to stretch on forever .

074. a signpost at the start of a hiking trail .

075. a bar or tavern bustling with life .

076. the dance floor of a masquerade ball .

077. inside of a car parked in a secluded area .

078. at the edge of a cliff overlooking a large lake .

079. inside a very old house with very old haunts .

080. the antiseptic interior of a space station .

#i'll add more eventually #just had to repost this time cos the old post wasn't in beta :/#inbox prompts #setting prompts #rp prompts #rp memes #inbox memes

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clementineinn · 13 days ago

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life in technicolor

abstract: after the BAU wraps up a case in chicago, what begins as an afternoon among paintings slowly becomes something more between two agents: a soft, golden thread of connection neither of them dares name out loud.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: fluff

word count: 7k

note: finals are over and i feel alive again, WOW!!1! i need fluff to defrost my brain from science, so enjoy an extremely sweet fic that will give you a toothache. enjoy! :)

The debrief was brief — a rare blessing.

Chicago cases had a way of stretching long — all elevated trains, gray skies, and cold corners — but this one had ended without blood, without press, without some last-minute twist that unraveled everything they thought they knew.

Just paperwork, quietly shuffled. Bad coffee. A muted television in the corner playing local news that, for once, wasn’t about them.

The conference room smelled like printer toner and faintly of someone’s winter cologne. Outside the windows, the city moved in slow motion — fogged breath on sidewalks, taxis bleeding into one another, the skyline still dipped in early haze.

Inside, the team moved slower. Calmer.

No adrenaline. No lingering crisis. Just the kind of hush that settles when the storm has passed — and for once, everyone had walked away intact.

Y/N leaned back in her chair, legs stretched out lazily beneath the hotel conference table, ankles crossed. She exhaled slowly, letting herself feel the kind of tired that only came after a case where nothing exploded, physically or emotionally.

A win.

Hotch closed his folder with a soft click and glanced around the table, his expression unreadable but settled. “Jet leaves tomorrow morning. 9 AM sharp. You’ve all earned the time — use it.”

There was the faintest flicker of something close to a smile. His version of good job — quiet, sincere, and understood.

Chairs scraped back as the tension finally broke.

Morgan stretched with a groan. “If I don’t get breakfast in the next thirty minutes, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

“Seconded,” Emily said, already slinging her coat over one arm. “Somewhere with real coffee. And actual chairs.”

Garcia’s voice crackled over the conference speaker one last time. “I want proof of life, people. Blurry photos, mismatched brunch plates, candid chaos — and at least one close-up of my favorite crime-fighting nerds so I can see your beautiful faces and pretend I’m not chained to this keyboard.”

JJ laughed. “We’ll message you from the table, promise.”

Spencer was still gathering his notes, meticulous even after no one would be reading them.

The team clustered by the door, jackets half-on, tossing around restaurant suggestions and trading half-hearted arguments about sweet versus savory breakfasts.

Hotch had already stepped aside to take a quiet call, giving them the space. No one rushed to leave.

Spencer hovered near the edge, watching the way Y/N leaned into the conversation — easy, smiling, alive in a way that felt rare after cases like this. He didn’t realize he was staring until she turned toward him and caught his eye. He looked away quickly, too quick to pretend like he wasn’t caught.

Y/N had glanced over at him, then at the gray skyline through the window, soft with early morning haze. The sun hadn’t quite decided whether to show up yet. The city felt like it was holding its breath.

She stood, stretching her arms overhead in a lazy arc. “If anyone’s looking for me this afternoon,” she said, mostly to herself, “I’m going to the Art Institute. Might as well get a little culture in before we crawl back into the jet.”

Spencer looked up sharply.

It was the kind of sharp that betrayed interest, not surprise. Like the words had reached out and tapped some old memory he’d been keeping close.

“You’re going?” he asked, more alert now than he’d been through most of the debrief. “They’ve got the Seurat right now. A Sunday on La Grande Jatte. It’s the centerpiece of their collection.”

Y/N turned to him with a soft smirk. “Color me shocked that you know exactly what’s hanging there.”

He flushed a little, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “I haven’t been in a while. Not since the last time we consulted with the field office here. I think the Magritte exhibit was up then.”

“Then come with me,” she said, casually. No big deal. Just an open door.

Spencer blinked. “I mean, if you don’t mind—”

“Spencer.” She grinned. “You just listed two exhibits and a painting. I think we both know I’d be disappointed if you didn’t come.”

He smiled — not wide, not dramatic — but it settled in slowly, like warmth finding its way back into cold fingers.

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

There was a beat — just long enough for the words to settle — and then, from across the room, Morgan’s voice cut through the low hum of jackets rustling and coffee cups being gathered.

“Don’t let him info-dump you into a coma, sweetness,” he called, grinning like a man who absolutely knew what he was doing.

Spencer made a faint choking sound in the back of his throat and ducked his head immediately, one hand twitching up like he might physically shield himself from the embarrassment.

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “I’m counting on it,” she said, flashing a grin over her shoulder. “What’s a museum tour without unsolicited facts and slow emotional unraveling?”

Morgan barked a laugh. “That’s a date, pretty girl.”

Spencer stared very intently at the floor.

A flush bloomed high on his cheeks — not just pink, but rose-colored, warm and helpless, climbing the edge of his jaw like something painted in. He pressed his lips together, clearly trying not to smile, but failing in the quietest, most honest way.

And if he looked down to hide the color in his face — well.

That was between him and the Seurat.

Spencer checked his watch for the third time.

10:47 a.m.

They’d said “around eleven.” He wasn’t early. Just… approximate. Prepared. Thorough.

He stood by the hotel’s coffee bar, quietly composed but visibly restless — all long limbs and soft restraint.

His cardigan was a charcoal gray, fine-knit and slightly loose through the sleeves, pushed to his elbows in absent-minded folds. The wool clung faintly at the crook of his arms, creased where he’d been fidgeting with the cuffs — not nervously, just habitually. His posture was neat in that unconsciously elegant way he always carried — all linear grace, like a line drawing from an anatomy textbook someone had sketched too delicately to be clinical.

Beneath the cardigan, his button-down was a pale, pearl-dusted blue — the collar open at the throat, just enough to reveal the clean slope of his neck. His skin was fair there, untouched by sun, and soft in that impossible way that suggested warmth and quiet vulnerability. His throat moved slightly as he swallowed, jaw tight beneath sculpted cheekbones, the edge of his profile cut sharp enough to be distracting — temple to jaw, jaw to chin. A scholar's face. A painter's favorite subject.

His coat was folded neatly over one arm — pressed and precise, dark wool with a structured collar. Tucked inside the inner pocket, a single folded sheet of museum notes. Of course.

His hair hadn’t fully dried from the shower. It curled gently at the ends now — unstyled, still damp at the nape — the kind of softness he never quite knew how to handle. A few strands clung just behind his ear, where the curve of his neck met his jaw with an almost boyish grace. He had tried to smooth it down earlier. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d simply run his hands through it a dozen times in the mirror, caught somewhere between preparation and preoccupation.

And now he was here. Waiting. Still. Composed in the way that only someone overthinking could be.

He ran a hand through it. Again. Or maybe that was the thirteenth time. Or maybe he just kept running his hands through it every time he remembered he was going on what might technically, maybe, be a date.

Or not a date. Just two colleagues visiting a museum. On a day off. Alone. Together.

He took a sip of coffee. Too hot. It burned, but he barely flinched.

Because just then — she walked in.

And the world tilted, quietly.

Y/N stepped out of the elevator with a casual, easy grace that Spencer couldn’t quite believe was accidental. She wasn’t trying to be ethereal — she just was.

She wore a cream knit cardigan — slightly oversized, buttons left undone, the sleeves ballooning softly at the wrists. Underneath it, a pale tank top clung gently to her figure, the neckline scooped low enough to hint at collarbones and warmth. Her jeans were dark and flared, the hem brushing over the tops of soft suede boots, and the whole look made her seem like she belonged somewhere between an old film reel and the middle of a love poem.

Her hair was tucked back loosely, a few strands coming undone like they’d made their own decision. There was something distinctly unbothered about the way she moved — like this had taken no effort, like she hadn’t even realized what she was doing to him.

He felt the words falling out of his head one by one.

She smiled when she saw him, and it wasn’t immediate, but slow, blooming across her face like morning sun cresting over a quiet rooftop, the kind of smile that unfolded rather than flashed — spreading from her eyes to her mouth in soft, golden increments. “Hey. You ready?”

He was still stuck on how the cardigan fell off her shoulders — like it had been draped there by accident, like it belonged more to a Sunday morning than a Chicago afternoon. The knit caught the light like soft wool fog, framing the pale tank beneath it — smooth, cream-colored, almost glowing against her skin.

She looked like something warm you’d reach for in winter. Familiar. Unrushed.

Spencer blinked.

He was still thinking about how the oatmeal knit looked against her — like fresh cream poured into coffee. Or the inside of a hardcover book cracked open for the first time. Or—

“Yeah,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

She tilted her head, brow lifting with quiet amusement. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said, far too fast.

She watched him a moment longer than necessary — then, mercifully, let him off the hook. She nodded toward the revolving doors. “Lead the way, Professor.”

He flushed again, but this time it curled into a smile. “I didn’t bring a syllabus.”

“You didn’t bring an umbrella either. What if it rains culture on us?”

He laughed softly, falling into step beside her.

The air outside was crisp — cold enough to bite at the edges of your breath, but not so sharp it made your nose sting. Winter light spilled across the pavement like watercolor left out to dry.

She pulled her coat tighter around herself — a deep, moss-toned green, the color of pressed leaves and antique velvet. It had a quiet elegance to it, cropped and rounded at the shoulders, buttons wide and black like vintage piano keys. The collar sat flat against her neckline, softening her frame, while the wool shifted gently with each step, catching the light in subtle brushstrokes. It looked like something pulled from an old photograph. Something worn by a girl who read poetry in public parks and painted with her sleeves rolled up. Practical, but romantic. Soft around the edges.

And without thinking, Spencer adjusted his pace to match hers; quietly, instinctively, like following a rhythm only the two of them could hear.

He didn’t know how this would go.

But he knew this: if she said nothing else all day, he’d still remember the way she looked walking beside him — dreamy and soft against the winter gray of the city, her pretty smile like something private he’d been lucky enough to witness.

The museum rose before them like a cathedral to memory.

Grand stone steps spilled out toward the street like something out of a dream, worn smooth by a century of visitors and ghosts. The lions stood guard at either side of the entrance — patient, frost-dusted, watching over Michigan Avenue with the eternal stillness only marble could master. Above them, a white banner fluttered sharply in the wind — Special Exhibition: The Impressionists — This Week Only. The edges rippled like parchment. Like an invitation.

Y/N tilted her head back, face upturned to the cold like it didn’t bite at her, but kissed instead. The wind swept softly beneath her hair, lifting the finer strands and weaving them across the collar of her pale cardigan — a whispering halo of motion around her. Her lips, gently parted, were flushed the color of winter berries, full and wind-touched. A soft bloom of pink tinged her cheeks, the kind that came not from makeup, but from air crisp enough to sting and sunlight gentle enough to make it worth it.

Her lashes, dark against the pale gleam of her skin, blinked slowly as her gaze climbed the face of the building before them. The tip of her nose, slightly reddened, twitched faintly as she exhaled, and a single lock of hair caught against the slope of her cheek, brushing near the corner of her mouth before falling free again.

She looked up like the architecture had been waiting for her. Like some quiet part of her had been waiting to meet it in return.

“Okay,” she breathed, and the smile that followed wasn’t for show. It tugged at her lips in that effortless way she smiled when she didn’t think anyone was looking. “That’s impressive.”

Beside her, Spencer stood just a little taller. His hands stayed at his sides, but his fingers curled faintly — like they’d almost reached for her without permission. Pride rose in him, but it wasn’t just pride. It was something gentler. Quieter. Like he was watching someone fall in love with a place he already adored — like the stone lions might bow their heads in approval, just for her.

And maybe, if she looked close enough, she’d see it in him too — not just the awe for the building.

“The original structure opened in 1893,” he said softly, his voice barely louder than the breeze. “World’s Columbian Exposition. Though technically,” he added, glancing over with the faintest glint of mischief, “the lions weren’t added until ‘94.”

Y/N turned to look at him.

The cold had deepened the color in his cheeks, and the light caught at the curl of his hair where it had dried unevenly at the nape of his neck — a soft, unguarded place beneath all that sharpness and spine. He looked out of place in the modern city — but only because he fit better here. Among archives. Architecture. Memory.

She had the sudden, unshakable urge to reach for him. To slip her fingers into that damp curl, press her hand to the back of his neck, and kiss him right there — where he was warm and real and too beautiful to be untouched.

The thought startled her.

But instead, she smiled — folded the want into something lighter — and laughed, the sound carried off in the wind like a ribbon loosened from her sleeve.

“And we’re off.”

He glanced at her quickly, worried he’d already gone too far – quick, instinctive, like the movement had been pulled from him by gravity. But her smile was easy, teasing.

The wind lifted the hem of her cardigan as she climbed, catching the fabric in little half-spirals like it had been waiting to perform. Her hair shifted across her cheek, gold-touched in the pale morning light. The city moved on around them — cars, wind, people — but she moved as if none of it could touch her.

She bumped her shoulder against his — light, playful — and it was the smallest thing in the world. But it landed like thunder in his chest.

“I’m counting on you to tell me things I wouldn’t learn on the plaques,” she said, her voice lilting like a smile.

He blinked, a little stunned by the softness of her. “Like what?”

“Secret history,” she said, eyes skimming the carved stone lions. “Hidden brushstrokes. Artist gossip.”

He huffed a laugh. “Gossip?”

She nodded solemnly, lips curving. “Scandalous nineteenth-century painter drama. Don’t pretend it’s not your niche.”

Spencer ducked his head, a strand of hair falling forward as he smiled — sheepish and quiet. “I might know a few stories.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Couldn’t.

Because she was sunlight in motion — golden and effortless — all soft fabrics brushing in rhythm with the wind, breath rising in quiet harmony beside him. She carried warmth without trying, like the sky might bend just slightly to follow her. And he didn’t dare look too long; not because it hurt, but because it didn’t.

Because the moment felt suspended in amber, and if she turned and caught him in the quiet act of memorizing her — the curve of her smile, the wind-kissed lift of her hair — he didn’t know how he’d explain why he was always watching her like someone witnessing something sacred.

They reached the top step together.

Inside, warmth met them like a hush.

The doors gave way with a whisper, and the museum swallowed them whole.

The city disappeared the moment they stepped inside — traded away for something older, quieter, suspended in time.

The lobby rose around them like a cathedral built for memory. Vaulted ceilings arched high above, pale stone climbing like the inside of a seashell, every curve echoing with breath and the soft tap of distant footsteps. Warm light filtered in through tall paned windows, not golden, but dusted — soft as flour, like the room had been sifted gently through time.

The floor gleamed beneath them in long, honey-colored ribbons of polished wood and marble — their reflections barely visible, like ghosts who had almost caught up with their shadows.

Somewhere, a docent's voice drifted — low, reverent, like prayer. A door creaked open three galleries away. A child laughed, and then the sound was gone again.

The air smelled faintly of clean stone, old paper, and something else — something intangible. Like varnish. Like wood smoke caught in linen. Like history clinging to the edges of the room.

And somehow, it wasn’t silent. Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that felt alive — like the walls themselves were listening, like every painting might breathe if you just gave it enough stillness.

Spencer paused just inside the threshold, letting the air settle around him. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He just stood there for a moment, hands in his coat pockets, head tilted back ever so slightly as if reacquainting himself with something sacred.

Y/N paused, blinking at the grandeur. “Wow.”

Spencer looked at her instead.

She always looked good. But here — with the cold still clinging to her cheeks, hair tucked into her coat, eyes wide in wonder — she looked like she belonged in one of the frames. Something painted in soft pastels, captured in light.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve got our tickets.”

“You bought them already?”

“I thought... it might be faster.” He offered them out — printed, neatly folded. His fingers brushed hers when she took one.

He pretended not to feel it.

She tucked the ticket into her coat pocket, the edges just barely peeking out. “Efficient and charming,” she said, with that smile of hers — the slow, teasing kind that curved gently at one corner before it reached the other. “Be still my heart.”

Spencer froze for half a second, the line hitting him square in the chest.

When he looked at her, it was instinctive — a flick of the eyes, quick, uncertain — but she was already watching him, amused and radiant, like she’d been waiting for him to notice she was joking and maybe a little bit not.

Her expression was all soft amusement, head tilted slightly, eyes lit with that impossible mixture of affection and irony that always made it hard to tell where her jokes ended and her honesty began. And God — her cheeks were still pink from the cold. Or maybe from the heat inside. Or maybe it was just him.

He met her gaze. Just for a moment. Then dropped his eyes to his shoes.

The flush climbed his neck before he could stop it — warm and obvious, settling high on his cheekbones like a secret that had just been exposed. He cleared his throat, shifting slightly, fingers tightening around the folded edge of his coat.

They moved through security and up the wide staircase, into the galleries proper.

As soon as they stepped through the arched entrance, Spencer seemed to shift — not visibly, not in any showy way. Just a subtle relaxing. Like his spine straightened naturally here. Like the hush of canvas and soft light restored something in him that the job had slowly stripped away.

Y/N noticed.

She smiled softly to herself. “You know,” she murmured, “it’s kind of cute, watching you walk through this place like it’s your natural environment.”

He glanced at her, amused. “You mean the museum?”

“No. The early 1900s.”

That earned a real laugh — quiet, quick, and golden. He shook his head. “I walked into that one.”

“Like a Monet into fog.”

Spencer glanced at her sidelong. “That metaphor barely works.”

“Maybe not,” she said, shrugging. “But it sounded smart, so I’m counting it as a win.”

He was smiling again.

That small, quiet kind of smile that didn’t ask to be seen — the one that curled at the edges of his mouth like something he couldn’t quite contain. The kind that made you feel like you were the only person in the world he’d ever looked at like that.

She caught it mid-rise — that flicker of unguarded joy breaking through all the soft worry he usually carried like armor.

And for a second, it felt like the light shifted just for him.

She couldn’t stop looking at him when he did that, and she didn’t even try.

There was something impossibly gentle about it — the way his eyes went soft, the way his lashes caught the overhead glow like brushstrokes, the way his dimples barely surfaced but still made her heart skip in that ridiculous, irretrievable way.

They didn’t rush.

The museum didn’t ask them to — and Spencer wouldn’t have, even if it had. He walked slowly, not with hesitation, but with intent. As if every piece of art deserved time. Silence. Reverence.

Y/N followed beside him, their footsteps cushioned by the low carpet and the echoing hush that museums always carried — the kind of quiet that made you feel like you were inside someone’s memory.

Spencer paused in front of a small Degas. Soft brushstrokes. A dancer mid-practice, her foot barely skimming the floor.

“She’s not posed,” he murmured. “He didn’t paint her for beauty. He painted her in motion. Between grace and imperfection.”

Y/N looked over at him, not the painting.

“You talk softer when you love something,” she said.

His breath caught — not enough to be heard, but enough to be felt.

He turned toward her, caught mid-thought, half-exposed in the golden light. “I—do I?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling slightly. “It’s like you’re afraid the words might disturb it.”

Spencer looked away. Not out of embarrassment — not exactly. Just shyness. The kind that came from being seen and not quite knowing what to do with it.

They continued on.

He spoke here and there — not performing, not overwhelming. Just gently offering things. Context. Composition. Which pigments had fallen out of use. Which painters went blind. Which ones had fallen in love with the subjects of their work.

Y/N soaked it in.

It wasn’t the facts that held her.

Though they were always interesting — rich with context, full of detail, each one delivered in that careful, melodic cadence of his. But no, it wasn’t the dates or the pigments or the movements that anchored her.

It was him.

The way his hands moved as he spoke — slow and deliberate, as if sculpting each idea in the air between them. His fingers would linger just a second longer than necessary, drawing invisible lines between brushstrokes, between eras, between thoughts he hadn’t spoken aloud. It was precise, yes — but it was tender, too. Like he believed the art deserved softness.

There was a slight crease that formed between his brows when something moved him — not frustration, but feeling. That quiet kind of reverence that belonged to people who didn’t just see beauty, but recognized it.

She watched the way his gaze lingered on texture, on shadow, on the quiet margins of each piece — the parts most people passed by. He was most alive in those spaces, the ones no one else slowed down long enough to notice.

He didn’t just fit in museums, but it was like the walls breathed easier with him in them.

She stopped walking somewhere between Monet and Morisot, in a gallery where the light filtered through the windows like watercolor — pale gold on stone, shifting quietly across the floor. The hush around them deepened, but not in a lonely way — in that tender, stretched-out kind of silence reserved for things too lovely to speak over.

Spencer took a few more steps before realizing she wasn’t beside him anymore. He turned back.

“Something wrong?”

She shook her head slowly, lips parting like she might say more, then didn’t. Her eyes were on him — not the paintings. Not the room, but him. Like he'd become part of the exhibit. Like he belonged under glass and frame.

“No,” she said, looking at him like he was the painting now. “Just watching you.”

He blinked — startled, caught in the act of simply being.

“What?”

“You’re kind of… luminous when you talk about things like this.”

He blinked again, slower this time.

The word landed somewhere in his chest like a dropped petal — beautiful, weightless, entirely unexpected. He fumbled with the edge of his sleeve, fingers folding into the soft fabric like it might anchor him to something real.

“I think that’s the first time anyone’s called me luminous,” he murmured, flushed but trying to play it down.

She smiled — not teasing this time. Not deflecting. Just warm and full of something soft and quiet and deeply her.

“You’ll survive,” she said gently.

And it felt like the kind of moment that might tuck itself away in both of them — a little velvet secret, still glowing in the dark long after it passed.

They turned a corner into a more modern section — bold lines, abstract shapes, shadows creeping across minimal white walls. The lighting shifted, colder now. The hush felt different here. Less sacred. More contemplative. Like the art was asking questions instead of giving answers.

Spencer lingered in front of a muted Kandinsky — all fractured color and unfinished language — eyes tracing a jagged line that broke the canvas into uneven halves.

The painting was bold, restless. But he was still.

Y/N watched him instead of the piece, again.

The gallery light caught in his hair and settled along the curve of his cheekbone, casting soft shadows beneath his lashes. He stood with one hand loosely tucked in his coat pocket, the other ghosting toward the painting as if to trace it in the air, his fingers pausing mid-thought.

There was a hush that settled over him when he looked at art. Not silence, but stillness — like something inside him had gone very, very quiet just to listen more closely.

She didn’t know what he was thinking.

And yet — she did.

He wasn’t just looking. He was cataloging. Interpreting. Carrying this shape, this line, this feeling into some quiet corner of himself — the same way he did with poetry, or patterns, or people. Something he’d sit with later. Not because he needed to, but because he couldn’t not.

She felt it like gravity.

He turned to her again, his eyes softer than the painting behind him, voice low — like the moment had changed the pitch of everything inside him.

“I could spend all day in here,” he said.

She smiled, something tender catching at the edge of it. “Good,” she said, like it was a promise. “Because we are.”

They found themselves alone for the first time in what felt like forever.

The gallery had thinned to a hush — emptied of footsteps, of commentary, of anything that didn’t belong to just the two of them. A long, echoing corridor stretched out before them, the ceilings arched high and white, the walls spare and clean. Cold light bled through narrow skylights like it had been filtered through frost. It landed sharp against the polished floor, as if even illumination here had to be curated.

Everything in this wing was quieter. Sharper. The air itself felt thinner — the kind that made you breathe differently just by entering it.

A Rothko hung at the far end.

Its surface was all wound tension — dark crimson layered over black like something burning out from the inside. No detail. No distraction. A single horizon line — just color and ache.

Y/N drifted forward until she found the bench — low, wooden, meant for quiet reckoning — and lowered herself onto it with slow, deliberate ease. Her coat folded softly at her sides, one hand smoothing the fabric like it might quiet the thrum beneath her skin.

The stillness was different here. Not reverent, not sterile — just… suspended.

Like the entire gallery had paused, holding its breath for a moment that hadn’t happened yet.

Spencer sat beside her without a word.

He didn’t shift. Didn’t adjust. Just sat with his knees slightly apart, hands resting on his thighs, elbows bent with the kind of gentleness that seemed afraid to leave fingerprints on the moment.

And for a while — they didn’t move.

Not much. Not more than a breath.

The painting began to do what paintings only do when you let them: it stopped being paint and canvas, and started becoming a feeling. The kind that crawled up the back of your neck. The kind that made your heart echo in strange places.

And sitting there, beside him, Y/N couldn’t tell if the ache came from the Rothko or from him.

She turned her head, slow, and found that Spencer was already looking at her.

Not dramatically — not in some cinematic sweep of motion. He just was. Like he had been for a while. Like maybe he always had been. Like the weight of her presence was something he never entirely stopped noticing.

The light fell soft across his cheekbone, catching at the hollow beneath his eye. His hair had curled faintly at the ends again, unruly in the most gentle way, and there was something undone about the line of his mouth — a tension there, soft and terrified. Like he was standing on the edge of something beautiful and didn’t know how to fall without breaking.

Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “I think I like watching you more than the paintings.”

His lips parted slightly, as if to speak — but no sound came at first. Just breath. Just that delicate flicker of something being handed over — raw and wordless — like a glass vessel across a too-wide space. Just the trace of something held too long behind his ribs.

“That’s funny,” he said finally, so softly it almost disappeared. “Because I’ve spent the whole afternoon trying not to stare.”

Her chest fluttered.

The hush between them stretched thin. Thinner than silence. The kind of quiet that holds a decision.

They weren’t touching — not even close — but something electric curled in the air like static, like the atmosphere waiting for a spark.

Spencer’s gaze flicked to her mouth.

Once.

It was quick. But no less devastating.

Like something in him had slipped — and in that single glance, she felt the entire weight of his wanting.

And then, he leaned in.

It was subtle. A tilt, a shift — nothing overt. But it was enough; enough to change the air, enough to tip the silence between them from patient to electric.

The movement wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even brave. It was surrender — the kind that doesn’t ask permission because the need is too old, too full, too known.

He was close now. Closer than he’d ever been.

Close enough for her to see the faintest freckle at the curve of his jaw.

Close enough to watch his lashes tremble when he blinked — soft, uneven things that gave him away more than he realized.

His breath hitched — just slightly — a quiet, unsteady inhale that never quite made it back out. It hung in his chest like a held note, suspended between caution and hope.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

His expression was bare — not open, not confident, stripped.

Every wall gone. Every defense melted. All that wonder and ache he’d kept folded behind facts and silence now rising to the surface, exposed and impossibly real.

His eyes dipped again — to her mouth, then back to hers — and it was a question, though he didn’t ask it aloud. He didn’t need to.

He looked at her like she was something sacred and just beyond reach, like he couldn’t believe he’d been allowed this close, like he wasn’t sure if kissing her would save him or undo him completely.

Y/N didn’t move away. Didn’t breathe, didn’t do anything at all except exist exactly where he needed her to be.

It would’ve happened then. Right there.

Everything they’d circled, tiptoed, nearly said — held, breath-warm and trembling, between one heartbeat and the next.

But a burst of sound broke through the corridor. A small group — three tourists, camera bags jangling, footsteps loud — turned the corner behind them, voices bouncing off the walls like dropped marbles.

The moment shattered.

Spencer blinked. Pulled back like waking from a dream. His hand fumbled for his knee.

Y/N laughed softly — not at him. Just at the timing. Just at the absurdity of closeness never quite catching fire.

“Well,” she said, gently teasing, “so much for that sacred modern art silence.”

He exhaled a breath that almost sounded like relief. Or regret. Or both.

“We should probably… move on,” he said.

She nodded. But when they stood — their shoulders brushing — her hand found the hem of his sleeve and lingered there. Just for a second. Just long enough to say what she hadn’t had the chance to.

She let go before he could ask.

But he felt it all the same.

The gift shop was tucked near the exit — all warm wood, quiet jazz, and that faint scent of glossy pages and worn leather.

Y/N trailed her fingers over stacks of postcards. Tiny prints of everything they’d seen. Everything they almost said.

She picked one up — the Rothko. The same deep red that had filled the silence between them like water rising.

Spencer hovered a few feet away, staring at a shelf of slim poetry chapbooks, though his eyes weren’t really reading.

She glanced at him. “Tell me, do you always end museum visits with modernist heartbreak and the gift of literature?”

He turned, smiling softly. “Only when I’m with someone who sees the art the way I do.”

Something fluttered in her chest again. That same thread of tension. Familiar now. Like gravity.

She held up the postcard. “I’m getting this. So I can remember that time we almost kissed in front of color fields and emotional devastation.”

Spencer’s eyes widened — just slightly.

She said it like a joke. But didn’t laugh.

And he didn’t correct her. He just stepped closer, holding out a small navy-bound book with pale cream pages. “Here,” he said, too gently, “for you.”

She looked down at the cover — a bilingual edition of Neruda poems. Spanish on the left, English on the right. A quiet, devastating collection.

Her fingers brushed his as she took it. “Are you trying to woo me with poetry?”

A pause.

He tilted his head. “Is it working?”

She blinked, thrown — not by the line, but by the earnestness beneath it.

It was working.

It had been working for months.

She flipped the book open on instinct — a habit — and a folded paper fell out from the first page. A receipt. But something was circled beneath it. A line in small, neat handwriting.

“I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

She swallowed. Looked up at him.

Spencer’s hands were buried in his coat pockets. His ears were pink. But he held her gaze like it meant something. Like he was saying all the things he couldn’t say aloud.

Y/N blinked down at the poem again. The line glowed like a heartbeat.

“I like spring,” she said.

He smiled. “Me too.”

They walked out of the museum shoulder to shoulder, into the thick, honeyed light of golden hour. The city had softened around them — shadows long and watercolor-soft, buildings glassy with reflected sky, the sidewalks quieter now, like even Chicago was catching its breath.

Spencer adjusted his coat against the cold, his fingers brushing hers by accident. Or not.

“You didn’t even get to show me the manuscripts,” she said, glancing over at him.

He smiled. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you. One handwritten 14th-century prayer scroll and it’s all downhill from there.”

“Oh, absolutely. You’d lose me to the illuminated margins.”

“I do tend to fall for the margins,” he said — and then blinked, like he hadn’t meant to say it quite like that.

She bumped his shoulder gently with hers. “Careful, Dr. Reid. That almost sounded poetic.”

“It was Neruda’s fault,” he murmured, ears pink.

“Sure,” she said, eyes warm. “Blame the dead poet.”

They turned a corner where the wind picked up again — not biting, but enough to pull at her scarf, catching one end and lifting it behind her like a ribbon. Spencer reached for it reflexively, catching the edge before it flew too far, and tucked it back gently near her collar.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Anytime.”

They kept walking.

And then — without fanfare — halfway down Michigan Avenue, she slid her arm through his.

Not tentative. Not dramatic. Just there. Like it had always belonged.

Spencer looked down at the place where she touched him — not just touching, but holding, her hand curled gently in the crook of his arm like she’d always known it would fit there.

It was casual in the way that meant everything, like it had been a choice made long ago and only just now realized.

His eyes followed the curve of her fingers, the way her hand softened against the wool of his coat, the way her thumb brushed once — barely a movement, barely a breath — but intentional. Grounded. Warm.

He looked at her.

She didn’t look back.

Just kept walking, her eyes on the golden wash of evening ahead, like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t changing everything.

But Spencer felt it.

He felt it in the quiet thrill low in his chest. Felt it in the way his breath faltered for half a second before finding its rhythm again. Felt it in the shape of her — pressed against his side, steady and near, like her presence had stitched itself into the moment without asking permission.

He was too busy memorizing it — the hush of the street, the sun setting behind glass towers, the way her touch made the whole world feel suddenly, achingly real.

“You’re quiet,” she said after a beat, not quite teasing. “Still thinking about color theory?”

“No,” he said, his voice a little rougher now. “Just… letting things sink in.”

She smiled — slow and warm, the kind that lit her from the inside out. It wasn’t a casual smile, not this time. It was soft and real and steeped in something she hadn’t dared name just yet.

“I’m glad you came with me,” she said.

Spencer looked at her — really looked.

At the way the streetlight haloed in her hair. At the curve of her mouth still caught in that impossibly tender smile. At the expression on her face — open, unguarded, and shining like he was the only person in the world who had ever been invited to see her like this.

And this time, she looked back.

No teasing. No disguise. Just her. Soft and golden and looking at him like he mattered.

“I’m glad you asked,” he said, his voice hushed and honest in the way only twilight allows.

And the air between them shifted — not abruptly, but slowly, like a curtain drawing open or a blossom turning its face toward the sun. Like the moment had taken a breath of its own.

Something bloomed there — not a confession, not yet, but something warm and luminous and aching to be held.

The night folded in around them like a secret, and beneath it, whatever this was — whatever it was becoming — glowed quietly between them, waiting to be touched.

The next morning, the team boarded the jet just after sunrise.

Everything was quiet. The kind of quiet that came after a good case — after a night of real rest, real silence. That rare stillness when no one was haunted, for once.

Spencer took his usual seat. Window. Left side. He had a book open — one he wasn’t reading.

Y/N walked up the steps with her usual ease, coffee in one hand, scarf tucked into her coat. She looked a little sleep-soft, a little windblown. Unbothered. Lovely.

She sat across from him without saying a word.

For a few minutes, the cabin settled into motion — JJ yawning, Emily scrolling through her phone, Morgan already asleep, Rossi reading something old and heavy.

Spencer felt it again — that ache in his ribs, low and steady, the kind that didn’t hurt so much as hollowed. That quiet, unbearable fondness he had carried for her in silence, the way some people carry poems folded in their coat pockets — worn soft from rereading, hidden but always close.

It had been building slowly, impossibly — like snow accumulating in a place where it never quite melted. Like every moment she’d ever given him — every glance, every shoulder brush, every half-laugh just for him — had added another line to a story he hadn’t meant to start writing.

But he had.

Without meaning to and without planning it: she was in every page now.

And the ache? It was just the space where all the words hadn’t gone yet.

He looked up.

Y/N was flipping through the book he’d given her — the Neruda. She didn’t look at him, not yet. Just found the poem again. The one with the line he’d underlined.

She didn’t smile.

But she reached into her bag and pulled something out: the postcard.

The Rothko. That endless red.

She slid it between the pages of the book and closed it gently.

Then — as if it were nothing, as if it were everything — she looked up and met his gaze and held it.

No smirk or teasing.

Just warmth. Just knowing.

Morgan cracked one eye open across the aisle. “Museum date, huh?”

Spencer looked away. “It wasn’t a date.”

“Sure.” Morgan smirked. “You two just had coincidentally romantic art-induced revelations at the same time.”

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. She looked up from the book in her lap, eyes amused. “What can I say? He knows how to sweep a girl off her feet with pigment chemistry and tragic painter backstories.”

Morgan laughed. “Reid, man, I told you the right girl would be into that.”

Spencer flushed, tugging slightly at his sleeve. “It wasn’t like that.”

Y/N turned to him then, gaze soft, unhurried. She held it — just long enough for something to pass between them like a shared secret.

She gave the smallest smile, just crooked enough to count as trouble.

“I’ve always had a thing for slow burns,” she said — lightly, like it meant nothing.

Spencer’s breath caught.

He didn’t answer. He just smiled — small, hopeful, the kind that stayed tucked in the corners of his mouth long after she’d looked away.

Outside the window, the clouds stretched like watercolor.

And somewhere in the stillness of the cabin, something new had begun.

Spencer’s smile didn’t fade — soft and stunned and just barely.

It didn’t have to be a kiss yet.

Some things bloomed slowly.

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starsjulia · 10 months ago

Text

superhero girlfriend

leah williamson x pregnant reader

a/n : i’m in rome and im dying from the heat, so i decided to write something about it. also sorry for how short it is…

warnings : none! (for once) just fluff.

Leah and Y/N strolled through the ancient streets of Rome, the summer sun blazing overhead. The city was alive with history, every corner steeped in tales of emperors, poets, and artists. But right now, the only story Leah cared about was the one she was writing with Y/N—their last holiday as a family of two before their little one arrived.

Y/N rubbed her growing belly, feeling the baby kick gently. "I think she likes Rome," she laughed, looking up at Leah with eyes full of love.

Leah grinned, her hand finding its familiar place at the small of Y/N's back. "Or maybe she’s just excited about the gelato we're going to get later."

The couple had spent the day exploring the lesser-known parts of the city, venturing beyond the usual tourist spots. They had wandered down cobbled alleys, discovered quaint little cafés, and marveled at hidden fountains that seemed to spring up like secrets only locals knew.

But now, as the afternoon sun beat down relentlessly, Y/N started to feel the weight of the day. The heat was oppressive, and her feet ached from the hours of walking.

"Leah," Y/N said, her voice tinged with exhaustion, "I think I need to sit down for a bit."

Leah looked around, realizing they had wandered far from the main streets. The area was quiet, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle of the city. No taxis in sight, just the silent presence of old buildings standing guard over the narrow streets.

"Of course," Leah said softly, her concern evident. She scanned the area for a bench, but the nearest one was a good distance away. Not wanting Y/N to exert herself further, Leah made a quick decision.

Without a word, Leah bent down and gently scooped Y/N into her arms. Y/N let out a surprised laugh, wrapping her arms around Leah's neck as she was lifted off the ground.

"Leah! You don’t have to—" Y/N started, but Leah silenced her with a soft kiss on the forehead.

"I've got you, love," Leah said, her voice tender. "Just relax. I'll take care of everything."

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with affection. It wasn’t just the romantic gesture that made her feel so loved, but the ease with which Leah did it—how natural it felt to be cared for by the woman she adored.

Leah began walking, her strides strong and sure, as she carried Y/N through the winding streets. Despite the heat, she felt a cool calm wash over her, knowing that she was doing everything she could to make Y/N comfortable. They passed by a few locals who smiled at the sight—a tall, athletic woman carrying her pregnant partner with such obvious care and love.

Y/N rested her head against Leah's shoulder, closing her eyes as she savored the moment. "You're my hero, you know that?" she murmured.

Leah chuckled, her breath warm against Y/N's temple. "I'm just doing what any superhero girlfriend would do."

Finally, they reached a main road where taxis were more frequent. Leah carefully set Y/N down on a bench in the shade before hailing a cab. She made sure Y/N was comfortable, fanning her lightly while they waited for the taxi to pull up.

Once they were settled in the backseat, Y/N leaned against Leah, feeling a sense of contentment wash over her. "Thank you for today," she whispered. "I know it wasn't easy."

Leah wrapped an arm around Y/N, pulling her close. "It was perfect," she replied. "And I wouldn't trade it for anything. Besides, it's our last adventure before we become three."

Y/N smiled, placing her hand over Leah's, where it rested on her belly. "I can't wait to see what the next chapter holds."

As the taxi drove them through the ancient streets, the city of Rome seemed to blur into the background. All that mattered was the love they shared, the new life they were about to welcome, and the knowledge that, no matter what, Leah would always be there to carry Y/N through anything life threw their way.

#leah williamson #leah williamson imagines #leah williamson one shot #leah williamson x reader #woso #woso imagine #leah williamson x you #leah williamson fluff #leah williamson fanfic

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zepskies · 3 months ago

Text

RED-EYE

Pairing: Jason Teague x Reader

Summary: Your best friend is getting married. Naturally, you’re running late for your flight back home to good old Smallville, Kansas, and so is the handsome stranger who saves you.

AN: Here’s my second to last entry for @jacklesversebingo!

**Remember that Smallville was circa early 2000s, the time of flip phones, physical clocks, and paper airplane tickets. Also, this story is going to be AU in certain ways from the season 4 storyline with Jason. (You’ll see.)

Jacklesverse Bingo Prompt: Running late for the same flight.

Posted on Patreon: 3/24/3025

Song Inspo: “First Time” by Lifehouse – in true 2000s alt-rock fashion.

Word Count: 4.8K

Tags/Warnings: Meet cute, fluff and hijinks, hint of college woes, twist ending~

Despite all your meticulous plans, you still managed to be late to the airport.

But you’d been prepared, damn it! Packed to perfection as you made sure you had everything for your trip with all your luggage laid out and ready to go for your flight.

You even had a sandwich waiting on the kitchen counter, along with a thermos full of ice-cold water and an apple for extra nutrition and sustenance. You were so damn prepared that you got cocky.

Smiling and inwardly patting yourself on the back for a job well done, but also bone tired from said preparing, you decided to reward yourself with a quick nap. You fairly face-planted on your bed and released a sigh that you felt in every muscle of your body melting into the mattress.

Ten minutes. Twenty, tops. Then you’d wake up refreshed and ready to get a taxi over to JFK.

Three hours later, you woke up like the parents in Home Alone, bolting upright frazzled and confused. Then you checked the clock on your nightstand.

Oh, SHIT.

You scrambled out of bed and nearly twisted your ankle in the mess of blankets.

It was lucky for you that you lived in a city that never slept. Within ten minutes, the taxi you called pulled up to the curb outside your apartment building. You had your carry-on bag slung over your shoulder, basically resting on your back as you heaved your monumental suitcase down the concrete steps. Those last ten were easy, compared to the first few flights from your third-floor apartment unit.

Getting this thing back up there is gonna be a bitch when I come home, you realized, but that was a Future You problem. Present You had enough shit to deal with.

It wasn’t until you settled in the backseat of the taxi with a huff that you remembered what you forgot: your sandwich. Thermos. Apple. Health all gone out the window.

Perfect.

You’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on, came the thought that suspiciously sounded like your best friend. You didn’t think that was exactly fair though, considering she got into way more trouble than you on a frighteningly consistent basis—and way worse than nearly missing your flight back home.

You got to the John F. Kennedy International Airport at 11:30 at night for a flight that was supposed to leave at exactly 12:15 a.m. Yes, red-eyes suck, but it was the best you could afford that didn’t have any layovers. Living by yourself in Manhattan wasn’t easy, and not just financially. Somehow though, you were doing it.

You were proving your parents wrong, along with everyone who said smalltown girls couldn’t make it in big cities.

You stormed into the airport through a pair of heavy glass doors, lugging your purse and carry-on over one shoulder and the handle of your suitcase in hand. You were halfway to the line to get your ticket verified and your bag checked, when the weight you were dragging behind you suddenly felt much lighter. You stumbled in your ankle boots.

You looked down and realized you were holding a broken plastic handle in your hand. With wide eyes, you turned back and found your suitcase lying on the floor, a sad monstrosity on its side, now with two prongs of black metal poking out without a handle. The damn thing fucking broke.

“You gotta be shitting me!” you groaned as you struggled to pick up your suitcase by one of the now jagged beams coming out of it. “You can’t just give up, dude! You’re killin’ me here.”

To be fair, the suitcase was heavy as hell. You’d probably overpacked.

“Uh, you need some help?”

You looked up at the question, meeting a pair of green eyes and the handsome face of a young man. His short, blondish hair caught on the overhead lighting, brandishing the ends of it golden. He was dressed down in some dark wash jeans, a forest green shirt, and a sporty looking jacket. He looked preppy, like the jocks you used to avoid like the plague in college, but his concern seemed genuine. He held a green duffel bag casually strapped over his shoulder.

“Uh, thanks, I’m good,” you said, your face warming in embarrassment. With a valiant heave, you got your suitcase up on its little wheels and dragged it rolling behind you by one of the broken extended parts. You paused, looking down at your other hand where the severed handle lied. Shaking your head and not knowing what else to do with it, you tossed it into your purse.

Preppy Guy graciously let you get in line ahead of him. You nodded at him in thanks with a brief smile, not quite able to look him in the eyes through your embarrassment.

Another few minutes, and you made it to the front of the line. Iris read the name tag of the woman at the reception desk. She greeted you with a bland smile at best. You didn’t blame her. It was almost midnight, and your flight was set to take off in less than half an hour.

“I’m going to need your ticket and ID, hun,” she said.

“Of course.” You were already digging through your purse, nodding, but you stopped short. You found your wallet with your driver’s license, but where the hell was your ticket?

“Oh my God,” you uttered, more furiously digging through your purse. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no!”

When you still came up empty, you began rifling through your little duffle bag next.

“Miss,” Iris tried, but you held up a hand.

“Wait, I have a ticket. Coach, Seat B12, Gate 9. I know because I printed it off and put it in here just a few hours ago…”

You gasped when it dawned on you.

You’d switched purses, opting for your messenger bag that could hold more stuff. You sort of remembered a folded-up piece of paper getting tossed to the floor when you stuffed the smaller, cuter purse in your suitcase.

“I forgot it. I can’t believe it,” you breathed. “I forgot my ticket. Oh God, I can’t miss this flight! My best friend is getting married tomorrow. I’m the Maid of Honor!”

“Okay, miss, calm down. It’s…cutting it close, but we might still have a seat available on this flight,” said Iris. She checked her computer screen again after typing in something. Her brown eyes narrowed on the screen. “Okay, wow, we actually do have a couple of seats left.”

“Great! I’ll take it,” you said, shaking your head. You were going to be out an extra $200 at least.

“They’re in first class,” she said. Her eyes met yours, and your face fell.

“And how much is one of those?” you asked dryly. Her face remained unreadable, but considering your broken and frayed ten-year-old suitcase on the platform, you both knew the answer. Too damn much.

“That’s going to be $1,000 with the late booking fee,” she replied.

You gaped. “Excuse me? $1,000 for a three-hour flight?! What, are you gonna tattoo the seat number on my ass? Is the fake leather chair actually made out of gold?”

Iris inhaled a deep breath, like she was just barely holding herself back from rolling her eyes. You knew you were being that bitch right now, and part of you hated yourself for it. You just couldn’t help it. You loved your friend like your own sister, but there was no way you could justify forking over what little savings you had to cover this, even if you were staying with your parents to save money while you were in Smallville.

“Ah, excuse me,” a smooth voice interjected.

Once again, you found yourself staring into the eyes of a stranger—the same Preppy Guy from earlier. He was still behind you in line, but now closer, hovering a respectful distance to your left. He raised a hand that said, I come in peace.

“I couldn’t help but, um, overhear,” he said, making you frown. Your cheeks lit aflame with embarrassment, but before you could offer a sharp retort, he shocked you with an offer. “I’ve got like, a bunch of frequent flyer miles. I can help you out, use ‘em to get you a ticket.”

You shook your head. “Oh, no. Look, I can’t ask you to do that—”

“Well, good thing you’re not asking,” he said. He gave you a smile infused with boyish charm. “Really, it’s no trouble. Also considering I’m on the same flight, and it’s about to take off in…”

He checked the silver Rolex on his wrist. “About twenty minutes.”

Your frown dropped in shock. Fuck! You needed to get through security and to your gate before the plane took off without you.

You debated internally with yourself for a moment, chewing on your lower lip. Was this guy for real? Or was he just trying to hook you in, like a man who thought you’d owe him something extra just because he decided to buy you a drink at the bar. And this was a little bit more than a $10 cocktail.

Ultimately though, the man’s earnest demeanor and his kind green eyes won you over. You thanked him profusely while he paid for the ticket, and again afterward, when Iris handed it over to you. It may as well have been made of shining gold, like you were gaining admission into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

“I’m Jason,” he said, and shook your adrenaline-trembling hand after you gave him your name in return. His smile could probably melt butter. If not, the cut of his jaw would slice right through it.

You held the ticket tightly in your hand, still somewhat in shock as you and your savior jogged together over to Security. You checked your big suitcase after he paid for the ticket, which left you with just your carry-on messenger bag.

“I still can’t believe you did that for me. Thank you,” you said, trying to regain your breath while you set down your things in a bin to get through the security checkpoint.

“Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t kidding about those miles…mostly,” he said, while taking off his jacket, followed by his shoes. The man was tall, with broad shoulders to match despite his lithe frame. Your gaze couldn’t help but follow the movement of his muscles flexing under the thin shirt and jacket. He looked…athletic. Your instinct was probably right about the preppy jock thing.

“Sure,” you said, beginning to smile.

The two of you managed to make it without hassle through the security checkpoint. All you needed was your belongings to come through on the conveyor belt, like groceries you already owned.

“I’ve never flown first class,” you admitted.

He chuckled and glanced over at you. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, trust me. You know what is?”

“What?”

“Good company,” he said. A hint of flirtatious charm in his eyes made your insides flip with butterflies, despite your lips pursing.

“Ooh, buddy. What exactly do you think you’re getting out of this? I’m grateful, but I’m not that grateful,” you warned. You grabbed up your stuff from the bin and quickly put your sweater back on and your bag over your shoulder.

Jason faltered, his brows furrowing, but his smile won out. “Okay, not what I meant.”

His bin slid toward him, and he grabbed his jacket and other things quickly as well. You two had about ten minutes before the flight was set to take off. They were still boarding from what you could hear on the intercom.

“It’ll just be nice to have someone to talk to. I usually fly alone,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” you said after a moment, offering him a smile. At the end of the day, he did just save you from disappointing your best friend and missing her wedding. His returning smile for you made your chest fill with warmth. You studied him while you hastened to the gate.

Okay, so he was attractive beyond belief. You also seemed to have been sucked into the first twenty minutes of a romcom, complete with a crazy, ridiculous, would-never-happen-in-real-life meet cute. Except that somehow, this was your real life.

But life isn’t a movie, you stubbornly reminded yourself. And you weren’t about to stick around if it took a turn from 50 First Dates to an episode of Law & Order.

Meaning, you still didn’t know if you believed Jason’s motives as a Good Samaritan just yet. So, you wouldn’t drop your guard. You tugged your sweater up higher on your neck, but you also found yourself discreetly checking your reflection on your tiny phone screen. Your clothes were a bit wrinkled and your hair was on the frizzy side, thanks to all the hustle just to get to this seat before takeoff. At least you’d managed to throw on some makeup before you scrambled out of the apartment.

Hopefully being first class meant you could actually relax on this flight.

“It better come with unlimited peanuts,” you said.

You couldn’t stop the flood of girlish giggles, and it was all Jason’s fault. While most of the plane was trying to sleep on the red-eye, your ex-college pro football companion was too busy telling you story after story of all the crazy stuff he’d had to do in freshman year to appease his buddies on the football team.

Like getting overripe fruit from the cafeteria and coating the floor of their coach’s office, so every time he entered, he’d have to squish on something just to get to his chair. (That one earned him an entire week of wind sprints.) Or your personal favorite: a mental image of Jason streaking through the quad wearing nothing but a plastic bowl filled with whipped cream, placed strategically in front of him. Very interesting when he stopped in front of the sorority house.

“So you were good, huh?” you said.

“Weeell,” he shrugged, smiling impishly.

Your lips curved. “What position did you play?”

“Quarterback,” he admitted. Your brows rose, and you whistled softly.

“Look at you,” you said. “Mr. Quarterback. Mr. ‘I’ve got sorority girls at my beck and call.’”

He laughed at your teasing, taking it in good stride.

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t quite like that. I, uh…I actually only played for about a year before I got hurt,” he said.

You sobered then. He was keeping it light, but you noticed the change in his demeanor, like there was genuine regret and old disappointment well-hidden behind his eyes. You asked the predictable question.

“What happened?”

A wry smile tugged at his lips, but he told you.

“Tore my rotator cuff,” he said. “NFL recruiters tend to frown on that sort of thing. Disappeared like bong smoke.”

So just like that, the future he thought he was building for himself was over. It made you think about all those “meatheads” you sort of used to make fun of back in college. It made you feel a bit guilty, and it gave you some new perspective, wondering how hard they were working, knowing they were putting their all into something that could potentially be taken away from them in a single game.

“What’re you doing now?” you asked. Already an hour into the flight, by now Jason Teague had told you he was from Metropolis. He even played for Metropolis University back then.

“Working for my father’s law firm,” he said, though he didn’t seem all that happy about it as he retrieved a bag of M&Ms he’d set on his fold-out tray. “I managed to fight off the law degree. Got one in business to compromise. He still thinks I should get some experience, learn from him, so I’m shadowing him, essentially.”

You frowned. “Shadowing him? For a career you clearly have no interest in?”

Jason sighed with a rueful, humorless kind of laugh.

“Yeah, trust me, I tried the whole rebellion thing. Didn’t really work well for me,” he said.

You were kind of sad for him, if you were honest. Daddy’s money could buy a lot of things, but it couldn’t buy you passion, or love for that matter. It sounded like his father was trying to control him with it.

Though you now felt less bad about Jason buying your ticket.

“Well, look, it’s not like I have my life figured out either,” you confessed. “My parents think I’m wasting my life and my money in New York.”

“Yeah, but you’re a musician. At least you get good tips,” he said, a bit of his flirtatious teasing returning as he popped a peanut M&M into his mouth. He offered you the bag, and you took a couple of M&Ms for yourself. You spoke around thoughtful chewing.

“Oh sure, I play in musty clubs and hope even one person’s paying attention while they get shitfaced at the bar,” you say, chuckling. “That’s exactly how I imagined my life when I got a degree in music composition.”

“From NYU,” Jason pointed out.

You inclined your head in acknowledgement. “Okay, yes, I got to go to one of the best schools in New York. I’m grateful for that. Honestly, I am. But they don’t tell you how hard it’s going to be to even get a job after college, let alone something you’re passionate about. God forbid you can make money doing something you love.”

Jason nodded in commiseration, stuffing his face with a few more M&Ms. You sipped at the cocktail he got you, despite your protests. He’d grinned and flashed his silvery company card before handing it to the flight attendant.

“I’m not giving up though,” you said, after a beat. “If something’s worth it, you hold onto it. That’s what my dad always told me…even if it bit him in the ass later when I said I wanted to leave Smallville.”

Jason chuckled, tipping his head back. He eyed you in amusement, and something else, like this was a moment he was trying to commit to memory.

“Smalltown girl, huh?” he remarked. “Livin’ in a lonely world.”

A smile threatened your lips. Now he was quoting Journey at you?

“City boy, huh?” you countered. “Born and raised in…Metropolis.” You laughed at your own lameness. “Blech. That doesn’t work, does it? Maybe I should’ve thought harder about that whole career as a songwriter thing.”

He joined you with some laughter of his own, and it was a rich sound that showed off his charming smile.

An hour later, the tremor and bouncing of turbulence startled you awake. Jason grasped your hand, since you’d grabbed his arm on reflex.

“It’s okay, we’re just landing,” he said.

You cleared your throat and paused, realizing that you’d been sleeping with your head resting on his shoulder. Your face was mere inches from his, your lips parting in surprise. He looked back at you softly, his gaze briefly lowering to your lips, and back to your eyes.

You leaned back while embarrassment began to make your face and neck flush.

“God, I’m so sorry,” you said bashfully.

Jason’s smile returned, lighting up his eyes now that the overhead lights had turned back on.

“It’s okay. The drool will probably come out of the jacket,” he replied.

You gasped and checked his jacket sleeve, but it was clean. You bit your lip against a smile and lightly smacked his arm in retaliation.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” you said.

“I think I’m adorable,” he replied, leveling you with a grin.

“Hmph.” You crossed your arms, but you couldn’t quite stamp down that smile.

Because he was damn right.

Even though he didn’t even check a bag, Jason hung out with you in baggage claim after the plane landed. When you two made it outside the airport, you each hailed a cab. He made sure to give you his cell phone number.

“If you ever have some time to grab dinner while you’re here, or hey, even just a cup of coffee, let me know,” he’d said, with a certain gleam in his eyes. “If not, we’ll always have First Class.”

His cheesiness made you laugh. You hadn’t taken him for a Casablanca kind of guy, but you liked that. Your heart was kind of hurting though. Your return flight was the morning after the wedding, and you highly doubted you’d have time for more than raiding the mini fridge in your hotel room, let alone another meet-up. Or a date…

Besides that, Jason told you that he didn’t live in New York. He’d just been there for a business he didn’t even like. Your life and your dreams were in New York. You weren’t likely to see this man ever again.

So before he turned to leave, heading toward the taxi parked at the curb, you found yourself rushing forward to stop him. You leaned up on your toes and pulled him into a hug, circling your arms around his neck while the wind nipped at you both in the early morning darkness.

“Thank you,” you whispered near his ear. “Thank you so much. You really don’t know what you did for me.”

Jason’s smile was warm when he finally released you. He tucked a wind-swept strand of hair behind your ear, letting his thumb brush your warming cheek.

“Can’t let you forget me, can I?” he said. “Hope you have fun at the wedding. Just be careful. You know, bridezillas and all the uh, hairspray.”

He mimed getting blasted in the face with a spray can, with an exaggerated grimace.

Your smile pulled at the corners. Like you’d ever forget the man who bought you a first-class plane ticket without even knowing you.

“Uh, yeah. I’ll remember that,” you laughed.

You turned to head back to your waiting taxi, but something made you turn back around. Jason did too, as if he was as reluctant as you were to end whatever this was.

“I forgot to ask. What’re you up to here in Metropolis? Coming home?” you called to him.

“Yes and no,” he called back with a shrug. “Mostly just attending to some business.”

You shook your head. “That’s not vague at all.”

Jason chuckled and gave you a wave.

“This isn’t goodbye. I’ll see you someday soon,” he said with a wink.

You shook your head, unable to temper your smile. What a flirt.

You laughed as you let him spin you again. The skirt of your bridesmaid’s dress billowed out in shades of lavender and violet. Jason drew you back into him smoothly with one hand curled in yours, and the other wrapping back around your waist. He pulled you flush against his chest, looking down at you with a subtle smile when you gasped lightly.

You stared up into his eyes shook your head. Someday soon, my ass.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you were the Best Man?” you said, laughing incredulously.

Jason drew his plush lower lip between his teeth, and he dipped you. The move was sudden enough to get a squeal out of you, but he held you securely, bringing you back up with his usual charming (and slightly mischievous) grin.

“Now where’s the fun in that, sweetheart?” he replied.

You shook your head breathlessly. You caught sight of Lois and Clark passing by as they made their rounds, greeting guests. Jason spared a hand to slap Clark’s back in a brotherly gesture. The other man turned around with a bright smile, as did Lois. You blew her a kiss, becoming somewhat teary-eyed.

She was beautiful, and it had been too long since you’d seen her in person. Video chats just weren’t the same, but you were so grateful to be able to share this day with her. You’d been best friends with Lois since you were kids, fellow army brats who met in some dusty town in Arizona. When your father retired and settled back in Smallville, you became friends with Chloe, her cousin, but you and Lois never stopped writing, emailing, and later Instant Messaging and Skyping.

And while you were friendly with Clark, you'd never met his "mysterious" college friend from Metropolis...who apparently was an excellent dancer.

“I see you guys hit it off!” Lois called out across the dance floor, boldly teasing and not caring how many people heard her (including your parents).

You gave her an incredulous look, but she just laughed at you and went back to holding Clark’s arm. He looked at her like she was his sunny sky.

Your smile softened. You drew your attention back up to Jason’s face. He’d slowed things down to gentle swaying, now that the band was playing something softer, “Everything” by Lifehouse.

“You know, you look beautiful tonight,” he said. His gaze drew down your form in your dress, back up to your eyes. He cleaned up well himself in the charcoal black suit and gray tie.

“Thank you,” you said softly, a slight smile curving your lips. “Better than some old joggers and a ratty sweater.”

He smiled too. “Nah, it was a good look. Now I already know what it’s gonna be like when we’re five, six months in. Me in my sweatpants that have holes in all the wrong places, and you with that messy bun on your head, no makeup, potentially no underwear.”

You smacked his arm for that last bit, even though he was making you laugh already.

“Just chillin’ together on the couch with How I Met Your Mother playing on the TV, couple of beers, and one hot, pepperoni pizza,” he said. He squeezed your waist on the word hot.

You couldn’t prevent your sillier, giddier laugh from escaping. But then, reality just had to check in.

“I hate to roll the credits on your feel-good sitcom, but…I live in New York,” you said, even as the words tugged sharply at your heart. “I barely have the money to get back to Kansas once every six months, let alone for…”

Jason gave you a gentler look, if still with that mischievous gleam. “That business trip I had? It was to scope out locations for a New York branch of my father’s firm. He’s finally trusting me to handle the management side of things. Comes with a potential relocation…if that’s what I want.”

He gazed at you meaningfully. “I figure, maybe it gives us a chance to grab that cup of coffee. So I’m thinking…Monday morning, before your shift. I can take you to this little café I know in Little Italy.”

Your shock overtook you. But slowly, ever slowly, it faded away. You smiled. Your hands slid over his shoulders and up the back of his neck, your fingers carding through his dirty blonde hair at the nape of his neck. He guided you even closer to him, until you were sharing a breath. His lips became mere inches from yours.

“You sure know how to paint a picture,” you said, almost a whisper.

“Yeah?” Jason quirked his head slightly. “Let me try one more.”

He leaned in slow, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. Your breath caught, but you let him touch his lips to yours, soft and plush and warm.

You melted into his second kiss even faster than the first, tightening your fingers in his hair and tilting your head. It gave him a better angle to cup your cheek and deepen the kiss. He held you gently, but strong and secure at the same time.

You couldn’t see it, but his brows were furrowed. You didn’t know it, but Jason’s heart felt full, even though he’d just met you. Each new sweet kiss with you was like he was taking his first real breath in years.

For you, it felt like the first good thing you’d had in months, and yes, even years of struggle trying to build your career. His voice, his lips, his touch, it all was like heady wine, making proverbial tannins prickle under your skin, then dissolve warm and honeyed in your body.

Just then, you didn’t care who was watching or what music was playing.

Whatever this was, and whatever it could be, maybe it was worth holding onto for longer than tonight.

AN: I've been holding onto this little fic for quite a while, so it's so nice to finally share some more Jason with you guys! I would like to write more of him in the future. ❤️ In the first half of season 4, he just gives me such "Dean if he got to go to college" vibes. 🥰

In the meantime, let me know what you thought of this little adventure in AU Smallville!

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ominium · 7 months ago

Text

farewell p2

character : gojo s. context : your husband reads your letter D: pov : third person (gojo) content : angst (still) no comfort

note(s) : farewell p1 if you haven't read it ty to everyone who asked for p2 >O< did not expect it to do any numbers + made up char named tomiko btw, not real !!| + didn't want to verbally include "time skip" but if it's too confusing just lmk and i'll edit it :D

—

The mind of Satoru Gojo was foggy. He woke up after what felt like a long slumber in daze, surrounded by people he remembered—and people he didn’t. But within his state of confusion, he understood one thing: the person who was there when he first woke up mattered.

It felt like an invisible force that pulled at his heart, lingering in his mind...with no answer.

The first time his eyes met theirs, it was like he saw the world in a new perspective: under a different light. He felt like he could hear colors, taste the tasteless, and felt so undefeated staring into the depths of their eyes. It felt like a rebirth when he woke up—but he had no clue why this person had such an effect on him.

The second time he felt the warmth and connection with this person was when they had returned to “their” home together. While he recognized the address, the inside of the home was a different story. Pictures he was in that he couldn’t recognize, furniture that he swore he would never choose himself—but despite all that, he didn’t feel as if anything was out of place. If anything, it felt like he was getting closer to filling the voids that plagued his mind. However, in the attempts to fill that void quickly, he overlooked the truth that stood right in front of him. What was missing?

“Satoru~ wanna hang out today?”

It was the same question he had been getting all week, the week before, and the one before that. He had recently run into his old friend, Tomiko, who had been reaching out constantly ever since hearing about his accident. While not necessarily for the hangouts, he wasn’t particularly against them—he just couldn’t figure out why. Was it to fill that void in his mind? To fill in the gaps?

“Yeah. We’ll meet up later at the convenience store.” As he got ready once again, he shuffled down the hallway, passing by the frames of memories he got used to. The supposed partner in the photos was smiling in all of them, some at the camera—and some at him. A subtle hint of a smile graced his lips, as he looked at how lovingly he’s being stared at. Why couldn’t he remember?

“Good morning Toru. I made you eggs again. Are you heading out today as well?” He followed the source of the voice as he entered the kitchen, seeing their figure glow in the subtle morning light. He nodded, giving a quick thanks before digging in on his breakfast.

To be honest, Satoru almost couldn’t care less. Despite months of seeing the same photos, no new emotions or memories had emerged. Nothing had changed over the time that he had been spending with them, and it felt like each interaction had become more meaningless. What’s the point in even trying?

But with her, with her, it seemed so refreshing to create new memories. It was fun, rejuvenating…he felt like he wasn’t just living, but alive. But why was it so different?

“Be safe, Toru!...If you can, come home a bit early tonight. I have a surprise for you!” With a quick wave, he left through the front doors. Knowing they would lock the door for him, he left with haste to meet up with his old friend.

“That was sooo much fun Satoru~ we should hang out tomorrow too!” She slurred out, waving frantically before entering the taxi. He gave a curt wave back, grinning ear to ear before turning down the path towards his home. Did it feel like a home anymore? He wasn’t so sure, but it felt much better to live a bit day-to-day and push any worries tomorrow.

On his way back, his steps slowed. It felt so empty without someone chatting his ear off…without Tomiko. Has it always been someone else? Or was it just too easy to place her in all those missing memories?

With a shrug of his shoulders, and a shake from his head, Satoru continued his walk home, reaching his front doors. Usually, he would hear their music humming through the doors already, but it seemed…eerily silent. Brushing off the weird feeling, he decides to unlock the door and go in.

“I’m home,” he called out, taking off his shoes. Looking around waiting for a response, he was only met with silence, confusion surrounding him. Normally, he would have been greeted, asked how his time went, and would’ve been offered some sweets….

He continued in, looking around in complete confusion by the sudden bareness. Some of the usual frames had been taken down, and the house overall felt…empty. He turned into the living room, being greeted by silence and nothing but a paper that seems to have been folded on the coffee table. Swiftly, he took a seat on the couch, hesitantly reaching for it.

“In another universe, we would have grown old together.” As quickly as his eyes could run over the words, Satoru read every word over, and over, and over again. What did they mean, ‘in another universe’? Anniversary? Today was their anniversary? See her again? Tomiko? Flowers…what’s going on? Why aren’t they here?

The final time he felt the pull was when he read the final words. Satoru then, and only then, realized the mistakes he had made…the irreversible neglect to the only person who had been there for him.

He had forgotten who he had woken up to for the first time in awhile. He had forgotten who had given him his good morning’s and good night’s. He took for granted the lunch boxes, the ironed clothes, the refilled bowl of sweets by the door…

He had finally understood why they mattered. Way too late.

#jjk #angst #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen #gojo #satoru #gojo s #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader

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bluetimeombre · 2 years ago

Text

┊ ➶ ｡˚ 　　° Call it what you want to, part two

[people actually liked it!!! and i loved it so here's more. p.s, i love tom blyth ever since i watched ballad of songbirds and snakes (four times in cinema) and i've loved timothee from the beginning and that's something nobody can take away from me!!!! also, i have nothing against kylie, i do not keep up with the kardashians so i can't say anything, but let's just imagine....]

┊ ➶ ｡˚ 　　°

liked by... yourusername, rachelzegler, jacobelordi, hunterscahfer & others

tomblyth: hermes camp!

tagged: yourusername

781k likes 309k comments

user: they're together omg!

user: it's happening, it's happening !!!

user: what is a hermes camp?

yourusername: personally i'm more of an ares girl but i'll take it

user: PLS

user: she's just like us

user: they're literally in love

user: IM OBSESSED WITH YOU

user: i thought she was supposed to be in london

user: there's a thing called a plane

user: TOM I LOVE YOU

user: he's so bf ahhhhh

user: do you think she's leading tom on and then gonna go for timmy

user: parents!!!

user: pls be together, i can't be a child of divorce again

user: yourusername i love you!!

user: tchalamet

user: tchamalet

┊ ➶ ｡˚ 　　°

you are calling... 'timothee chalamet'

you: timmy help me i'm so lost and my phone is on 2%

timothee *laughing*: what do you mean? where are you?

you: i have literally no idea, i went to get breakfast

timothee: whaaaat, i went to get us breakfast

you *walking around london looking very lost* well you didn't tell me that

timothee *smiling fondly at you, but you couldn't see as you were looking around the streets* i did, i told you last night i'd get you your favourite

you: there was nobody in the hotel and i didn't know what to do. timothee please tell me you have a portable charger

timothee: i have a spare one for you

you: thank you! you're a star- omg i almost got hit my a black cab

timothee: hey, where are you?

you: i don't know, i think i've gone in a massive circle. should i get a taxi back to the hotel?

timothee *who had gotten excited to see you*: no! no-urm- oh hey, wait a minute hold on

you: my phone is on 2% please! *but you hold on, watching- or more so listening- as timothee greets what you assume was a fan, he keeps his phone on, and you're smiling at the screen (and pulling the occasional face) whilst you wait. he quickly hugs the fan and pulls his phone back out to talk to you* mr hollywood!

timothee: shut up, ok where are you?

you: i think i'm like *you look around you, missing timothee grabbing a quick screenshot of your facetime* i'm by _______

timothee: ok, i know where that is, or i think i do. wait there, i'll come to you

you: oh! there's a cafe, i'll get a coffee

timothee: i've got you one here!

you: i can drink two, i promise

you put the phone down, wanting to keep whatever battery you had and ordered yourself a coffee, taking a seat by the window. you were just lucky you had your journal to keep you satisfy while you wait for timothee to somehow find you.

(little did you know he was literally jogging to meet you in the cafe with a dying phone.)

you were half way through your coffee when the bell above the door rang and he walked in. you hadn't realised, leaning over the journal and scribbling away.

timothee noticed you- it was a relatively small cafe for london. he snapped a shot of you before quietly coming up behind you. he took his cap off, throwing it on your hair.

'you could've been anyone!' you say, closing your journal and turning to him.

'morning!' he grinned taking the seat across from you and shuffling in. 'how did you get lost?'

'there was nobody in the hotel and they said you'd gone out ten minutes ago, i didn't know you could get so far in ten minutes!'

timothee slid a bag over to you. 'i got your favourites.'

you had no idea how to act around timothee. working with him was fun, easy, you guys get along great. but after filming and after you'd been on another set and done separate things, it felt different. you guys weren't in your own little worlds anymore. you were with tom blyth and he was perfect, and then timothee would do small things, give you his jumper or his cap or pick up things he specifically knew you liked. but he had a girlfriend, he had kylie jenner! there was no way he was doing this in hopes of gaining your attention. maybe it was just how he was with friends.

'you didn't have to do that,' you said, taking off his hat and putting it between you two.

he shrugged, leaning over again. 'what? c'mon, course i did. it's a big day.'

it was premier day. wonka was premiering in london. this was your third premier, but was sure to be one of the biggest.

timothee grinned at you, watching your lips quip up. he pulled out a portable charger from his pocket, offering it to you. truth is, five minutes ago he didn't have one but when you told him you needed one, on the way to meet you he grabbed one.

suddenly, the barista approached your table and you grabbed the bag, thinking she was going to tell you guys off for bringing in food and drinks from somewhere else.

'I'm so sorry, i'm a big fan,' she said.

you laugh, throwing him his hat as he blushed madly at being caught. 'i told you! you can't go anywhere!'

timothee greeted the fan warmly before also introducing you. then, she recognised you too. it was still new to you, being known and people asking for pictures or something to be signed, but you were more than happy to oblige.

and the pictures came out. a few of the two of you with fans and in some, maybe a lot, maybe even most, timothee was looking over at you.

user1: GUYS I LITERALY MET tchalamet AND yourusername THEY WERE SO SWEET AND LOVLEY

301 likes 100 comments

user: OMG LUCKY

user: were they on a date???

user1: noooo, i think they were just meeting up

user: they always look so good

user: imagine just going to work and meeting THEM

user1: they were so cute, timothee literally brought her breakfast, saying he got her favourites which means he knows her favourites, like that's goals right there!

┊ ➶ ｡˚ 　　°

liked by... zendaya, tomholland2013, florencepugh, kidcudi, yourusername & others

tchalamet: WONKA IN LONDON!

tagged: yourusername

1.2m likes 901k comments

user: style icon!!

user: does he realise there's other people but yourusername in the movie?

user: OMG I SAW YOU TONIGHT

user: can't believe i missed it!!

user: the last picture !!!!

user: WHY IS NOBDOY TALKING ABOUT THE LAST PICTURE???!!! THE WAY HE'S LOOKING AT HER

user: yourusername is stronger than me, if timothee looked at me like that i would melt

tomholland2013: looking good mate, can't wait to see the film!

tchalamet: thank you brother, lunch soon 🙏🙏

user: tomholland2013, ariana, what are you doing here

user: he put a whole post up just for her

user: I WANT YOU SO BAD

user: her dress, stunning!!!!

user: he's literally so in love with her

user: ARE THEY DATING?

user: he's with kylie!!!

user: apparently she was there last night

user: she's stronger than me, i would not let my man look at another woman like that

user: is ship it

user: is this movie a god damn musical?

user: how can she be with tom one minute then timothee the next

user: EVERYONE PLS THEY'RE LITERALY FRIENDS, TIMOTHEE MAKES FRIENDS WITH ALL HIS CO-STARS

user: friends do not look at each other like THAT

user: they'd literaly be the hottest couple in hollywood

user: power couple

user: ❤️

user: <<33

user: yourshipname

liked by... oliviarodrigo, tomblyth, tomholland2013, tchalamet, gracieabrams & others

yourusername: wonka, london! thank you so much for all the love on the movie. i want you all to love daisy as much as i do! and thank you gucci for the dress and making me one step closer to harry styles x

1.1m likes 701k comments

user: SHE'S SO FUNNY WHAT

user: GORGEOUS

user: OMG

user: 🔥🔥🔥

user: the last picture is my new screen saver thank you

user: HOW DOES SHE GET THAT CLOSE TO TIMOTHEE

user: HAWT

rachelzegler: the prettiest girl ever

yourusername: stfu, don't make me kiss you

user: first tom, now timothee, next she'll get harry

user: GUCCI OMG SLAY

user: my mother everybody, my mother

user: flawless

user: ur so beautiful

tomblyth: beautiful

yourusername liked tomblyth's comment

tchalamet: afterparty!!!

yourusername: dude, get through the premier first

wonkamovie: we love daisy!

user: timmy is literaly in love with you

user: plssss date timmy

user: i love youuuuu

user: wonka sucked!

user: slut!

yourusername: great song by taylor swift

taylorswift liked yourusername's comment

user: collaboration of gucci between harrystyles and yourusername when?

user: is hugh grant cgi in this movie or can he actually just do that?

yourusername: no cgi went into the making of this movie

user: she's so funny for what!!!!

┊ ➶ ｡˚ 　　°

'Timothee Chalamet!' he had been yelled at all night, by fans, by press, by anyone and everyone. he'd already posed for cast pictures, getting in a huge line, holding onto each other and taking the pictures.

so what if he had reached across the director, paul king's, back to hold onto your arm. and surely nobody would notice if he looked over to gage your reaction and see you smile at him. it wasn't like there were hundreds of camera's around him snapping a shot of every moment.

he headed over to the woman who had called his name, pausing by the barrier to say hello. 'yes ma'am.'

'woah, don't you look amazing, as always. first of, who are you wearing tonight, you know i got to ask!' she said.

'this is my man tom, tom ford,' he answered, laughing awkwardly at the end. 'i almost went gucci- it was almost gucci, but i couldn't do that to harry.'

'you look good either way, have you had much time with your co-stars so far tonight?'

'yea i mean, i've seen hugh, spent some time with keegan, love to see the man. we all got some photos-'

his attention and the press's attention is distracted when you stroll up to answer some questions not far from him, close enough to see how radiant you look close up. his lips turned into a smile, his arm hovering somewhere between a wave and a nudge to try to get your attenstion.

'oh woah,' might have slipped past his lips as the press held the microphone up to his lips.

'doesn't she just look fantastic?' she asked.

'hell yea!' timothee smiled, focusing back on the interview, 'always.'

'now i know you got to go soon, so just one final question, would you like a bit of chocolate?'

his face lit up. 'chocolate, oh my god i would love some, thank you. can i take two?' he asked, knowing what he'd do with the other. he was offered two little chocolates and quickly said goodbye. instead of heading into the theatre, he headed for you.

as you were chatting with the press, he didn't want to interrupt. instead, he slipped by, gently touching your arm and reaching over to whisper: 'i'll wait for you,'. but your camera caught your blush and the way you couldn't answer properly after that.

once you were done with your questions, timothee was still there waiting for you. he hugged you immediately, rubbing your arms as goosebumps rose on them. of course he'd think it's from the winter evening, when it had everything to do with him.

'you look amazing, timothee!' you gush, pulling back.

'me? look at you, you're so beautiful!' he said, keeping a hold on your arm.

'oh shut up.'

the camera's flashes were brighter, bigger and the shouts increased as they caught pictures of the two of you. but neither of you would stop for pictures, heading into the cinema.

'here.' he gave you the other little chocolate and the two of you un-wrapped them, popping them into your mouths. 'at least you didn't get lost this time.,' he joked.

you rolled your eyes.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ 　　°

user: omg it's happening, it's happening

user: AHHHHHHHHHH

user: mom and dad just hard launched their relationship

user: rue, when was this?!

user: a couple days ago, after the wonka press tour and the premiers, they were seen at dinner together and making out!

user: i'm so happy

user: real life lucy-grey and coryo

user: FINALY OMG

user: what about timmy :((((( he's so in love with her

user: he has a gf

user: i feel bad for timmy

user: THE THIRD PICTURE HELLO? WHY DOES MY MAN KISS LIKE HE'S STARVING

user: he only kisses her like that

┊ ➶ ｡˚ 　　°

liked by... tomblyth, oliviarodrigo, louispartrdige_, lola.tung & others

yourusername: i love british boys (i'm literally just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her)

706k likes 201k comments

user: hard launch who?

user: they're so cute i can't

user: the caption, so real

user: omg it's so funny, do you think hugh has seen this?

user: she's back in london!!!

user: i love them please they're so cute

tomblyth: and i'm literally going to run into your press conference and ask you to be with me forever

yourusername: i'm sitting right next to you, clearly you're running nowhere

user: STOP they're so cute

user: i miss her and timmy!

user: notting hill!! she knows taste

user: i want her and timmy together

user: tom and her were made for each other, like have you seen their interviews

user: funny how timothee doesn't like pictures when it's featuring tom but he'll literally like all of her other pictures

liked by... yourusername, gq, tayrussell, emmawatson, selenagomez & others

tchalamet: thank you london! and thank you for making me a (honorary) british boy!

1.2m likes 771k comments

user: petty king!

user: plssss!! not after yourusername's post

user: he's so obessed with her i can't

user: i chose to believe yourusername took the first pic of him, it's laterally from the premier

user: COME BACK TO LONDON SOON

user: bring back little timmy tim!!!!

user: you were amazing in wonka!!

user: OMG MY MAN IS NOMINATED FOR A GOLDEN GLOBE

user: GOLDEN GLOBES BABY

user: i have the wonka soundtrack stuck in my head

user: is that yourusername in the last pic?

user: i love him!

user: marry me

user: omg he's so regulus black

user: how does he look good no matter what

user: DONT BE A FOOL AND GO GET YOUR GIRL TIMMY

user: in interviews, yourusername has literally said timmy is her celeb crush, girl same

user: how do you feel about tomblyth and yourusername?

┊ ➶ ｡˚ 　　°

582 likes

[comments restricted]

user: update, he follows one person on instragram and it's yourusername

#timothée chalamet #timothee x you #timothee x y/n #timothee x reader #timothee imagine #social media #wonka #wonka 2023 #tom blyth x reader #tom blyth

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arbitrarykiwi · 5 months ago

Text

Third Times a Charm: Oral Fixation 2/3

Nam-Gyu (Player 124) x AFAB reader smut series

Summary: you ran into him three separate times. First was at a party, second time was at a club. And like his favorite drugs, he was addicted. The third time? Well he wasn’t going to let you get away so easy. Third times a charm and he was going to get his fix. ((Non-squid games au))

Warnings: Smut (18+), LONG (y'all.. I went over board: 6.4k words), id say this is significantly more debauched than the first chapter, alcohol use, drug use, substance mixing, stalker! Nam-Gyu themes (he finds your info online), porn with plot (long intro, there is a divider added for convenience if you wish to skip to the fuckin') , oral (m receiving), choking, dirty talk, name calling ((this chap. is significantly more gendered than the first one)) (pretty girl, good girl, whore and slut used once), face fucking, sugar daddy! Nam-Gyu themes, spitting, cum play, breath play, he’s nasty- got a filthy mouth on him, brief mention of death threats (he threatens somebody for interrupting y'all), proof read but I am dyslexic, there's prolly more- read at your own risk

Previous chapter: Taste Test 1/3

Next chapter: Bodytalk 3/3

AN: gonnna be so real yall, music inspo for this fic is São Paulo ft. Anitta by The Weekend…if you wanna read it with the fic be my guest 😋 (best time to start it is when yall meet again in da club)

The second time you ran into him was at a club.

It has been about two weeks since your interaction with him. Nam-Gyu. To say that he was all you thought about would be putting it lightly. The thought, the feel, the scent of him, was all you could think about.

Figuring with just a name to go off of and the drugged out crowd you often hung around, your luck of finding him was slim to none. You tried to search him up, nothing. All searches took you to was links about a ‘Club Pentagon’.

You tried to go out with some men, often finding yourself repulsed anytime they put your hands on you. Pushing them away and calling a cab to just go back home and get yourself off. None of those guys seemed worth your time- you’d just be thinking about him anyway.

His hands felt better. His lips felt better. He felt better.

You found yourself in your room, with a half smoked blunt hanging between your fingers as you scrolled through social media aimlessly. While scrolling you watched as a notification popped up at the top of your screen, your phone resonating a ‘ping’- a text from your friend asking you to go out to, none other than, Club Pentagon. You clicked the notification with a speed you didn’t know you had.

A reply is sent quick, agreeing to meet her at the club in a few hours. You stood up off your bed, taking a drag of the blunt you rolled- getting ready or not, you can’t waste it!

In the span of a couple hours you got ready, dolling yourself up in the best outfit you could think of. One of your favorite dresses, the one that was just a little too short but fit oh so perfect. You hope by some grace of the universe- he’s there. And with the chance that he may be there…you wanted to take a little extra time with your makeup.

After finishing off your blunt, taking more than a couple shots, and a excecuting perfect face of makeup- you’re calling a taxi with a nice buzz and making your way to Club Pentagon.

The night is cool when you step out the taxi. You pay and thank the cab driver, turning to find your friends in the long line of people. It doesn’t take long, they find you. They yell your name from the crowd, excitedly pulling you into the line. “God damn!! You look good!” One of your friends cheers, you laugh and give a little twirl. The group you find yourself in catches up, chatting, while walking slowly with the line of people waiting in queue for the club.

Soon you make it to the entrance, a large bouncer stands near a velvet rope that block the front door of the club. The large neon sign sporting the words ‘Club Pentagon’ flash a vibrant pint that illuminated the area outside the club.

Your group begins filling into a small cluster behind the velvet rope, waiting by the entrance for the rest of the group before heading into the club. Your friend in front of you passed the bouncer, adjusting her pink wristband sporting ‘21+’. It was the usual band bars around here used to signify the person wearing it was of age to drink.

You hand your ID to the bouncer patiently waiting to be let into the club. The bouncer looks to you then to your ID, he seems to re-read it then looks back up to you. “Wait here.” He tells you, stepping away. You look to your friend with a quirked eyebrow, wondering what the hold up is.

Your friend laughs, cupping her hands around her mouth and calling out to the bouncer. “She’s of age officer I swear!!” You reach over to swat her arm to get her to stop. “Bitch c’mon! For one, he’s not an officer. Two, that’s literally what someone with a fake ID would say.” You laugh, already tipsy from the pregame.

The bouncer returns with a chuckle at your friend’s antics. “Not worried ‘bout that girls.” He says to you and your friend with a jovial laugh. “Your name was familiar, saw it on the VIP list.” The bouncer says, to only you this time, placing a lime green wristband on your wrist, on it the acronym ‘VIP’ is printed around the entirety of the paper bracelet.

“Huh?” You say incredulously, you haven’t even been to this club before and you sure wouldn’t pay for a VIP band yourself. You look to your friend group, wondering if they had something to do with it. Their faces mimicked yours, confused, so they obviously had nothing to do with this.

“This must be a mistake- I didn’t pay for this.” You say not wanting to get overcharged. “No mistake Ma’am. One of our club promoters put you on the list personally.” He says opening the red suede rope to let you into the building.

You’re confused, you don’t know any club promoters. But you nod, in thanks to the bouncer as you join your friends. You are still wildly perplexed but not complaining- it’s a free all you can drink ticket! Your friends ‘ooo’ and ‘ahhh’ at you as you walk in with them.

“Which club promoter’s dick did ya suck to get that~” Your friend teases leaning into you, you laugh and shake your head. “Genuinely…no one’s. I have never been here before….the covers always been too high.” You say, your eyes scanning the grand entrance of the club- chandeliers covered the ceilings, various colored lasers reflecting off of the diamonds and dispersing into colored rays that flood the floor.

“Ohhh??? A secret admirer??!!” Your friends giggle as you make your way to the bar. You laugh her off, shaking your leaning on the bar. “For real I can’t imagine who would put me on the list…” You shrug as you all order your first round of drinks.

In your head you’re trying to find any possible reasoning. It’s couldn’t be him, could it?

Anytime you looked up his name, and you typed out those six letters more times than you could count over the weeks, he never came up….but this club that you find yourself at - Club Pentagon- did. Was he a club promoter here? Was he the club promoter that put you on the expensive VIP list?! Even if he was…you didn’t give him your name the last time you saw him. You were pulled away from him before you could even thank him for the mindblowing orgasm he gave you, let alone give him your name.

Your eyes darted around the place, examining the club that you never bothered to come to. Sure the cover was expensive but as you see the extravagant decoration, multiple stages lit up with flashing, multi-colored panels, and intricate carved marble columns throughout the place- the price seemed worth it.

You make good use of the VIP wristband, ordering rounds of shots that were covered by the lime green piece of paper that’s on your wrist. But you still can’t stop thinking of who would have put you on the list.

With the free VIP bracelet came an exclusive area within the club, a small lounge area that was one of many within the establishment. Each VIP with a bracelet and their group got one.

So there you found yourself, getting ready to head to the dance floor after spending some time on the plush leather couch of the sectioned off area.

You can’t count how many shots you’ve taken at the VIP table but you were feeling great. Your friends excitedly stood up, hearing one of their favorite songs come on. You laughed, standing with them to begin to head to the dance floor.

Your friends practically ran to the dance floor, leaving you there laughing at just how fast they made it- drunk and in heels nonetheless. Just when you’re about to leave your table you hear someone clear their throat.

You turn immediately to the person, your eyes widening. “Nam-gyu!” You say with a smile, walking over to him. He’s dressed to the nines, a black suit, a red undershirt that’s unbuttoned revealing his collarbones. He’s leaning against one of the columns that had intricate carvings on it.

He smiles, taking a drag from a blunt that he had. “Well, seems like you finally took advantage of your VIP privileges I gave you.” He says with a wicked grin. Under the flashing lights he looks like a snake ready to strike, it’s alluring in ways you can’t even put into words.

You gravitate towards him, your eyebrows raising as you realize he was the one to give you this VIP pass. “You’re the mysterious club promotor who gave me the VIP?” You question as you walk to him. You come close to him, standing in front of him- looking up at him.

He nods, looking you over like he’s a predator ready to catch his prey. His hand reaches out and dances along your arm in a light motion. You watch as his eyes take all of you in, his teeth catch the corner of his bottom lip. His chest heaves as he takes in a deep breath. You don’t know it but all he can think of is the way your cunt felt around his fingers and the way your cum tasted on his tongue. “Put your name on the list personally.” He responds.

“How’d you-“ You begin to say. He cuts you off, pulling you closer into him by the small of your back. “Find your name?” He says, almost mocking the way you’re sure you would have asked it. It’s a demeaning, taunting tone that does nothing to help the growing warmth in your lower stomach. You nod in response, swallowing thickly as his hand runs down the curve of your ass to grip at flesh.

He laughs, guiding you into the rhythm of the music. The hand that wasn’t gripping your ass held a lit blunt. He brought it up to his mouth and took a long drag. As he does, he doesn’t look away from you. His dark eyes are lit up in an orange hue as the cherry of the blunt rages when he draws in a hit. He drops his hand to his side again.

Smoke rolls out of his mouth in smooth streams as he looks down at you and grins. “Sweetheart, s’not that hard….” He drawls on, leaning down closer to you. A devious smirk spreads across his lips. “I didn’t just get your name, I found your phone number and address too.” He rasps, pulling back after his words to look at you.

He has a mischievous, almost wicked glint in his eyes that has you spinning. You should be freaked out, fighting against him for being some sort of crazed stalker- but you don’t. You keep grinding against him, your hands finding purchase around his neck.

Your eyes scan his, wide and trying to figure out what to do. ‘Cute’ he thinks. It was like your common sense was fighting your desire for him, and it was a battle he loved to watch. “You knew where I lived and had my number…why didn’t you-“

He cuts you off with a squeeze of your ass, once again, his ringed fingers gripping into the flesh as if you’d run away. He brings his hand up in between you two, holding the blunt so that it faces you. You can taste the wrap on your lips.

You look up at him through your lashes in a way that makes him want to forget pleasantries and fuck you here and now. But he restrains himself- nodding his head towards the blunt, his eyes never leaving yours.

When your lips wrap around the blunt and suck in the smoke, you can hear him hiss. He speaks through gritted teeth. “There you go….” He rasps. “Good fuckin’ girl.” He says, it’s a tone that makes you melt, you can hear the hunger in his voice, speaking through gritted teeth as if he was fighting himself from ruining you on the spot.

When you release the blunt and let the smoke billow out of your lips he speaks again, “You’re right,” he says, finally beginning to answer your question, grinning down at you. “I could have texted or showed up to your apartment…” He says as he spins you around against him, pressing your back into his toned chest.

“But I’m not some stalker..” He hums into your ear, hand hands all over you. “..so I just put you, my pretty little thing, on the VIP list. Hoping that you and your group of friends would show up here.” He hums in a low timbre that sends goosebumps up your skin.

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face as you look back over your shoulder to at him.

“How could you have been so sure I would have came here?” You say your hand reaching back around him to entangle your fingers in his hair. You find yourself inhaling his cologne, even with significantly less drugs in your system than when you first met him- the scent is just as intoxicating.

“I wasn’t sure. In all honesty if I had to wait any longer I would have showed up on your door step.” He says, the tone in his voice tells you he’s not lying.

And it just makes you hotter.

“But there’s no need to think about that..you’re here now.” He breathes into your ear, his free hand that wasn’t holding the blunt, moving inwards from your waist, traveling down your stomach to grip at the inside of your thighs.

Wherever his hands go, they leave a trail of white hot fire, the only solace is the small cool sensation from the metal rings adorning his fingers. You arch into him, a small gasp coming out of your mouth at his fingers digging into your thighs, just centimeters away from where you needed them most.

“I was thinking about you…” You squeak out in a weak attempt to respond to him. “Tried to look you up.” You say, your breath hitching, breaking up your words into pathetic syllables as you feel him drag your ass against his growing hard on.

Maybe it was the way you were more coherent, less drugs in your system this time meeting him- or maybe it was the thin fabric of your dress leaving nothing to the imagination as he pressed against you- or maybe it was the way his fingers left you a shaking mess during your last meeting so you couldn’t pay attention - but you swore you could feel his erection against your back better than the last time you had an encounter with him.

And he was thick.

He laughs, the vibration tickling at the skin of your neck. “I’m not one to run around with the best crowd, sweetheart. Don’t need people findin’ me so easy.”

He puts the blunt out in a swift motion on an ashtray nearby. His one hand remains on your hip, the one now free from the blunt runs up your back.

He pushes, causing you to bend over in front of him. It’s raunchy, it’s debauched but you let it happen. His hand continues its path up your back to grip the hair at the base of your neck. The way your hips move in tandem is sinful. Your dress has long since bunched up above your ass, allowing his cock that strains against his pants to rub against your clothed cunt in the most delicious way possible.

You’re bent over in front of him, one of his hands tangled in your hair while the other continues the rhythmic sway of your ass against his erection.

“But I had no worry, I’d knew you’d find me eventually…huh, pretty girl?” He has with a scoff in his voice. “Like you said, been thinking about me….” He growls, his hand that’s in your hair pulls you back against him in a rough movement. You can feel the way his clothed cock is spreading your pussy, allowing the tent in his pants grind up against your clit.

A whine is pulled out of your throat as you press yourself back against him even more. Your head nodding in reply to his words. A low groan resides him his throat has he throws his head back, basking in the feeling of how warm his dick feels pressed against your clothed pussy. The slow grind of your body against his is in time with the music. The loud thrum of the bass only serving to make every moment of this even better.

He pulls you back up by your hair, the arm on your hip wrapping around your torso and caging you into him. “Y’know…I played your little game last time, fair and square. I’d say I impressed you at that little party, wouldn’t you?” He says into your ear as he shifts his hips upwards, deliberately dragging his clothed cock up into you, the only thing keeping him from sinking into your velvety walls was your underwear and his pants.

You let out a choked gasp, feeling yourself clench around nothing. It was embarrassing, yet again, how quick he could get you to come undone. Your lip catches on your bottom lip as you try to grind down into his motions.

His hand releases from your hair and comes up to grip your jaw. “Answer me. Use your words.” He says, his breath ticking your ear. The low growl of his voice is smooth but devilish, a warning. You can feel the way his chest heaves with heavy breaths against your back. A sing that you had just as much of an effect on him that he had on you.

“Y-you did. You impressed me.” You say desperately your words slurred by his hand that grips your jaw. His grip loosens, his head dropping to your neck. His lips dance along your pulse point, tongue leaving a warm, wet trail along the column of your throat to under your ear.

“So then you should agree that I should get a nice little reward, for being so gracious, even after you cheated at your own little game?” He says, his lips tickling your ear. You nod frantically, reaching behind you to palm his erection over his slacks to prove a point of how desperately you needed him.

He growls into your ear, spinning you around to face him before smashing his lips on yours. You whine against him, reciprocating the kiss with equal desperation.

You don’t even realize when he leads you down a hall in a feverish mess of kissing. Your back is pressed against a closed door before he hastily fumbles with the knob.

You both stumble into office in the back of the Club Pentagon- being one of its top promoters had its perks of a private office and Nam-Gyu was going to use it.

It’s a fast paced mess of tongue and teeth. You find yourself turned pressed up against the door, closing it with a soft thud. His hands remove themselves from your waist, coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs rest on your cheeks while his pinky’s are nestled right under your ears. He pulls you to him, as is he’s trying to merge you into him.

His tongue explores your mouth in a skilled way that has your mind melting. You whine against him as he bites your bottom lip. Your hands work in clumsy, jittery movements to unbuckle his belt. He chuckles against you, finding your feeble attempt to rid him of his pants endearing.

He breaks this kiss, his forehead pressed to yours as his hands trail up your sides to your chest, stopping to grope at your breasts. “Eager are we?” He chuckles against your lips.

You kiss him again, the taste of his lips addictive. Pulling away to pout, looking up at him as your hands dance along the buckle of his belt. “Yes. And so what if I am?”

He grins, laughing at your words, his hands that massage your breasts slow their ministrations. His thumbs being to work against your nipples under your shirt. He brushes his thumbs over them in feather light touches, relishing in the feeling of your nipples beginning to harden under his touch. When your breath catches in your chest and you arch into him, he scoffs. “Pretty and sensitive…I’m going to have fun with you.” He says in a degrading tone, enjoying the small hint of an attitude you had being subbed out so quickly by him playing with your nipples.

He kisses you again fervently, hands removing themselves from under your bra to push you backwards by your hips. Your knees buckle when you hit a piece of furniture.

You fall to a sitting position onto a small couch in the room, whining when your lips part from his. He comes close to you, standing between your legs and looking down at you.

His eyes are dark. His hair was tousled, some strands still pushed back with whatever product he used to style it while others fall over his face. He smiles down at you, his hands running over your shoulders, along the sides of your neck to cradle your head.

His hands move up into your hair, tangling into the strands and cranking your neck back to look up at him. He moves even closer. Your chin is touching his lower stomach, forcing you to hold his gaze as he grinds his erection that is painfully hard against in his pants against your neck.

He looks down at you as if you’re a goddess in a renaissance painting. “Aren’t you just a sight…” he muses. His hands leg go of your hair, his warning gaze is enough to keep you in place. One of his hands comes up, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip.

You do it almost instinctively, wrapping your lips around his thumb. Eyes never leaving his as your tongue swirls around the pad of his finger.

His eyebrows raise, the breath he sucks in has your pussy clenching around nothing. “Oh…” He drawls on in a low amused hum. His eyes don’t leave your lips, it’s like he’s transfixed on where his thumb disappears into your warm mouth. “You’re fucking dangerous…” He muses in a low rumble. You can feel the way he grinds his erection into you throat as his thumb massages your tongue.

“C’mon then, I need to be inside your fucking mouth.” He growls, removing his finger from your mouth and quickly getting rid of pants and boxers. He doesn’t even have the patience to rid himself of his clothes, simply pushing them down to his knees.

His cock falls free from its confines and lands heavily in front of you, the tip smacking against your lips with a hearty sound.

Taken aback, you grip the base of his dick with one of your hands pulling your head back to look at it. It’s thick, long, the tip an angry red. The dark hairs at the base trail up his stomach in the most tantalizing line.

He hisses at the contact, you can feel it twitch in your hand. “Please, sweetheart…I’m dying…” He says, an upward cadence to his voice but his words are muffled. You look up from his cock, confused and when your eyes trail up his toned stomach to his face, your mouth is dry.

It’s a beautiful view. He has his red dress shirt is pulled up and out of the way by his teeth. His hair is disheveled, falling around his face and framing it in small shadows. His eyebrows are upturned, watching you- more specifically your mouth in a frenzied look, pleading for you to continue. His sleeves are rolled up revealing tattoos on his forearms that decorate his skin in intricate lines of black and grey.

How could you say no to him?!

Your mouth parts in a slow movement, your tongue lolling out of your mouth. You place his cock on your tongue, smacking the angry tip against your tongue a couple times. Each time, you see his stomach clench as the warm wet feeling of your tongue met his dick.

He watches as you lick him from base to tip, stoping to wrap your plush lips on his the tip of cock. It’s a tease for the feeling of heaven that is your mouth because soon you release him, running your tongue along the underside of dick. The sounds he’s making are sinful, low moans and groans of your name that has your thighs pressing together to ease the ache in your cunt.

He groans, taking his shirt out of his mouth and holing it in one of his hands. His other one makes its way to the back of your head, fisting your hair and yanking your head back.

“Enough of this teasing, sweet thing. You’re still the same slut that let me finger her on the dance floor weeks ago…so you’re gonna act like it, yeah?” He says looking down at you as he begins to jerk his cock over your face.

You smile, it’s a sight that has him gripping his dick tighter. Your mouth drops open, you nod. “That’s right…” he coos, shaking your head by the grip in your hair. “Stick your tongue out.” He demands, punctuating his words by tightening his grip on your hair.

You obey, lolling your tongue out, never breaking eye contact. He leans over you, making you watch as he sucks and then spits into your mouth. You moan out when you feel the taste of his saliva hit your tongue, your eyes rolling to the back of your head in ecstasy. “Swallow.” He demands again. “And fucking look at me when you do it.” He says through gritted teeth.

You open your eyes again, watching him continue to pump his thick cock over your face. You obey, closing your mouth and swallowing his saliva. Your gaze locked to his and its filthy. He stands over you, one hand on the back of your head, the other twisting around his length as he watches you swallow.

“Ohhh….” He coos, his eyebrows knitted together in an upturned expression as he watches you. “That’s it….” He says, taking a step closer to rub the tip of his dick over your plush lips. He grins down at you, his dark eyes trained on you as you stick your tongue back out, running it on the underside of his thick length.

“I don’t even have to ask? Y’know just what to do, huh? How fucking filthy you are…” He mocks in a condescending tone. His hips thrust forward just the tiniest bit, pushing the angry tip of his cock between your lips before pulling out. His eyes trained on the way your lips move around the ridge of his cock-head.

He hisses out a shuddering breath, biting his lip before speaking again, this time his tone drastically different- it’s softer. “You look so pretty like this..” He says in a soft hum, his hand brushing your hair back out of your face in a strangely comforting manner.

He surges his hips forward more, sinking his cock into your mouth. The sound he lets out is sinful. You look up, his head is thrown back, his hand clenching his shirt in a white-knuckled grip. “O-oh fuck…” He hisses.

You begin to bob your head in a steady rhythm, your tongue beginning to memorize every vein along his length. He isn’t quiet, he’s obscene. Every time you move your head up and down his cock he’s chanting praises followed by moans that fuel the wetness that pools in your underwear. You’re sure by this point it’s staining the fabric of the couch you sit on.

His head saga to the side, his eyes back on you. “You can do b-better than that. I know you can.” He says, panting between word, a degrading tone lacing his voice.

He moans as he feels you begin to work harder, your hand coming up to stroke at the length that you didn’t have in your mouth. His hand that’s at the back of your head moves to the side, the hand that’s holds his shirt drops the fabric to mirror his other hand.

Both hands on either side of your skull, he smirks down at you, panting. “You can take it.” He says with a chuckle, it wasn’t a suggestion.

You moan around him at his words, only spurring him on to press you down his length. As your lips inch down his cock he groans, indulging him self in the warm, wet, solace that was your mouth.

He keeps his eyes trained on you, watching as spit begins to spill at the corners of your mouth, creating a ring around his cock every time he pulled your head back and forth. He was simply addicted.

“This….” He’s cut off as you straighten your tongue out, allowing him to begin to sink in the tightness of your throat. “O-oh f-fuck….” He shudders out through clenched teeth, the words aggressive. “T-this is so much better than any fucking drug I’ve done.” He huffs out.

His hands continue to press down. His head falling backwards once more as he uses your mouth. When the head of his cock finally slips past the tight ring of your throat he lets out a moan that is so wicked it has you echoing him. You let out a sound that is between a gag and a moan, it’s debauched. Porn worthy.

His head snaps back forward watching you with a dark look. When he sees that you don’t pull away, and instead look up at him- taking more of him in your throat without the push of his hands- he laughs. It’s a soft sound, one of awe, shock and pride.

“Takin’ me so well…so fuckin’ well.” He says, punctuating his words by returning his hands to the back of your head forcing you all the way down. With your nose pressed into the coarse hairs of his pubic bone your eyes roll back into your skull as you gag and choke around him.

One of the hands on your head drops to your throat, cradling it- feeling where his cock was nestled. Your nails dig into the flesh of his thighs, the restriction of air leaving your pussy practically weeping onto the couch.

He pulls back, his cock pulling out of your throat in a messy string of saliva and his pre-cum. You gasp and cough, looking up at him with watery eyes. “Y-you’re so big…” you choke out in a raspy whine. He looks down at you with a pout, rubbing his hand over your lips, smearing your spit on your face.

“I know, pretty. But you can take it, yeah?” He says, his hand stopping at your cheek, his thumb rubbing a comforting circle. “Mhm.” You say with a nod leaning into his hand.

He smiles down at you, his hands returning to their position to cradle your head. “Gonna let me cum down your throat like my good whore, huh?” He says, the words down right depraved but he has such a soft and sweet tone it has your brain spinning.

You nod, mouth opening again, tongue stuck out- waiting so patiently for him.

The rapid pace is set instantly. His cock enters your mouth, instantly sliding to the back of your mouth. His cock bullies its way down your throat relentlessly. You swear your throat is going to be permanently molded to the shape of his dick. Your tongue flattens more, licking against his balls every time he sinks you to the base of his cock.

“F-fuck, your fucking throat is so tight.” He almost chokes out, his hands working your face against his cock at a meteoric speed. Any time he felt you gag, it just made him fuck your face harder- and you loved it.

He looks down at you, his head lolled to the size, his gaze hazy. “I needa cum in y-your throat so bad..” he says in almost a pleading whine. The desperate hitch to his voice has your eyebrows turning up and eyes rolling back. You moan and gag around him, an attempt to spur him on.

“S’gonna feel so good, balls deep in your fucking throat.” He rambles, his breathing becoming heavier and his thrusts sloppier. “And you’re gonna swallow it all.” He mumbles, more to himself than you but you moan in agreement. A few more thrusts is all he needed before he’s nearing his limit

“I’m going to fucking c-cum…” he chokes out, in a growl, his hands twisting into your hair, forcing your all the way down his cock- holding you at the base, tongue lapping desperately at his balls. He hunches over you, pressing you deeper into him in ways you didn’t think was possible.

You feel it in an instant, the warm spurts of cum that flow out of him, his hips thrusting in shallow movements as he milks his cock in your throat. Despite gagging and choking around him, you swallow, greedily, trying your best not to waste any last drop.

He pulls you off of him, a filthy web of your saliva and his cum connecting his dick to your lips. You choke and gasp, catching your breath. When you find it, you look to him. He’s smiling wide.

“Damn….” He says, his hand that’s not on your head swipes between you two, collecting some of the fluids that string the two of you together. “Messy lil thing aren’t ya?” He hums, bringing his fingers up to his lips to suck the mixture of your saliva and his cum off his fingers.

You giggle, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Not my fault you cum so much.” You tease back. He laughs again hands coming to hold your face, “Uh actually yeah it is…you I think you sucked the soul outta me…” he says, leaning down to kiss you.

It’s messy, but he takes his time, his lips moving in a soft rhythm against yours- almost as if it’s a thanks for the orgasm you gave him.

He pulls back, his hands working to readjust your dress and smooth out your hair. His thumb even swipes under your eyes- a feeble attempt to fix your makeup- but an attempt nonetheless.

You jump when you hear a loud knock on the door, you gasp- knocking the door was unlocked. Nam-Gyu moves himself completely in front of you- shielding you from the door if whoever was knocking happened to barge in. “S’okay.” He soothes, looking back to you. “Locked or not these fucking dumbasses know not to enter in here without me telling them to.” He says with a grin. You giggle, your fingernails still lightly raking against his thighs.

“Hey!” Someone shouts, then another round of knocks. “We got an issue that requires your help out here, boss.” The individual calls. Nam-Gyu groans. “Can it fucking wait?” He calls over his shoulder, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“No can do! People out back are trying to lowball us for this batch.” The man calls back. Nam-Gyu looks to the door then back to you. “‘m sorry, princess. Gonna have to take a rain check…” He says, a genuine look of upset in his eyes as he realizes he’s going to have to depart from you.

He reaches down to pull you to stand, kissing you once more. This time it’s slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of your lips. You sigh into the kiss, the feeling of his lips on yours makes your body light up in ways you’ve never felt.

He pulls away, working to pull up his pants and boxers, tucking his semi-hard cock into his pants. You look at his cock, pouting, pressing your thighs together. He looks up to you, then down to your thighs. “‘M sorry sweetness, next time it’s all about you. Consider it the last of your payback for leaving me hanging the first time we met.” He says, taking a step back towards you, his hand coming to the back of your neck, pulling you to him and placing a kiss on your forehead.

“You coming boss??” The voice calls impatiently from behind the door. “For fucks sake!! Yes. Give me a damn minute.” He yells over his shoulder.

“Wait I don’t have your number. I’m not going to find you again” You say, eyebrows knitted in a worried expression- you lost him once and with dick this good- you couldn’t lose him again.

He finishes up buckling his belt, looking to the wall and into the cracked and dirty mirror that hung there to straighten up his hair. Another loud knock comes at the door. “I’ll be there in a fucking second!” He seethes at the door. “Knock again and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.” He yells in an enraged voice. His face twisted in an annoyed and enraged scowl- a genuine hatred in his eyes that has you scared. The way he was saying it showed that if another knock came, there would be someone’s blood painting the wall.

However, when he turns around to you his face immediately softens. He hurries over to you, his hands cupping your face and shaking his head. “Not gonna have to worry about that, sweet thing.” He coos, brushing your hair, helping to smooth out the evidence of how much he just wrecked you. “I have your number, remember. Promise I’ll text you.” He says with a grin, kissing you once more.

He pulls away, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of cash. He hands you a couple 20’s. “You get home safe. Cabs on me.” He says looking at the bills in your hand before shrugging, placing even more 20’s down into the pile- way more than what you needed for cab fair. “And tomorrow get yourself a gift- on me as well.” He says winking.

Before you can respond he’s walking over to the door of his office and whipping the door open, yelling at the person who was knocking for not having any patience. He pushes the individual who was knocking back from the door way immediately so they wouldn’t see you in your less than appropriate form.

You stand there, heart thudding in your chest as you can’t help the smile that spreads across your lips. You open your phone to many missed messages and calls from your friends. Gathering your things, you call them as you walk out to hail a cab- ready to relay all the details about who exactly gave you the VIP wristband.

Tag List: @heyitsayjayy , @chxrrybomb22 , @ziallgff , @ametheslime , @hornyfordaryldixon (( let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list for the last part <3 ))

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