#how long it was taking and was like fuck it we ball without care

[5oz-mud]

decided to hop on the trend of painting my own kim to hang on the wall. more wip pics under the read more!

[mars-ipan]

some postgame doodles for pride month

[capslocked]

PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

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

Irene’s is remarkably not.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

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

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

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

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

And so it goes, and so it goes.

-

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

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

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

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

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

-

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

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

A real celebrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And wouldn’t you know."

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

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

"Hm, I’m thinking."

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

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

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

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tough to say.

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

And - she would, really.

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

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

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

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

-

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not for long, the question lingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is sorta how you've always known her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ha."

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

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

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

You both do. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She breathes, "god. Irene."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Karina wants you to look.

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

She laughs at the premise. 

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

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

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

-

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

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

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath. 

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

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

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ends it so charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking, please, god-."

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

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

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

One.

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

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

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

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

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

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

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

And she wants you to-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely get it. 

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

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

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

Who stands any chance to resist?

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

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

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

"You can cum for me too, baby."

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

“Just cum.”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

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

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

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

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

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

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

She simply shudders apart.

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

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

“Irene, look-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It steps out into pure necessity.

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

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

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

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

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

In and in and in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in case you missed the point:

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

-

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

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

So,

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

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

A bit of color.

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

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

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

Well. She's got you on that count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I'm not the type.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not married,” you correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s probably right.

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

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

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

-

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t really care.

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

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

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

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

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

She’s totally caught you staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop fucking her, halfway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sight alone.

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

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

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

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

You’ll make your vows like any other.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

"I think you might be projecting."

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

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

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

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

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

"That's the fantasy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her pout, right there, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

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

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

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

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

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

"No," you say. “God, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

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

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

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

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

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

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

"How, what - babe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm."

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

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

"You'll be good right?"

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

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

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

"And give her an extra hello from me."

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

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

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

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

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

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

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

She must see the confliction you're in-

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

"I- don't really-"

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

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

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

-

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

This isn't quite how you pictured-

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

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

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

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

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

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

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

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

(You know, god help you.)

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Always traveling for this reason or that.

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

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

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

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

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

The long and short of it is: 

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

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

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

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

-

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

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

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

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

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

“That’s fucked up.”

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

-

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

“Elaborate.”

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

"Are you really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy fuck, you're-"

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

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

But instead,

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

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

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

You cum just like that: 

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

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

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

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

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

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

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:  

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

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

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

[thepowerofswayze]

demonstration

originally on ao3

based on this post by @fantasylandloser

pairing: art donaldson (challengers, 2024) / afab reader [gender not specified]

word count: 1.9K

warnings & info: 18+, afab reader, college era art AHHH, friends to lovers, first time together, mostly smut, oral sex (reader receiving), art is a munch obviously, reader wears a bra and skirt

summary: Catching Art up on your adventures gets hard when he doesn't get your explanations, or your hand puppet examples. Looks like you just have to show him exactly what went down. Based on this post that i could not stop thinking about. :))

☆

“Oh my god, fuck you!”

Art chuckled from where he stood, watching as you tossed the t-shirt he’d balled up and chucked at you back in his direction. It fell harmlessly to the floor a foot from him, and you glared at him as he snickered, picking it up and putting it away.

You were visiting Art, your close friend from high school, at Stanford. At that moment, you happened to be explaining how an interaction at a party at your university had gone a couple weeks before. Art never really liked listening to you talk about guys- hence, the shirt thrown directly at your face when you’d started describing this particular frat boy to him in detail- but he’d given up complaining a while ago. It was either that or be honest about why he hated it so much, and that was never going to happen. So, he tidied up his room as you explained the lead up, the flirting, the stumbling up the stairs. He fell back parallel to you on the bed as you got to the “good part”, his head by your legs and an arm over his eyes, like he could block out the imagery.

“Anyway, I didn’t think it was a big deal at first, like when we were flirting, but then I was on him, kinda like-” You took a moment to sit up straight, grinning as art groaned and propped himself up on his elbows to see you better. He watched you attempt to mimic the position with your hands, your left hand being the guy you were talking about, your right being you.

To Art, it just looked like you were mashing your hands together. He looked up from your hands to see you raising your eyebrows at him, as if to ask if he was following. “Huh?” He said.

With an exasperated sigh and without another thought, you pushed yourself up on your knees and waddled over to him, swinging a leg over his body and hovering just over his torso. For a moment, Art just watched, bewildered, as you steadied yourself with your hands on either side of his head. He let himself fall back from his elbows, hands sliding up your hips and settling at your waist, catching momentarily on the fabric of your skirt. His fingers peeked just under the hem of your shirt. Your skin tingled where he touched you.

“... Like this,” you said finally, blinking at him for a moment. “Well, uh.” You moved your hands to his chest instead, careful not to push too hard (though with the muscle he’d acquired since he’d started playing tennis for Stanford, you were sure it bothered him much less than you thought). “More like this, I guess.”

Art nodded, quickly licking his lips before asking, “Then?”

You tried not to look at his mouth. “What?”

“Then what did you do?”

It finally hit you then: what the fuck were you doing, climbing all over your best friend to ‘show him’ how you and some guy had been fooling around a couple weeks ago? That would just mean fooling around with him, obviously. That wasn’t really the plan.

But, it was too late for your common sense to kick in now. There you were, your hips hovering over his, not quite touching yet. You watched his eyes dart down to your lips, then drag slowly back up to meet your gaze. You couldn’t wait here and think about what you’d gotten yourself into and how this would change your friendship forever, though you got the feeling he’d let you take as long as you wanted.

Then what did you do?

You steeled yourself, biting your lip and watching his lips part slightly as he tracked the action with his eyes. Then you took that moment to fully sit on his lap.

You could feel his chest expand beneath your hands with his sharp inhale, his eyes snapping down to your hips, then back up to your face.

“This,” you murmured. You’d intended for it to come out cocky, maybe even a little seductive, but you could hear the breathlessness in your own voice. You were trying your best to ignore the growing pressure where your hips met his, though really, it was hopeless. 

Art’s ears were burning a bright shade of pink. The urge to gently nip at them crossed your mind, just for a moment. He cleared his throat. “Then?” His voice was almost a whisper, chest rising and falling unevenly with his nervous breathing. The way he was looking at you, like he wasn’t sure you were real…

Fuck.

You leaned forward, trying not to let your breath stutter at the friction caused by the movement, until your lips hovered just over his. Then you kissed him.

You pressed your lips together gently, lingering for a moment before pulling back by centimeters. His lips chased yours, his grip on your waist tightening ever so slightly, and you were right back on him, lips falling open against each other. A soft sound escaped him as your hips shifted against his, along with a contented sigh from you. You repeated the motion, reveling in the low groan he let out, followed by your name murmured into your mouth.

Art’s lips were soft. And he’d shaved recently, you thought, hands cupping his face. The smooth skin of his cheeks was a stark contrast to the calloused hands he was now raking over your thighs, your skirt pushed up around your hips. You broke away from his lips, kissing down his neck instead, listening to the noises he made whenever you left a mark, whenever you ground against him just right. “Shit,” he gasped. “You’re- You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” You left another kiss just below his ear, before murmuring, “What is it?”

You could feel him all but shudder beneath you. “Fuck,” he groaned, then your name, before he looked you in the eye. You resisted the urge to dive right back in. “Let me eat you out,” he said, suddenly determined, though still flushed and dazed. “Please.”

All you could say was “What?” because, surely, this was one big dream.

“Please.” His hands hadn’t stilled, still rubbing shapes into your thighs, his hips rolling up against yours. “Can I?”

Your entire body was on fire. “Okay, yeah. Yes.”

He wasted no time flipping the both of you over, laying you against the bed so he could kiss down your neck. You barely had a moment to process, your hands moving to tangle in his hair, one of his knees slotted between your legs. He tugged at the bottom of your shirt, prompting you to lift yourself slightly and help him get it off. Your bra came next. “You, too,” you murmured, pulling at his shirt and making him chuckle. He reached behind his head, tugging it off in one swift movement and abandoning it beside your shirt and bra on his freshly cleared floor.

One of his hands slid down your chest from your shoulders, enclosing one of your breasts, the thumb circling your nipple. You bit your lip and sighed, pulling him down for another kiss by the back of his neck.

Art let his hand trail from your chest down the sides of your stomach, then slotted his palm right between your legs, over your underwear. You gasped quietly, pulling away long enough for him to return his lips to your neck, your shoulders, your collar bone. You murmured a couple choice words as he started to move his palm, rubbing at your clit through the fabric. The dulled sensation was almost enough on its own, paired with the kisses he left against your chest. “Arthur,” you whined, tugging at his hair. “Don’t fucking tease me.”

A grin overtook his face at the use of his name, his hands only slowing down, tracing torturously slow circles over you. Art only snickered at your glare before hooking his fingers into the waist band of your underwear, pulling it down and leaving you in your skirt pushed up to your waist. He watched you carefully as he slid further down so that his head was between your legs. His finger only traced a line from your clit to the bottom of your hole before whatever restraint he had was gone, and his mouth was on you.

Art’s tongue flattened against you, the warmth and friction making your head fall back as your eyes fell closed. “Fuck,” you moaned, hands threading into his hair as he answered with an equally obscene noise, muffled against you. ‘Hungry’ didn’t even begin to describe him, his mouth falling into a vague rhythm, eyes closed blissfully, whining into your pussy like it was doing him just as much good as it was you.

You thought about asking him to finger you while he worked, but his tongue prodded at your entrance and almost immediately, words escaped you. You brought one hand up to your face, clasping it over your mouth to muffle your moans, but Art stopped suddenly, watching your face. You whined your confusion, and he reached out to tug at your hand. “I wanna hear you. Let me.”

You blinked at him, chest heaving, and murmured “Alright,” before watching his head dive right back between your thighs, one hand still intertwined with yours. You had no choice but to moan unabashedly, your other hand busy pulling at his hair.  His free hand was wrapped around the outside of your thigh, pushing it in towards his head, so tightly you were sure it couldn’t be comfortable. But there he was, continuing to move his tongue against you like there was nothing else he’d rather do, whining and whimpering like you were his first meal in weeks. “Fuck, Art,” you cried, barely keeping your eyes open so you could watch him move. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

He groaned at that, relenting the pressure of your thighs against his head just long enough to reply: “That’s it, baby, please.” If he had anything else to say, he couldn’t keep himself off of you long enough to finish, already pushing your thighs back against his head, nose bumping against your clit as he bobbed up and down.

It seemed like that was all it took, really. You squeezed his hand and his head embarrassingly tight as you felt yourself tip over the edge, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. Art kept up his rhythm as you cried out his name, your hips rolling against his face. He didn’t stop even when you’d come down, chest heaving, until you basically pushed him off, desperate for a moment of relief.

He kept a hand on your thigh, the other untangling from yours to push his blonde hair out of his eyes and look at you. He was breathing as hard as you were, you noticed. His mouth hung open as he panted, the entire bottom half of his face coated in saliva and your arousal. Fuck, he was pretty like this. “‘S good?”

You shook your head, beckoning him toward you and pulling him down by the back of his neck when he was close enough. “You’re unbelievable,” you murmured, lips against his almost before you were even done speaking. You didn’t mind the stickiness. You pulled back to look at him, then glanced down to the tent in his pants. “Lemme return the favor.”

Art let out a breathless chuckle. “I don’t think I’m gonna last that long,” he said, somewhat embarrassed. “Not if you’re the one touching me. Not after this.” He gestured to the shine still on his face, to your thighs beneath him. Your face burned, and your smile was so wide that your cheeks hurt.

You shrugged. “Lemme try anyway,” you said, before bringing his ear down to your lips, nipping at the lobe gently. “Please?”

He couldn’t say no to you.

[sharlsworld]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ thirsty boy - ʟɴ4 ☆

✿ lando norris x influencer!reader

✿ lando norris is always thirsting for his girlfriend any chance he can get

ᵃᵘᵗʰᵒʳˢ ⁿᵒᵗᵉ ୨୧ i don’t know what this is

🝮

yn

📍miami

liked by lahjay10_ and 3,935,017 others

yn we in this bitch

francisca.cgomes finna get crunk

⤷ lillymhe eyebrows on fleek

⤷ alexandrasaintmleux da fuq

⤷ yn MY GIRLS 💓💞💖💕💝💗

landonorris early…..not first 😞

⤷ francisca.cgomes HA

⤷ lilymhe HA

⤷ alexandrasaintmleux HA

landonorris your so aesthetic i love you

landonorris your so bhad 🤤🍆🍌🍒🍑😫

⤷ yn woah there buddy slow your roll

⤷ landonorris i thought you liked when i went fast?

⤷ carlossainz55 Mate…why do you always do this?

georgerussell63 Slay queen! You’re serving cunty fierce independent girl boss! 😘💖

⤷ yn i’ve created a monster

landonorris HEY! WHOS IN THE 3RD SLDIE?

⤷ yn my girl alex durrrr

⤷ charles_leclerc I miss my girlfriend

⤷ lovely_leclerc AWHHH HOW CUTE

🝮

landonorris

📍 miami beach, florida

liked by georgerussell63 and 925,055 others

landonorris miami w this absolute bhaddie

yn freaky boy

⤷ landonorris yk it baby 😉 all for u

♥︎ by yn

francisca.cgomes bhaddie indeed 😍

alex_albon will we ever get a post not including y/n? even on race post’s you manage to get her in there

⤷ landonorris never this is actually a y/n fanpage if you haven’t noticed

⤷ mclaren Oh we’ve noticed 😅

landolovesyn mclaren is fed up of lando clinging to y/n all day

♥︎ by mclaren

estiebestie there so goals i cannot i am manifesting a relationship like this 😫😫

oscarpiastri I have to deal with these all weekend

hoeforsainzzz he’s so obsessed with her i need that

🝮

who_tf.is_yn

liked by sydney_sweeney and 102 others

who_tf.is_yn erm what the sigma

landonorris first

landonorris don’t act like i didn’t get you all hot and bothered 😘

⤷ who_tf.is_yn cringe ball 🤢

⤷ landonorris that’s not what you were saying last night

⤷ oscarpiastri I know. I hate you both. I will be sending my therapy bill to you two.

lilymhe divorce babe divorce

⤷ landonorris we’re not even married yet?

charles_leclerc That sick bastard

alexandrasaintmleux 🤢🤢🤢 how pervy

georgerussell63 Risky boy 😈

⤷ who_tf.is_yn what the fuck

🝮

yns.no1fan

liked by oscarpiastri and 46 others

yns.no1fan i’m having withdrawal symptoms guys i’m going crazy without y/n

yn girl…it’s been 6 hours

⤷ yns.no1fan that’s 6 hours to long i miss the comfort and warmth of your touch

⤷ yn awhhh that’s kinda sweet 🥹

⤷ yns.no1fan i miss your ass too

⤷ yn there it is

alexandrasaintmleux don’t worry me kika and lily are taking great care of her

⤷ yns.no1fan make sure she eats before 12 or she gets hangry 🥹

alex_albon the only time i ever see you guys away from each other is when your racing or doing interviews

carlossainz55 Let me cheer you up 😉

⤷ yn fuh nah stay away from my man

⤷ yns.no1fan 😈😈😏 oh your getting it tn

⤷ carlossainz55 OK! Gonna go bleach my eyes brb

🝮

yn

liked by leahhalton_ and 7,016,825 others

yn in my own world

landonorris first

♥︎ by author

landonorris can i join?

⤷ yn always

maxfewtrell get a rooooommmm

estiebestie why is lando always horny

charles_leclerc 🤢🤢

⤷ landonorris piss off

⤷ yn so british

lilymhe i can’t wait to see you my girl!!! 💗

⤷ yn i’ve been waiting for you 😇

smoothoperator55 i pray for a relationship like lando and y/n’s before i go to sleep

charles_leclerc Where the hell is my picture credit for the beach picture?

⤷ yn up your ass

⤷ charles_leclerc I don’t see it

danielricciardo Guy this is the it relationship I fear

georgerussell63 Cutie patootie goals I need, Carmen take notes

⤷ carmenmmundt 😐

oscarpiastri I’m tired of this grandpa 😖

⤷ landonorris that’s to damn bad

🝮

bobs.privy_priv

liked by charles_leclerc and 34 others

bobs.privy_priv mukbang out tonight stay tuned dropping at 9pm 😉😇

pierregasly SICK PLEASE NO

francisca.cgomes don’t do this lando.

alex_albon NO MY POOR EYES

carlossainz55 Yuck! 🤢🤮

danielricciardo Do it no balls 😈

⤷ maxverstappen1 Don’t tempt him idiot he might actually release a sex tape

lilymhe fuh nah fuh nah where is the bleach at

alexandrasaintmleux what have you done to my sweet innocent naïve baby girl

⤷ bobs.privy_priv there ain’t nothing sweet or innocent about that girl

georgerussell63 What in the bloody hell did I just witness mate

⤷ bobs.privy_priv greatness that’s what

⤷ georgerussell63 I don’t think that’s it

🝮

landonorris

liked by maxverstappen1 and 4,425,981 others

landonorris i can be sweet guys

yn once in a blue moon

⤷ landonorris what can i say, you unleash my inner dawg 😈😈

⤷ carlossainz55 Please no.

alexandrasaintmleux rarely

carlando there the cutest couple ever

estiebestie everyone shut up lando isn’t being a horny teenager for one

♥︎ by yn, lilymhe, francisca.cgomes, alexandrasaintmleux, and carmenmmundt

charles_leclerc NO PICTURE CREDIT??

⤷ landonorris no your mean to me

oscarpiastri Rare sighting of lando not trying to pull y/n away to the closest room

⤷ lewistearmeup thank you so much for this information oscar

⤷ yn i hate you oscar piastri

⤷ oscarpiastri Forgive me queen

[filmologetica]

BEHAVIOR — dean winchester

pairing: dean winchester x f!reader.

the one where: you and dean are trying your hardest to have sex but everyone seems to be against it.

warnings: +18. kind of smutty, language, fingering, blue balls king. english is not my first language and it’s 2am here so it might have some incorrect english i plan on checking later.

a/n: this was… something. i’m thinking about a part 2, let me know if you want it <3.

Dean didn’t know if anyone had ever died from blue balls, but if not, he could easily be the first.

Two weeks. It has been two weeks now that Dean and his girlfriend were trying to get some alone time, but it seemed impossible. Every time someone had something they forgot in the room they were heavily making out in and took too long to head out, killing the mood completely, or something urgent to talk to them, or something that needed to be done. Every damn time. And when they finally had time at night they were exhausted, completely worn out.

The tension was growing between them and they just couldn’t help it. They fought for every stupid reason, everything seeing to be extremely frustrating.

“Did you get the milk I asked you to yesterday?” Y/N’s voice was low. She was tired, frustrated and horny. More than that, she was fucking angry with the life she chose. Walking back to back killing monsters was fucking exhausting. She needed a break.

Everyday something new was getting on her nerves. Ghosts, demons, angels and even Lucifer himself. Jesus Christ, she had no more patience for anything.

“Shit, I forgot. Sorry, babe.” Dean was just as exhausted as her, but he was used to this life. What he was not used to was spending fourteen long days with zero sex.

Zero intimacy. Not even a lazy handjob. Of course he could take care of himself but once he was in a relationship - or sort of - he needed to be deep in the woman he craved. And oh, boy, he was craving her. Everything was enough to make his dick wake up and twitch inside his pants.

Every.

Single.

Thing

made him end up with a boner that he wished you would take care of but there was always something in the way.

Fourteen days. And counting.

“Fucking hell, Dean. Is it too much to ask for you to pay attention to the things I tell you?” You snapped, slamming your mug to the counter.

Sam looked up, rolling his eyes knowing very well you two were about to start another pointless argument. Dean wasn’t exactly helping his situation either, as he raised his voice. “If I pay attention to every single thing you talk about every day, there goes my whole day. You never shut up.”

“I’m really sorry. I forgot the only woman you’re capable of listening to are the stupid whores you fuck at every bar we step into.”

“Yeah, at least I can fuck them.”

“Fuck you, Dean.” Your mug was now forgotten in the counter as you marched out of the kitchen, your face red with anger. You knew Dean didn’t mean it. It has been like this for days now, just pointless arguments about nothing.

“Dude, just- Go talk to her.” It was almost like Sam was stuck in a loop all over again. That’s how he felt. He had now lost count of how many times he had said this exact same thing, the exact same way. “I’ll go buy the fucking milk.”

Sam had no idea what was happening. Your relationship with Dean was a secret and that was a deal that you both made until you figured out what it was. Of course sleeping together every night wasn’t exactly nothing but you agreed in taking things slow.

Dean entered your room without even knocking, closing the door behind him with a kick. “I can’t take it anymore, Y/N.” He sighed, letting his body fall in your bed. “I don’t want to keep fighting, I’m sorry. You know I listen to you, it’s just- It’s been too much.”

“It’s ok. I’m sorry about what I said. I just-” Dean looked at her, knowing exactly what she would say. “I miss you.”

“Yeah?” Tracing an invisible line at her exposed leg, Dean was taking his time feeling how soft her skin was.

“Yeah.”

“Mhmm.” His hand was now not so innocent, getting to her thighs still gently. The touch enough to make her shiver. “What are you missing?”

Opening her legs, Y/N exposed her delicate lingerie. It was red, and Dean could feel his mouth water with the sight. Her tiny lace panties were now making him rock hard. He could see your pussy clearly and he was ready to show you how much he missed it. “I miss you right here.” Your hands entered the fabric, touching your clit gently.

“God, I love it when you act like a cock slut.” Lifting your dress a little more, Dean was taking up the view. You never needed much to make him hard, but this was a whole different level. It was like he was drunk on your smell.

“I love it when you fuck me with your fingers.” You said and Dean now moved the fabric to the side, to get a clearer view, chewing on his bottom lip. “It feels so good when you ease me up with one finger because I’m so fucking tight for you…”

And just to make Dean lose his mind, you add one finger to your drabbling pussy. It took to much of him to not roll his eyes and come undone without even taking off his pants. “And when you add another one… God, feels so good, baby.” One more finger in, another growl from Dean out.

“I’m going to fuck you good. Make you remember what it feels like when I’m filling you up.” With your most innocent face you nodded, more like begging Dean to fuck you.

When you felt his lips on yours in an urgent kiss, it felt like you were dreaming. His tongue sliding into your mouth roughly while you ran your fingers through his hair desperately. Now, he was on top of you and you could feel his bulge.

You could feel his cock while his hips trusted into you trying to make him feel better even with his clothes still on. When your hand found his boner, using enough pressure on it, Dean moaned into your lips. “Fuck. I need to be inside you.”

And just when his hands found his belt, a knock was heard on the door. “No!” You cried.

Dean sighed, absolutely frustrated and hiding his face on the crook of your neck. “We can pretend there’s no one here. We put a pillow on your face and you make no sounds while I fuck you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, just as frustrated. “What if it’s important?”

“Y/N, this is important!” Dean was furious. Who wouldn’t be? He refused to add one more day to his blue balls count.

“Open up, guys!” Sam said loudly on the other side of the door.

“What the fuck does this guy want?” Dean got up while you adjusted your dress, trying your best to fix your hair quickly. “Yeah, Sam?”

As Dean opened the door, his face was definitely not friendly but it didn’t scare Sam, who entered the room and sat on the bed.

The bed you thought you were having sex seconds before. “We need to talk about your behavior.” He says.

“My what?” You ask and Dean rolls his eyes, thinking about hitting his head on the door a billion times to end his penalty.

“We’re gonna talk about what’s happening between you and Dean and solve this problem right now.”

“I don’t think that’s something you can fix, Sammy.” You wish you could punch him.

“Well, then I’m not leaving this room.”

And with that, Dean left to take a cold shower in his room after being cockblocked by Sam once again.

[artdcnaldson]

ugh "leverage" to ensure she won't go tattling to patrick. especially as he starts getting meaner and meaner, he tells her it's to make sure she doesn't back out and tell on him. because patrick would genuinely kill art if he knew what he's been doing to his baby sister.

i know it doesn't really fit in the canon of the other parts to this au, but hear me out anyway... what if he agreed to fuck her, properly this time, in her sweet little pussy. BUT he needs said leverage to make sure she keeps quiet about it (truly he just needs to immortalize taking her virginity so he can watch it back for the rest of his life). so he "agrees", he's the one to bring it up lol, on the condition that he can record it. y'know like really shitty, amateur, pov style, on her creaky dorm bed and pink, frilly sheets. shaky and grainy, but it's good enough for him. it's not like he would ever actually post it anywhere or show people, but she doesn't know that.

he gets off on how nervous she is when he points the camera at her, she's blushing and trying to hide her face. but he just slaps her cheek and manhandles her to look right down the lens of his shitty phone camera. tells her to moan louder around his big cock, tell the camera how good he feels, really just stroking his own ego. makes her tell the camera exactly how he's making her feel, can't cum unless she asks into the camera. he nearly cums right inside her when she tells him he's too big and it hurts :(((((

yummy yummy yummy

-🐞

OHHHHHHH <3 I had to let this simmer. This had to ruminate. Had to really let it sit and grow legs or whatever wine people say idk

RATING: E (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v, degradation, making a sex tape, loss of virginity, world’s worst aftercare), mean!art as always, uncomfortable power dynamics, DUBCON due to coercion

He catches you leaving one of your classes, chatting happily with a few girls as you walk. Their eyes widen as he approaches, smacking his gum, looming tall over them. You murmur a quick apology and bound over like an obedient little pet, falling into stride beside him as he walks.

“What class is that?” He asks, nodding back towards the building. Most of the time he forgot you even attended the school beyond cheering at his games and floating around his dormitory like a ghost.

“Peoples and cultures,” you reply, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s an anthropology course I’m taking. It’s actually really interesting, like, these past few lectures have been—“

“What are you doing tonight?” He interrupts, not really caring beyond the simple answer to his question. He has a one track mind, and for the moment he’s just thinking about getting in your pants.

He watches you think, then shrug. “Um… nothing, I guess? Why?”

Art stops by a tree suddenly, tugs you by your wrist to stop with him. “Do you promise if we fuck you won’t tell Patrick?” He watches as your eyes widen, as sheer need and excitement makes you practically vibrate out of your skin.

Frantically you nod. “I’d never tell Patrick, I’d take it to my grave, I swear,” you say, totally earnest, bouncing on the balls of your feet as he looks at you.

“God, I want you so bad,” he hums, brushing your hair back behind your ear. You melt beneath his touch, gaze all half-lidded and soft. “I just… I think I’d have to have some leverage, just to make sure no one ever finds out.”

You tilt your face, resting it on his hand, your eyes half-lidded and dazed with need. You hum a soft, “Mhmm,” without even knowing what he’s implying, what he’s asking of you. But he hears what you’re thinking, all dumbed down and needy— yes, Art, whatever you say Art, anything you want, Art.

He wants to do it in your room, that night. He walks you back to your dorm and tells you to get your roommate out, make sure she’s busy for however long you need. He’d text you when he’s on his way.

So you’re just… fucking vibrating with excitement, cleaning up your dorm, changing your sheets, fluffing your pillows. You light three warm vanilla sugar candles so the dorm smells nice and sweet, put on your roommate’s SEXXXMIXXX <3 CD that she had burned in High School (and kept your fingers crossed it was still relevant). You took the longest fucking shower of all time, scrubbed your skin until it stung, shaved you’re entire body, wondered if maybe he wouldn’t like bald pussy, then worried that he’d hate if you kept the hair even more. Moisturized, then put on pretty, light makeup— lipgloss, mascara. All in the span of time it took for him to text you.

Art :) <3

omw

You feel a little dizzy by the time he’s at your door, already wet just anticipating what you were about to do. He grins down at you, at your silky little pajama set, pink and lacy around the edges. Smacks his gum, trails his hand along the sides of your waist.

“Pretty.” He looks smug as he rubs the lace between his fingers. “You got all dressed up for me, huh?”

It’s amazing how timid and shy you can look as you stand in front of him, biting onto your lip as you nod. He shuts the door behind him and guides you backwards until you knock against your bed and laugh nervously. Jesus, he’d already fucked your ass, your throat, he’d done things to you that even the dirtiest fucking sluts on campus wouldn’t dream of allowing. But you’re all shy because he’s finally going to fuck you properly?

You gasp as he tugs down the neckline of your top, exposing your tits to the cool air of the dorm. So cute, soft. Your nipples already hard and sensitive, so just the lightest pinch makes you let out a pretty moan.

“Remember what I said about leverage?” Art says, and you nod slowly, dreamily. “I want to film it.”

Your eyes widen slightly, as you think back to the pictures he’d taken of you just a few weeks prior. “And you’d… what? Like post it if Pat finds out?”

“No, no, only if you tell,” he corrects. Even then… he doubted he’d actually ever post it anywhere. He had a tennis career to consider, after all. But the important thing was that you believe he will. “It’s just to make sure this stays our secret.”

You swallow, consider it. You didn’t plan on telling Patrick, so it was fine, right? He’d hate Art, and you didn’t want that. You would never want that, no matter what.

So you nod softly. “Okay,” you say finally. “I’d… yeah, I understand. Okay.”

God, you’re easy. So fucking easy it makes him a little sick to think about. What if he wasn’t Patrick’s friend, if he was some frat house asshole who would take advantage of how bad you wanted him? You’re so lucky he’s a good person.

He uses your own fucking digital camera— pink and decorated with little heart stickers. Turns it on and records you as you slip off your sweet silky pajamas, revealing soft, smooth skin beneath. You’re so shaky, so nervous. You can’t even look into the lens.

“No panties?” He asks, lips quirked into a grin. He steps forward to slip his hand between your thighs, to cup your pussy in one big hand. God, you’re so fucking wet, just like you usually are. He could just slide right in without any resistance, just bury himself right inside that tight little pussy. “Jesus, you’re a fucking mess, just dripping for it, aren’t you?”

You moan, relishing in the feeling of his hands on you. Art never touched you, not to get you off, at least. So the feeling of his thick calloused fingers against your cunt makes you whine. He breaches your entrance with just a fingertip and grins at the feeling of you clenching around the intrusion, desperate for anything he’ll give you.

But the relief is gone as soon as you’ve gotten it. He pats your thigh, nods to the bed. “Go lay down. Let me film you stretching yourself out for me.”

“Art,” you whine once you’ve laid down, embarrassed as he trains the lens on you. “Do you have to film this part?”

It just makes him double down, grinning smugly as he settles at the foot of the bed. “C’mon, just fucking do it. Show the camera how fucking wet you get for me.” You hear the whir of him zooming in as your hand slips between your thighs, as lithe fingers slide through your soaking wet folds and you tease your clit. He groans softly, grinning at the sight on the camera. “Alright, spread yourself out now. Show me how small and tight you are.”

You whimper pathetically, but obey. Your fingers form a V as you spread your lips, revealing the pretty, drippy hole of your cunt. He doesn’t even have to tell you to start fucking yourself, you just do. Pretty, manicured fingers disappearing inside the tight channel of your pussy, slow and easy as you pant and gasp sweetly.

“Can you do three?” He asks. He zooms the camera out, makes sure he gets all of you— your tits heaving with each breath, the slow grind of your hips to meet your fingers. You nod softly, press a third finger alongside the other two. He grins at the sight of the stretch of your cunt around them, how your body works to accommodate them. “God, it’s a tight stretch, huh?”

“Mhmm.” You moan as you pump your fingers slow, in and out. Wet to the point of it sounding obscene. Slick dripping out with each thrust, making your fingers glisten.

He can hardly take sitting there and watching, but god, he’d love it later on when he was alone with only the video to keep him company. But who knows? Maybe he’d fuck you once and never want anyone else. He already felt that way… kind of. You were so eager, so obsessed with him. You touched him like it was an act of worship. He couldn’t get that from easy pussy.

He sets the camera down on the foot of the bed while he undresses, tugging off his sweats and tee shirt, mussing up his hair in the process. It’s not lost on him, the way your fingers speed up at the sight of his cock, how needy and desperate you are.

“How bad do you want it?” He asks as he picks up the camera.

God, he’s mean. You whine when he grabs your wrist and makes you slip your fingers from inside of your cunt. Empty, needy, desperate. “Please, fuck me, Art.” You’re embarrassed, of course you are. He has a camera focused on your needy little expression, one hand on your thigh all warm and possessive. “Please, I’ve been so good for you. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I just need you, I need you inside of me. Want you to be my first. Please, Art.”

He’s not sure where he wants the camera as he notches the head of his cock at your wet little hole. Part of him wants to film the second he buries his cock inside of that tight fucking cunt, but the other wants to film your face, watch how pretty you look as you take your very first cock.

And god, you’re trembling beneath him. Visibly shaking with anticipation, or nerves, or need. He runs a hand along your torso, cups one of your tits in his hands and thumbs over your sensitive nipple. “What, are you cold?” He teases.

“N-no,” you stammer, meeting his gaze. “Just— I just want it so bad.”

He films your face, which was the right call, he decides. He has to think about it technically, or he’ll risk blowing his load one pump in, like a total fucking loser. You’re so tight around him, clamping down on his cock as he sheaths himself within you, inch after inch. And god, that angelic face of yours— mouth agape, wet and pink and pretty, the tiniest furrow between your brows, lashes splayed against your cheeks as you moan, soft and sweet. “Hurts,” you practically whimper. “God, Art, fuck, it feels—“

He films where your cunt swallows him, stretched to the point of obscenity around his thick cock. It shouldn’t even be able to take him, not when you’re so small, so fucking tight. It’s a fucking miracle you’d even taken a toy before. He’d make you film that next. All desperate, fucking yourself on silicon while you drooled over a picture of him. It was sweet that you’d been trying to prepare yourself to take him and you were still a shaking, needy mess.

Tears well in your eyes as he thumbs at your swollen little clit, he feels your pussy clench around him, already so fucking keyed up. He should be good. He should make love to you, nice and slow, like a good boy. He’s starting to think he’s not a good boy, not at all. “Just lay there and take it, yeah? Just look nice and pretty for the camera.”

You cry out when he pulls back only to drive back in, hard and deep. His pace is relentless as he fucks into your cunt— warm and wet and tight and fucking perfect. He honestly shouldn’t have waited, he should’ve fucked you the first night you offered yourself up to him— sweet and needy and clinging off his shoulder like you were his girlfriend.

“A-Art, fuck—“ You cry out, fisting your pretty hands into the frilly duvet, as he bullies himself into you. “Oh, god, fuck, A-Art, it’s too much— I-I can’t—“ A strangled moan seems to rip itself from your throat as your head falls back against the pillows.

He grins. “Yeah? Don’t tell me, honey, tell the camera.”

You whine, turning your head away as embarrassment rips through you. It’s mean, keeping it trained on you while you’re so fucking vulnerable. He grabs your chin, holds it in place as he fucks into you, deeper, rougher. It punches out gasps from your pretty open mouth— Ah! Ah! Ah! Over and over and over.

He pops your cheek, not too hard, but enough to draw your attention back from him and away from your dizzying thoughts. “Tell the camera how good it feels to have my big cock in that little pussy of yours, yeah?

“It feels— ngh— I love it,” you have pretty fat tears slipping down your cheeks as he drills into you. “You’re so big, I— God, fuck— I feel you in my stomach. Here—“ You grab his hand, move it to press against the bottom of your stomach. He can’t feel anything, not except warm skin beneath his, but he groans at your words, at the implication that he’s so deep he’s in your fucking guts.

He has to bite his tongue so hard he tastes blood. He knows he’s going to cum, knows that he’s not going to last or show off epic, manly stamina and impress you. Not that you give a shit, but he wants to set a standard for whatever fucking loser you fuck next. He’d have next time, and as many other times as he wanted. You’d keep coming back for it, for him.

He struggles to manhandle you the way he needs while holding onto the camera. He tosses it into the sheets so he can press your knees up to your chest. “Hold them— yeah, that’s it, fuck— feels good.” You’re so obedient, holding your legs up for him so he can get deeper. Your eyes roll back, flutter shut. He fumbles to grab the camera, to immortalize you like this.

Your cunt squeezes around him, makes his rhythm falter as he struggles to fend off his orgasm. God, he just wants to bury himself deep and rut into you, to cum deep and hard, leave you dripping with him. It’s about him… but it’s about you too. He’d be good, he’d make you cum.

“Tell me how bad you need to cum. Fucking beg me for it,” He groans, rubbing at your clit with a calloused thumb.

You whine, squeezing around his cock as he draws you closer and closer. “Need it, Art. It feels so good— you’re so fucking perfect, feel so perfect inside of me. Wanna cum for you, around your cock, wanna show you how good you feel. Please, please, god, I want it, I want to feel it, Art. Want you to cum inside of me, need it so bad— I fucking dream about it, about you. You’re so much better, you’re everything I want, Art, fucking claim me. I want you to.”

Art wanted to pull out. He did. He was going to glaze your pussy with his cum, get it on video, swipe his fingers through it and make you taste it. But Jesus Christ, you fucking ruined that idea. He cums suddenly, practically collapses on top of you as he fucks into your cunt, spilling himself deep inside of you. And like the perfect fucking toy you are, you cum too, milking him for all he’s worth, walls clenching down around his cock as he lazily ruts into you.

He pants, stays buried inside of you as he tries to catch his breath. He’d never cum inside someone before— he was too afraid of knocking someone up. He’d always had the self control to pull out, but he lost himself in fucking you, in the tight grip of your pussy around him. Christ, that was bad.

When he pulls out, a thick gush of his cum follows, pearly white, dripping down your ass and to the bed. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, you’ve tugged a blanket over yourself shyly. Looking so demure, so sweet, batting your lashes up at him expectantly.

The camera lays dropped and forgotten on the bed, he goes and presses the stop button on the camera and you grab at his arm. “Do you want to stay the night?” You ask with a shy bite of your lip. “I told Izzy to fuck off, so she’s with her girlfriend. We’ve got the dorm for the night, so you can stay.”

Art makes a face akin to annoyance as he redresses, tugging on his boxers and sweats. His shirt is somewhere… he can’t focus. “I’m not your boyfriend.”

Your eyes widen, you swallow as heat floods your cheeks. “Yeah, I mean, I know,” you stammer. “I just thought…”

His jaw ticks. “Don’t do that, then. This is just about fucking.

Art watches the sad little nod, the tiniest twitch of your nose as you fight the rush of tears to your eyes. “I know that, Art,” you say sadly, and you’re trembling again. “I just wish you’d stay for a bit. I’m… I feel a lot right now. I’ve never… I’ve never felt this before I just want—“

“What do you want? A hug, a kiss?” He watches you sniffle sadly, nod and mutter a watery, yeah. He sighs, stops searching for his shirt, and pulls you against his chest. You feel so warm, so vulnerable as you shake and cry hot tears against his chest. He frowns, pulls back, and presses his lips to yours, quick and chaste. “I’m not doing this again if you keep acting like this.”

You sniffle and nod. “Okay, I know, I won’t do it again.” He kisses the crown of your head. Grabs a random shirt from the top of your laundry basket, grabs the camera, and heads for the door. You watch him leave with a pouty, wobbly little frown and get up to redress. You find his Stanford Tennis shirt partly beneath your bed and pull it on. It’s big, fits you like a hug, smells so boyish and warm. You lay back down on the bed he just fucked you on and breathe deep, let his smell flood your senses. It feels a little like being wanted.

AURRRRR this was so much longer than I thot <3

Anyways. Love pat’s sister au, feel free to send me any asks you want about these messy bitches <3

🐞 anon i love u

[latimeria-fell-from-heaven]

⌗︙・ sneaking off with caelus for quickies ♡⸝⸝

Caelus is sometimes too horny for his own good, golden eyes filled with nothing but debaucherous visions as he undresses you with his eyes. When he wasn't fighting alongside you or running around completing missions left and right, he'd come up with some half-assed excuse regarding the Antimatter Legion before dragging you off to some unoccupied corner and fulfilling his lewd fantasies. He was a pure menace, groping your ass from behind just out of view from the others, frustrating you to no end when he refused to touch you any further. Not at least until you found an opportunity to sneak off.

But you were no saint, not with how you sloppily drooled all over his cock as he fucked your throat, or how eagerly you'd grind down onto his pelvis as you rode him in the privacy of your room. But who could blame you for acting in such a desperate way? Caelus' cock was just so good, fat head and length pressing against your walls in all the right ways that had you cumming rather embarrassingly quickly. He'd always cum in thick, creamy globs that painted your insides white and left your belly feeling warm and heavy. He was a fast learner, learning each of your weak spots with a scarily quick eagerness that left you breathless.

So it wasn't really too much of a surprise with how often you snuck away on missions just to fuck in some unlit alleyway.

"They're probably looking for us... I bet they're worried since we've been gone for a while. We should.. we should really hurry up. " You huff, raising your head to look at Caelus, his face mere inches from yours. He takes a gulp of air before nodding in agreement, no doubt having the same concern as you.

"Yeah... March is probably dragging Dan Heng by the ear.." His brow furrows, looking simultaneously troubled and amused at the thought of the former dragging around the stoic male as if he were some sort of rag doll.

Even if the two of you are sharing the same concern, it was clearly juxtaposed by neither one of you making the effort to wrap up your little activity as quickly as possible. Although, little activity was a bit of a damn understatement when you had Caelus' cock sheathed inside your hole, back against the dingy wall of the alleyway as he moves his hips against yours over and over. Your arms and legs are locked around his body, doing your best to keep from falling and sliding down the wall. But Caelus has a good grip on your ass—he's a lot stronger than he looks—and his hips sure aren't going to be slowing down anytime soon.

"Fuuuck, s'so deep, so fucking good.." You whine into his neck, biting back a moan as his balls smack noisily against your skin. He's got so much vigor in each of his thrusts, pelvis pressed as close as possible to yours in such a confined position. You don't know how long the two of you have been at this, but you know it's long enough to have his cum leaking out, staining the ground below in gooey droplets. "Fuck me—ooh!—right there, right there, fuck me harder—oh god!"

Caelus chokes out a moan—you were so fucking tight—sucking in a shaky breath as he continues to pound into you. "Didn't you just tell me to hurry up? What changed your mind? Do you like my dick that much?" You can hear the smirk in his voice, though it wavers with each flutter and pulsing of your walls around his length. God he was such a little shit.

"Just shut up already.." You slam your lips against his without warning, moaning in a mix of relief and ecstasy. He makes a slight noise of surprise, but, given how often you'd dodge his postcoital affections, you don't blame him. But right now, you could care less if he happens to get to the wrong idea about you kissing him—or perhaps, a small part of you deep down wants Caelus to get the wrong idea.

The two of you melt into the kiss, teeth gnashing noisily and tongues entangling and rubbing up against one another as you both cling onto each other. Soon, drool begins to streak across your lips and chin—fuck, kissing Caelus felt so damn good, why didn't you do it before?—as warm pressure builds up in your lower stomach. His plush tip keeps pushing up against your oversensitive walls, the pulsing veins on the side of his cock stimulating you further and further.

But soon the lack of oxygen proves to be too much, and the messy kiss is broken apart. Strings of saliva stick to your tongue, but a bolt of pleasure shoots through you and you rest your head against the wall of the alley. With your neck exposed to him, you whine his name repeatedly like a chant, his entire being overwhelming you in waves.

"Caelus, Caelus, Caelus, Caelus...!"

Caelus' hips give a final thrust, the veins on his fat cock twitching and pulsing as he spills himself inside of your walls until even more droplets begin to ooze out. Reflexively, he immediately starts kissing your neck, mouth sloppily fitting against your rapid pulse, but this time you don't stop him. It feels ticklish, but surprisingly helping in lowering you from your high. He doesn't pull out until he's pumped out every last drop, although the way your walls clamp around him ends up squeezing out a few more drops anyways. You both shudder, the sudden emptiness in you and the lack of warmth around him a bit too much.

As if on cue, the cum that hadn't been oozing from your hole thanks to Caelus plugging you up nice and tight, now trickles out. A part of you is disappointed to not have it stay deep inside, but you're too out of it to do anything about it.

Your legs begin to slip, but Caelus seems to notice and aids in lowering you down. As soon as your feet touch the ground, you nearly double over but he catches you, choosing to lean you against him for support. With your head against his chest, you can feel the warmth of his body, each inhale and exhale he takes, and the beating of his heart.

The alleyway is filled with soft pants, concealed from any prying eyes. Like your own little world, just the two of you. It's... rather nice in a way.

"We're... we're gonna continue this when we get back to the Express, got it?" Of course you will. The two of you are as horny as rabbits, and quickies would only keep you both temporarily satisfied. But you could bet that if he found the opportunity, he'd sneak into your room. Again. "My back's killing me, I think you just scraped off my damn skin... I'd like my back to remain injury-free while getting dicked down thank you very much."

"Fine by me. I'd prefer to fuck you on your bed anyway." He snorts in amusement, a sliver of a smirk on his lips as he playfully squeezes your ass. You squeak and flinch at the ticklish sensation, to which he chuckles. "Not that I've got anything against doing this in an alleyway. It's actually kinda hot."

"Shut up and help me put my underwear back on."

© latimeriafellfromheaven

[buckys-wintersoldier]

Soo BBG, since you decided to challenge me I’d like to offer you the same challenge:

Slutty Drabble, the first character you think of~

Have fun and Take. Your. Time. Don’t want you stressing yourself alright?

Just a little bit where dark!Bucky punishes you.

Ohhhh bbg, I had a lot of thought since I got your request but I guess this one will be the best?😏😏

Pairing -> Dark!Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Warnings -> 18+, Minors DNI, smut, dark!Bucky, mean!Bucky, jealousy, oral (male!receiving), deep throating, using of a toy (fem!receiving), degrading

“Think you can look at my best friend like a little whore, huh? Fuck, take it you fucking little slut,” Bucky say through gritted teeth. His cock pushing further down your throat and you gag around his huge length.

He hates when you look at another man, not caring who it is. When he is talking to someone your eyes have to be either on him or on the ground, how can you even dare to look at someone who isn’t Bucky?

“Such a slut, cock hungry little whore. Think you can look at him without consequences?” He growls, thrusting his cock in and out of you.

Honestly, he loves to see your fucked up look. Kneeling in front of him, big, watering eyes looking up at him while he uses you like he pleases. A sex toy pushed into your pussy, hitting all the right spots while you’re not allowed to come. In case you do, he has a worse punishment for you and Bucky has stamina, he can fuck you all night without problem, denying all your orgasm until you almost pass out.

Your fingers dig into his thick thighs while saliva runs down your chin and over your chest. Bucky loves that, he could let you suck his cock all day, making you choke on it.

Your walls clench around the toy in your tight, dripping pussy but you’re too focused on recognising it. You try to press Bucky away, needing a moment to breath but he doesn’t give it to you, just thrusting in a brutal and fast pace into your mouth, smirking when you try to cough.

“Fucking whore, see what you’re doing to me? Turning me into an animal. You made me fucking jealous and I hate it, but won’t lie — love seeing you fucked up in front of me, taking my cock like the slut you are,” he groans, finally pulling out of you.

You immediately inhale deeply, your mouth and throat aching. Bucky’s big hand grasps your hair, pushing you closer to his cock.

“Take my fucking balls in your mouth, come on. Now you want that, want to suck my balls. Both, doll! Take them both or make you,” he groans when you lick over them before you try to get them both into your mouth.

Bucky’s balls are huge and you struggle to get them both into your mouth. But you also don’t want him to help you because you know he isn’t in a mood to play games or be soft.

“Fuck, that’s it. Yeah, suck them. And don’t you dare to come over the toy,” he says, looking at your grinding hips. He knows you’re close but he doesn’t want you to come just yet, you haven’t earned it and the night is long and Bucky has to punish you for being such a whore.

“Good girl, taking my balls in your slutty little mouth. Fuck, come, take them, fucking suck them whore. And then we are going into the bedroom, how does that sound? Yeah you like that, huh, whore? Like the thought of being tied up to the bed, letting me fuck you like the fucking slut you are,” he mumbles, already thinking about a few ways he is going to fuck you before you get his cock and before he even thinks about allowing you to come — because when you come only over his cock.

Taglist: @kandis-mom @sergeantbarnessdoll @identity2212 @km-ffluv @lunaalovesyouu @bucky-barnes-lover @blackhawkfanatic @armystay89 @suz7days @etherealdisneyvillainness @pono-pura-vida @somnorvos @meowmeowyoongles @randomawesomeperson102 @rogersbarber @sebastianstanisahotmf @felicitylemon @cjand10 @bookishtheaterlover7 @casa-boiardi @futurequeen2018-blog @flstrawberry @capsbestgirl77 @nervouseden @jiyascepter @princesscore-angel @mrs-katelyn-barnes @sasha-writing @fanfictionreaderfan

[dinogoofymutated]

THAT POST ABOUT CLEANING IN THE FLOWY DRESS? THINKIN ABOUT HANK? HNNNGGG PLEASE I BEG OF YOU

NSFW!Beast/AFAB!reader. - NSFW HCs! I was already on it when I got this ask heehee. These hcs were originally suppost to be part of another NSFW request I got for him but I was thinking about this too hard and comepletely forgot the actual theme of the req! So I decided to save it for later and just post it under your ask lol Anyway I need him my god. I was writing this while picturing watxm Hank but I'm pretty sure it works for any version. TWS: MDNI!!! smut under the cut. PNV smut. Eating out/head. Cum descriptions. Reader written with Fem in mind and also wearing a dress is mentioned, but overall no pronouns used. Creampie. Getting caught after the fact but not during the deed.

Okay, We all know that Logan has incredible stamina, and there's quite a few mutants that you would just expect that from anyway, but I'm 100% sure the one person that a good bit of people would NEVER expect to have insane stamina in bed is Hank. Like yeah he's nerdy, but dude straight up went to college on a SPORTS scholarship on top of his academic ones.

There is no fucking way this man has anything other than the most insane stamina. Dude is the perfect package of nerdy genius and athletic perfection. Can you imagine how long he could go on for in bed?? While you're sweaty and absolutely exhausted he's having the time of his life. Sure he's sweaty to but he's still. fucking. going?? It's like you'd been having sex for three minutes instead of four hours. He obviously gives you breaks and takes care of you, keeping you hydrated and such- but every time he begs you for "just one more". He's so gentle when he's gathering up your limp body and he's kissing your temples and forehead and massaging your tender spots, but he's a scientist at heart. He wants to know how far the two of you can really go, and he wants to know BAD.

I saw in a post somewhere on tumblr that he mentions that the one thing he doesn't have control of is his libido or something like that? It was from a comic snapshot so obviously this isn't even a hc it's fully cannon I don't make the rules.

THE FUCKING PHEROMONE THING!! For those of you who don't know, Hank was confirmed to have some minor Pheromone manipulation abilities. Like oh my god?? I definitely think that he will use it in sweet ways where he just wants some cuddles without asking you for them, but I feel like when he's hot and heated he just subtly does it without even knowing. Like he's super pent up one way and for some reason every time you greet him or pass him by you just start having more and more inappropriate thoughts about him. He'd feel so guilty if he catches himself doing it but at the end of the day, you don't really mind. Don't think too hard you beautiful big guy, can we just fuck already??

He will absolutely use his strength to hold you in any position possible. As long as you're both comfortable with it no position or hold is off the table for him. I don't think he'd be into BDSM or anything that has to do with hurting you, but I do think he's the type to read through the kamasutra and want to try all the positions to find the one you both enjoy the most.

He will fuck in the lab. He might do a whole "Oh my! Not in here, dear ;)" But most of the time he's instigating it! Sure he makes sure to lock the doors and everything but he's not shy when he has you splayed across his work tables, bent over you as he gently kisses and brushes his fangs over your skin. He likes how flustered it makes you.

He also cums A LOT. Like a lot a lot. He's most certainly got the heaviest balls you've ever seen, and they're not just for show. Every time he cums inside he causes you to practically overflow, and he's usually still cumming when he finally pulls out of you as well. He's a little embarrassed about it, and will clean you up very well because of that. He doesn't want you to deal with the sticky feeling of it drying on your skin, especially not if you have sensitive skin/texture issues. He is defiantly down to eat his one cum out of you though ;)

also, I think that he has a thing for long flowy dresses. I know there's a ton of dudes who say they like them bc of "easy access", and I know for a fact that Hank would find that sort of mindset disgusting. He just loves how beautiful and feminine you look in them, and also just happens to really enjoy the feeling of the fabric against his arms as he hitches up your skirt, his hands trailing up your thighs. As depraved as it might be, he also likes giving you head underneath your long skirts. He'd be apologising for being so ravenous and thanking you for letting him have you in such in intimate manner, all while giving you the most earth-shattering head. He's just so sweet about everything in the bedroom I swear.

    You swear you didn’t fully expect to be in this exact situation when you were getting dressed this morning. Sure, you knew exactly how much Hank loved to see you in sundresses and were definitely going for a certain reaction out of him, but you never would have expected to be pinned against the wall of his lab, his large hands cupping your ass and thighs as he holds you suspended whilst using the wall as leverage. His thick cock is pumping in and out of you at a quick, needy pace. He goes back and forth from biting his lips and letting his moans and groans ring out and echo in the cluttered space. You’d never done this position before, although you certainly knew that Hank had more than enough strength to pull it off. Still, you were sure that the image of him fucking you, hands beneath your long skirt as it bunches at your hips and drapes down below you, was certainly a sight to behold.

    “Ah- Please, let me know if this is uncomfortable in any way- nhg… I’m sure your anatomy is taking me quite… deeply, in this position.” Hank grunts, his thrusts deep and steadily paced in a manner in which he knows you like best. You smile at him, desperately trying to keep your eyes open as your hands clench and unclench on his shoulders every time his thrusts catch you Just right.

    “Is that what you’re calling it now? “Studying” my anatomy?” You muse. You wonder if he had noticed you catching on to the glances and stares he does when he thinks you’re not paying attention. You purposely poke your chest out as you mention it, and Hank huffs in amusement before he buries his face into your semi-exposed cleavage,  licking and sucking as he shifts your weight onto one hand as the other takes hold of your cheek. He puckers your lips, nipping at the top of your breast before he pries himself away, sending you a smug smile as he leans in teasingly close.

    “You know, I really think we could be using that quick tongue of yours for something a little more useful than backtalk.” Hank chuckles. He kisses you in a way that leaves you breathless, still holding you effortlessly even with a single hand as he keeps up his thrusts. His free hand drifts down to your clit as your walls begin to flutter and clench around him, a sign that he knows means you’re approaching your peak and fast. His kisses match the intensity of his hips as he closes in on his own pleasure. You cum barely a second before he does, his cum warming your insides as he cums, and cums and cums. He overflows your cunt quickly, and it drips down your legs when he pulls out. Hank makes sure to help you keep your balance when he sets you down, your legs shaking from your orgasm but also a bit numb from the position he had you in. He kisses you gently as you recover from your high, doing so over and over again all across your skin. The gentle touches make you giggle a bit. 

    “Had a feeling that we would end up like this today. Maybe I should wear dresses like this more often.” You hum. Hank chuckles deeply before drawing you into another sensual kiss, his hands stroking up and down your now-clothed body in a loving way.

    “I wouldn’t mind testing that theory.” He says when he separates from the kiss. You shake your head at him, laughing a bit more as you cup his face with love.

    “Of course you wouldn’t.” You say sweetly. Hank is smiling at you, his hands beginning to wander again right before the two of you hear a mortifying swish of the doors. Hank quickly tucks himself back inside his pants before the two of you instinctively turn to face the door where Logan is standing with a bit of a confused look on his face.

    “Logan! We were just-”

    “Hey, Logan! Nothing to see here!” Both of you are scrambling to fix the situation, utterly and spectacularly failing as Logan takes one sniff of the air and then smirks.

    “I’m all for a bit of risk, but at least lock the door, lovebirds.” Logan gives the two of you a sardonic wave before marching straight back out the door. Leaving both you and Hank more than a little mortified. As embarrassing as it was, you can’t help but begin to laugh, Hank joining you as you shake off the adrenaline of technically being caught red-handed.

    “Let’s go wash off before we have any other unexpected visitors,” Hank suggests. You agree wholeheartedly, your laughter picking up once again as he lifts you off the ground in a bridal hold to head to the showers.

[fanaticsnail]

Oh snail, i know you already have a long list of WIPs (i can't wait to read them) and your Inbox is probably already full with requests, so i understand if its not in the cards right now.

I was just wondering what the kid-pirates would do, or how they would react if ther precious doc-reader is the one that was injured badly or was very sick. Especialy how Killer would react after that romantic tention between them (i need more of that 😩). I don't have a particular song in mind, because the seires already has a vibe to it, hope thats okay.

I wish you a wonderful day/night/evening! 💕Sooo looking forward to your next work, whatever it may be 🐢

I love you for this prompt, @daydreamer-in-training. Thank you!

Sit your ass down, would ya, Doc?

Hey Doc Masterlist here

Word Count: 2,000+

Synopsis: You've taken care of your crew and nursed them back to health from their flus... but now it's your turn. The Kid-Pirates do their best to take care of the worlds worst patient, their doctor: you.

Themes: platonic!kid-pirates, eustass kid x gn!reader, swearing, illness, comforting, taking medication, kid is a bit of a dom, doc is a bit of a bra, you're the kid-pirate doctor: the crew calls you 'doc'.

Notes: I am currently struggling with the flu myself, and this was simply too cute to not write about. Thank you for your ask, it's been fun to write about!

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @sinning-23 @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @sordidmusings @nerium-lil

“Hey, Doc? Did we need any more petroleum jelly from the-...?” the fire breather called beside you, hating when you turned to face him, “...-Shit, Doc. You look like absolute balls today.” 

Rolling your swollen, glassy and red eyes at him, you draw another tissue from your counter and sneeze into it. The silky tissue felt like sandpaper over your leaky nose, the skin splitting surrounding your nostrils and leaving small stains of red on the pale paper.

“Always so full of compliments and kindness, Heat,” you huff out, your voice sounding hoarse and cracking along with every word. Heat cringed, recoiling away from you with eyes narrowed in sympathy. You attempt to breathe through your blocked nose, no air passing through the dual nostrils.

Treating the crew for the past two weeks, and nursing them to health in recovering from the flu, had finally caught up with you. You felt both cold and hot at the same time, your skin both dry and sticky with sweat. Mind swelling and cracking behind the tense throbbing throughout your brain caused a dull ache ringing in your ears and fogging your mind.

“I-... I’m just saying, Doc,” he reiterated in defense of himself, “You don’t look too good. Maybe you ought to sit out from the in-land trip to restock. Stay home on the Victoria Punk?” Heat suggested with a soft smile and a subtle shrug.

“What?” you grunted out a cough, “And leave you lot to restock my clinic for me? Not fucking like-...” coughing into another tissue, your glassy eyes pricked at the corners and began to spill out and down your cheeks, “...-likely.” 

Heat’s smile fled from his face, his lip downturning in sympathy. He shook his head and extended his hand out to you, gesturing you to follow him out through the door towards the deck. You attempt to sniff back another intake of air to reopen your nose to no avail. Following on, you trudge somberly towards the top deck where the crew were all waiting to step foot onto the pier. 

Without drawing attention to yourself, your eyes squinted lazily to compensate for the pain the sun caused your mind. With each achy step, you attempted to bite back the ache your body was going through. Barely aware of your surroundings, you gesture in the medicinal remedy booths at town square for herbs, ointments and aromatic fragrances. 

As you reached into your pocket to pull out your small folder of Berry, a large right forearm reached over your shoulder and paid the vendor before you could. Rolling your eyes, you turn to look at the scowling grimace of your captain, Eustass Kid, baring his rage down at you. Attempting to roll your eyes at him again, you clenched them tightly shut instead as the world became far too bright to process.

“Captain,” you acknowledge him with a clumsy nod, fighting the urge to not to fall over with the vertigo overcoming you. He growled at you immediately, gesturing to Wire beside him to gather the supplies and walk back to the ship. 

“You’re a real fuckin’ idiot, aren’t ya, Doc?” he spat, scolding you with his heavy growl. You laughed at him, shaking your swirling head and beginning to walk beside him. Your overexertion and sleep deprivation caught up with you as you tripped over an uneven divot in the rocky path.

“I'm not into degradation, Cap,” you respond in a half-joking hum, your eyes feeling heavy and weighted, “Not my kink. Might be yours, though, considering the amount of times I yell at you to hold you accountable.” That comment earnt you another low growl from your captain, his face turning a few shades darker than his hair. 

He turned to face you at his side, his lips curling as if to speak. As he opened his lips, he was lost for words as you fell into him, bracing yourself against him to steady your walk. He caught you in his right arm, bringing his face down towards you and brows knitting with concern. Turning towards Wire, he cocked his chin to the side to usher him on towards the ship. 

With no further warning, Kid dipped at the knees and hoisted you up into his chest beneath your thighs. He curled his bicep and hooked your head beneath his chin and cradled you firmly into him. Under usual circumstances, you would’ve fought this tooth and nail.

You do not enjoy being manhandled by the crew, especially by your captain. While you enjoy the embrace once in a while with your more sensitive crewmates, particularly Bubblegum, the Captain has only ever been this close to you when he’s sparring with you.

“C’mon Doc, I'll get you seen to,” he grunted down at your position curled into his chest, “I’ve-... And the-...” his words trailed off, the fever raising your temperature higher and prompting you to seek out sleep against his pectoral. 

Voices and words fade in and out of your ears, a slow drawl and murmurs of several of your crewmates swelling around your assumed resting spot for the day. The room wasn’t physically moving, even though your vertigo suggested it was. 

“When was the last time Doc’s had a day off?” you recognised the feminine voice of Quincy in the room beside you. Several grunts and incessant babbling reverberated around the room, prompting you to flutter your eyelashes open and push through the pain. 

“Doc!” you cringed as a body almost flew into your bed, sitting on the plush sheets beside you, “You’re awake! I’m so happy to see you’re up!” You wince, slowly waving Bubblegum away, swatting at his zig-zagged head.

“Off, off,” you shooed him, wincing as you shrugged your duvet off your thighs and swung your legs over the side of the bed. As you began to wobble to your feet, the booming voice of your captain called over the chatter of the room,

“Sit your ass down, would ya, Doc?” he growled, striding over in intentional steps and giving you a shove from his right hand in the middle of your chest, “The medics here said you need a week in bed to rest. Sit down.” You growled at him, doing your best to gather the strength to growl at him. 

“If I’ve been prescribed ‘rest’,” you began, gesturing to the crewmates surrounding your current room, “Why the fuck are you all here?” Several sheepish mutters surround the room, a few members pinching the scruffs of their necks, a few more wringing their hands in front of their waists. 

Your captain clapped his hand on your shoulder, pushing you to lay back down and wrangling you into your bedsheets. Refusing to go down without a fight this time, you wriggled in his grip and fought both the fever and the strong arm of your captain. 

“For fucks sake, Doc!” Kid yelled at you, pushing and shoving you down into the very comfortable and unfamiliar bed in front of the crew. “Just lay down and rest, damn it! Go back to sleep.” You wriggled harder. 

“No!” you yelled defiantly, kicking off the duvet and fighting each and every time your captain attempted to shove you into your bed. Kid looked around to the crew, angled his chin sharply to wordlessly order them to leave the room. As they left, Kid turned back towards you and crawled up onto the bed. 

“You are more of a pain in the ass than that fucking bullet to the buttcheek,” he growled, climbing over you and baring down his weight onto your smaller frame. Straddling your thighs, he placed his knees on your open palms and successfully pinned you beneath him. He pressed his forearm over your chest and gave you a firm shove to force you to lay down. You had no choice but to thump your head back into the plush pillow behind your head. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you clench your jaw and growl behind your lips. The rumble in your throat hurt the raw swell in your jugular, but you pushed past it to air your frustrations at him regardless. The chuckle from your captain above you only served to propel your anger to rise higher. 

“Yeah, yeah. Growl and groan all you want,” he scoffed at you, pinning your chest with his bicep while reaching his hand between you and gathering the blankets in his fist. Slowly raising it up, he continued his place straddling your thighs until he thought you would no longer fight him. 

“Why are you doing this, Captain?” you snarl at him, finally opening your eyes to gaze up into his eyes. He smirked at you in response, pressing his palm to your forehead and clicking his tongue at the temperature. 

“Because,” he leaned over to the bedside, taking two small spherical tablets into his hand, “We love you, Doc.” He leaned back over you, gesturing with his chin for you to part your lips. You take a moment to snarl at him before complying, parting your lips and allowing him to place the bitter tablets on your tongue. 

He leaned back over to the bedside, finding a glass of water and bringing it down to your lips. Tilting the glass slowly as it brushed with your bottom lip, he carefully fed you a sip of water to take the pills with. Placing the glass back over on the table, he drew his attention to the small amount of water seeping from the corner of your lip.

“Now, be a good Doctor and get loved on, idiot,” he softly huffed, his voice low and husky as he leaned forward. He used the pad of his thumb to gently collect the spill of water from the corner of your lips. Your eyes never ceased its glare up at him. He grinned tauntingly down at you, arching his brow and ensuring you swallowed the tablets. 

“Get off, Captain,” you growled at him, bucking your hips up in an attempt to remove him from your body. He cackled his rumbled laugh down at you in response, shaking his head. 

“You gonna get up again if I do?” he asked, leaning down and caressing your cheek in a gentle stroke. His eyes held nothing but mischievous mockery, but his hand felt like it was gently coaxing you to comply with what he asked. 

“No, I’ll behave,” you snarled at him. His laugh was genuine this time, low and gentle. Slowly backing off you, he slid off your body before adjusting the sheets and smoothing them over. 

“Good,” he nodded, beginning to leave the room by the door off to the side of the room. Halting at the door, he fought with himself for a moment before looking at you over his shoulder and uttering, “I’ll-… I’ll get Kil to check on you in a few hours. Get some rest, okay?”

What he said next was something you weren’t expecting to come from his lips. In all the time you served with him, he only ever called you ‘Doc’, or ‘Doctor.’ You were your title, and you appreciated that about the crew. You were Doc, only ever Doc. But what he said changed all that.

After he uttered the word “okay,” it was immediately followed by your name. Waiting a few moments, you responded in a cadence just above a whisper. 

“I’ll be right where you left me, Kid,” you replied with a soft smile back at him. He closed his eyes, offering you a reflection of your smile in return before it grew back into its usual mischievous face. 

“Good,” he again offered you, scrunching his nose up at you and looking up through his red eyelashes at you, “Otherwise I would’ve gotten your doting daddy to come coddle his whiny baby.” Your eyes went wide, your jaw clenching and your eyebrows shot up to your hairline. 

Eustass Kid just laughed in response, exiting the room and giving you both the time and space you needed to recover. Your recovery was not only the flu, but of the second hand embarrassment that Killer must’ve relayed to Kid what he’d said to you in the consultation room. Either that, or you left the shell of your Den-Den accidentally activated from when you spoke with your captain earlier in the day.

Either way, you pouted as you did as you were told and huffed back into your bed and went to sleep: the paracetamol activating and stilling your swelling head and masking the undertones of pain in your body.

[ashwhowrites]

Hey, if you hadn't already done something like this, I was wondering if you'll write Eddie x Popular!Henderson!R, where they're sneaking around behind Dustin's back.... 1. Because Dustin looks up to him and they're friends and 2. She's not ready to let everyone know just yet (wanting to live in ignorant bliss just a little while longer before she falls under scrutiny for falling for "the freak").

And so, when one of her friends decides to hook her up on a date, she can't exactly refuse, so she goes along with it to shut her up, without letting Eddie know, of course. And during a game of dnd, Dustin let's it slip where you are for the night, unknowingly sending Eddie into a spiral, thinking she's cheating and that's why she wants to keep them a secret and after having an internal battle, he cuts the campaign short, surprising everyone, and he crashes her date, with hellfire in toe, demanding answers. And then everyone finds out and she explains blah blah and they live happily ever after. Sorry, this was long xx

This was so fun! I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it. Thank you for requesting 🫶🏻

Dustin's friend

When Dustin said he found a new friend, that was yet again years older than him, Y/N wasn't too pleased. First, it was Steve, and now a guy named Eddie. But when Y/N met Eddie for the first time, she couldn't care less about the age gap between him and her brother, all that mattered was that he was around her age and single.

Eddie still wasn't sure how he managed to get Dustin's hot popular sister to go out with him. Whatever he did, he thanked god for it because having Y/N on his lap with her tongue down his throat was his heaven.

"Missed you so much," Y/N whined, her hips moving against Eddie's as she yanked off his shirt.

"Fuck, I missed you too." Eddie moaned as Y/N sucked down his chest. She left her marks to travel south until she was just above his boxers.

"MOM WANTS YOU," Dustin screamed as he pounded on Y/N's locked door.

"Damn it," Eddie sighed and hung his head.

"BE RIGHT THERE," Y/N screamed back, she sighed and stood up. She handed Eddie his shirt with a sad smile. "Sorry, Eds."

"Fuckers are giving me blue balls. Are you sure we can't tell him? Maybe he'd stop interrupting as much." Eddie glared towards the door. He stood up and threw on his jeans.

"You know I'm not ready for all of that yet." Y/N sighed.

"Fine, I'll go home and finish the old-fashioned way." Eddie joked, smirking as he walked backward to her window, his eyes on her.

"Maybe I'll come over and join you, later." She winked. She kissed Eddie goodbye and waited for him to leave. Then she went to see what her mom wanted.

~~~

Y/N knew hiding her relationship with Eddie was hard and tiring. And she felt guilty every time she had to act like Eddie wasn't everything to her. But she was scared. She was scared to take away Dustin's friend, worried she overstepped. She was terrified it would ruin their friendship because of the bro code. And selfishly, she was scared of the damage it would do to her social life.

"I'm telling you, he has been begging me for a date with you. You are single and have no reason to say no." Chrissy whined.

"My reason to say no is that I don't want to," Y/N said, rolling her eyes as she slammed her locker shut.

She whined when Chrissy followed.

"Like you have anything going on tomorrow night, anyway?" Chrissy argued, her eyes taunting.

Y/N technically had nothing going on tomorrow, Dustin and Eddie had hellfire so both boys were busy.

"Stop thinking of an excuse and just go. Then if you hate it, I will never set you up again." Chrissy promised.

"Deal," Now Y/N could get Chrissy off her back.

~~~

"We are kicking ass today! I wish Y/N were here to see it." Dustin cheered. Y/N had spent more time watching Hellfire since she had to pick Dustin up anyway.

"Why isn't she?" Eddie asked, he prayed it sounded casual. He read ahead on his notes to look like he didn't care too much.

"On a date." Dustin shrugged, playing his next move. No one had the table had any idea that sentence sent Eddie into a panic. Sweat on his forehead as his leg shook beneath the table.

His girlfriend was on a date, with another guy.

It all made sense, she wanted him to be a secret because she was seeing someone. Dustin knew about the guy, and he couldn't know about Eddie. Because then her secret would be exposed. Like it just was.

"Where?" Eddie snapped, his angry tone had the table looking at him in seconds.

"Enzo's," Dustin said confused.

"Get in the van," Eddie snapped as he grabbed his keys.

~

The rest of hellfire sat confused as Eddie raced to the restaurant. He was silent but gripped the wheel until his knuckles were white. The boys followed as Eddie stormed out of the van and into the restaurant.

Eddie felt a wave of heartache flood in his chest when he saw her with him with his own eyes. She looked beautiful as she talked about something he couldn't hear.

"Why are we here? Why do you care about my sister?" Dustin asked, but Eddie already was moving.

His heavy boots hit the floor hard, and his hand slammed on the table. The couple jumped and fear showed in Y/N's eyes when Eddie leaned down to her level.

Face to face, Eddie's hard breathing smacked Y/N's face. She twiddled her thumbs nervously as she saw hellfire behind him. Her brother watching with confusion.

"Eddie, what are you doing?" She said through clenched teeth, trying to keep the conversation between them.

"Demanding why the fuck my girlfriend is on a date with another guy." Eddie snapped, his eyes dark as he glared at her. She knew he had every right to be mad, but she didn't want a scene.

She stood up, and Eddie straightened up. His eyes haven't left her, not even glancing at the stranger across from her.

"Can I please explain later? In private." She whispered, her eyes looking over Eddie's shoulder as the boys watched.

"No, I'm tired of this private shit. Explain right here, right now. Or we are done." Eddie threatened. He didn't want to break up, he wished on every star above him there was a way to make this relationship work.

"Eddie please." She whispered, her watery eyes pleading for him to back off until they could talk. "Not right now in front of everyone." Eddie tried to ignore her tears, not letting himself get sucked into her guilt trap.

"Fine, forget it. I'll see you around, Henderson." Eddie said coldly as he nodded and backed off. Y/N felt frozen in her spot as Eddie went out the door.

"Y/N?" Dustin spoke up, his hand reaching towards her.

In seconds she was running out the door.

"What is going on?" the random date asked.

"Shh man," Mike said, sliding into the booth next to him. He pointed out the window, a clear view of the couple. The boys followed, all sitting in the big booth as they stared out the window.

~

"I'm sorry! I got scared but please." Y/N cried as she tugged on Eddie's arm.

"Scared because you got caught. I can't believe you could do this to me. What about all that love bullshit? This is what you do when you love someone?" Eddie argued, hot tears in his eyes.

"I do love you! Nothing between us is bullshit. Chrissy was on my back for weeks about going on a date with this guy! I never agreed until she said If I went on it, she'd never do it again! I promise you I was just trying to get her off my back. I was going to tell her I hated it and finally have peace of just being with you."

"You know what else brings peace? Finally admitting to other people that you are in love with me," Eddie said sadly, "I'm tired of being your secret. I can't keep doing it."

Y/N sobbed as she reached forward and held his face in her hands.

"I'm so sorry. I love you so much. I'll tell Dustin and everyone. Please just give me a chance to make this up to you." Y/N begged, Eddie sniffled as he looked into her eyes.

"I love you too," he smiled, and Y/N felt relief in her bones. "You took a chance on me, so I'll take the chance on you."

Y/N smiled and leaned forward, Eddie met her halfway and smashed his lips on hers. His hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer.

~

"Oh my god!" The boys all said at once, the random date was long gone.

"Eddie and my sister?"

"Dude! Eddie is banging your sister!" Mike teased

"Is he touching her ass?" Lucas gasped as he moved closer to the window

"Oh, that is so much tongue." Gareth chuckled.

"Our boy is making out with a popular girl!" Jeff cheered, high fives all around the table, except for Dustin who sat in a state of shock.

~

"YOU ARE SCREWING MY SISTER?"

Eddie and Y/N jumped as Dustin screamed.

"DUSTIN!" Y/N screamed as Dustin ran straight into Eddie and took him to the ground.

Tags!

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @thegemaqua @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37 @bellaisswagger

[peachdues]

GIYUU TOMIOKA NSFW HEADCANONS

I might revise Rengoku's after this one, but for now, enjoy my horny HCs for our favorite emotionally-constipated Pillar!

CW: explicit sexual content • MDNI • creampies • mild corruption kink • mean dom!Giyuu and whimpering sub!Giyuu

･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES

Giyuu has a very faint happy trail that begins right below his navel; but don’t be fooled — it leads to an absolute jungle below his belt 

If it bothers you, he will trim it down, but if you don’t say anything, he’ll just leave it. Truthfully, Giyuu is a big fan of grinding into you (he LOVES the mess you make against his groin), so the friction his hair helps create against your clit is certainly worth the stray pube that may find its way into your mouth from time to time while he fucks your throat. 

Onto his dick:

Listen

I know we all know the truth about quiet boys — and Giyuu is so very quiet 

He’s hung like a mf horse

He’s not particularly girthy (though don’t get me wrong — he’s got well enough to satisfy), but he is long. Even flaccid, it swings between his legs. He’s about 7.5-8 inches when hard, and it sticks straight out. It’s slightly pink in color, and he has a very pretty tip that you just love to suckle on (he whimpers when you do). He has one prominent vein on the underside of his cock, and if you run your tongue against it, he WILL be shooting his load onto your face/down your throat. 

As for his cum, I envision it to be a bit on the thinner side in consistency, slightly sweet, and he cums a LOT. He usually rolls his balls around while he’s cumming to make sure he gets it all out --and into you.

FOREPLAY

Giyuu is admittedly not as experienced with foreplay at first, but he’s committed to making you feel good, so, he’s going to learn and he’s going to learn fast. 

I HC that he has really long, delicate fingers and the man knows how to put them to WORK.

You see, Giyuu has never been one to intentionally push another person’s buttons (always doing so accidentally), but with you???

Oh baby, those fingers are searching to press every one of yours. 

Truthfully, you could fuck yourself on his hand all day and you’d be satisfied (and in fact, you do). He found your g-spot completely on accident while fingering you, simply by curling his fingers. 

Giyuu also enjoys going down on you, because he’s fascinated at the way you fall apart beneath his tongue.

He takes his time exploring your core, curious as to what makes you gasp and writhe, as well as what makes you moan and scream.

The first time you cum in his mouth, you have to quite literally pull him off you, because that first taste unleashed a beast within him and he will not stop licking and sucking and fucking you with his tongue until you’re sobbing with overstimulation 

HOW HE FUCKS YOU

Whether he's a sub or a dom really depends on his mood. If he's returning from a mission, he wants to be taken care of (read: he wants you to ride him until he goes cross-eyed). But if it's you returning, be prepared for him to break furniture with how hard he's fucking you -- as if you need to be reminded of who's waiting for you to return home.

When Giyuu subs...

WHIMPERER MAX 5000

I mean it’s almost pathetic how needy this man gets for you while you’re on top, bouncing along the thick length of him like your life depends on it 

Expect to have some bruises on your hips from how hard he’s gripping you. Eventually, he gets so desperate that he’s lifting you up and down his cock too, thrusting helplessly up into you without rhythm. He’s just desperately chasing his own release, too drunk at the way your dripping heat constricts around him to the point that he sees stars.

He’s begging you to let him cum, and truthfully, you almost feel bad that you keep slowing down, choosing to rock slowly against him instead of continuing the relentless push and pull of your hips that you know gets him panting. Almost. 

When Giyuu doms, however...

When he’s on top though, get ready. Giyuu is relentless and can get downright mean. 

Honestly, you shouldn't be surprised. He spends so much time bottling up his emotions that they're bound to explode out of him at some point. Lucky for you that they happen to be exploding out of him and into you, with the way he has you bent over like his own personal cum dump as he ruthlessly takes out every pint of frustration he's kept locked up on your poor, aching cunt.

He’s pulling your hair, running his nails down your skin, and forcing you to say whose name is forever painted on your walls as his drips from your folds.  He’s particularly fond of shoving your head down against the futon as he takes you roughly from behind. He’s not satisfied until you’re crying. 

Oh and if you’ve been teasing him while out in public (particularly if you’re in the Corps)?? RIP to your pussy bc he’s about to slay it.

Not many people were aware of your relationship with the Water Pillar, but that was out of mutual agreement between you both. However, a few of your comrades had noticed a rather telling mark on your throat while you were being treated for a wound, and while you were able to avoid confessing the identity of your lover, you hadn’t been able to skirt the fact that you, indeed, had one. 

“What was it like?” A fellow Kinoe named Ayane asked you, a blush spreading across her cheeks. 

You could hardly meet her eyes as you mumbled, “It was nice.”

If you’d known the Water Pillar had been lurking nearby, ears carefully listening for your response, you perhaps would have been a little more careful with your words — but truthfully, you were flustered and a tad embarrassed, and so you’d answered her rather dismissively. 

Giyuu, it appeared, hadn’t been amused by your assessment; not when his hand had shot out from the dark cover of the trees to snag around your wrist, yanking you into the shadows. 

“Tell me, Y/N,” he growled in your ear, pressing you harder against the bark of the tree as he drove into you. “Does this feel-fucking-nice?” He punctuated the last three words with corresponding, pointed, sharp thrusts.

Your hands shot out to grip the rough wood to steady yourself as you whimpered, though the sound was drowned out by that of Giyuu’s hips slapping forcefully into your backside as he pumped into you with vigor. 

The Water Pillar’s teeth sank into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, the sting serving as your warning. “I asked you a question.” 

“Giyuu — ah — someone is going to see us,” You cried, though your protests were weakened by the way your hips ground back against him, desperate for release. 

Giyuu’s hand wound around your middle and dipped down to between your legs, skilled fingers circling your aching clit. “Not if you keep quiet and come when I say.”

His other hand had to clap around your mouth as his hips drilled into you, his fingers sliding between your lips to choke off the whine of his name as your cunt began to seize around him, begging to be filled by his cum, desperate to feel it leaking out of you as he sent you on your way. 

“I’ll show you fuckin’ nice,” he promised, and the Water Pillar wrenched you away from the base of the tree to bend you over before him. 

KINK-O-CLOCK

hear me out: I think this man has a virginity kink 

like he wants to TAKE your virginity 

If you’re not a virgin, dw, he’s still obsessed with you 

this is just like an added bonus for him — the idea that he’s the one who’s going to turn you into a whimpering, crying mess, that you’ll fall apart around his cock gets him incredibly excited. Especially because he plans on being the only man to touch you like this. It might translate into a greater corruption kink, but it goes both ways — he loves the idea of reducing you to a lustful, needy mess just as much as he loves the fact you do the same thing to him

big-time praise kink — he loves hearing you sing his praises, even if he gets extremely shy while you do it. He so rarely hears any form of praise or gratitude, so when you give it to him (both in bed and out of it), it means the world to him 

EDGING — especially if he’s been away for an extended period of time. You’re overjoyed when he comes home, but you’re also steadily preparing yourself for a long-ass night. Giyuu isn’t one to rush things already, but if it’s been a week or so since he’s last been inside of you, you better prepare yourself for a loooooonnng night ahead of you. He will bring you right up to the cusp of your orgasm before pulling off/out/removing himself, leaving you to clench around nothing. He will do this several times before finally, finally, letting you cum. 

creampies on creampies on creampies

Tbh he could give Sanemi a run for his money on this one (and his job at the Hostess donut filling plant)

The man is obsessed with his cum being in you. He’s not satisfied until it’s leaking out of you, and you’re laying on your back, knees against your chest, unable to do anything but hum in contentment because you’re so full of him. He will watch it trickle out of you, and then shove his still-hard cock right back in to give you one more load because fuck you look so sexy when you’re leaking him.  

bestie how do you think babies are made 

But if he’s not cumming inside of you, he is fascinated with cumming on your tits/face. The sight of his pearly seed covering your skin as you swipe your fingers through it, happily licking it from your hands is 100% guaranteed to make him rock-hard again

He always needs to be touching you in some way, but he especially loves holding onto your waist while plunging deep into you. It doesn’t matter if he’s on the bottom or the top — he just needs to hold you.

[fragmentating]

Honestly not much radicalized me in regards to bodily autonomy the way being a chronic selfharmer for 10+ years has. And one of those things that really are so awful to deal with is a lack of privacy.

When I go inpatient and they ask me if I have wounds, and I answer honestly, they dont just write that down. They make me undress and show each single one, otherwise I wont be "processed" and let into my room.

In the underage psych ward I was in they would sometimes search the rooms of known selfharmers while we were away at a therapy appointment, or seeing family in the visitation room, etc. They wouldn't tell you. They would lie about it if you asked about it. But all your shit had been moved around slightly, enough for observant people to notice. If they found blades, or any other sharp object regardless of it you had used it to selfharm though, you would obviously be punished.

One time I cut and went to the nurses for help, I was scared because it had never been that deep before and their response was tossing my room after I had voluntarily given them the two blades i had, while a male nurse kept saying how uncomfortable he was that he "had to" inspect my pads, saying "why would you need that many", ... they had metal detectors. They could've just swiped it across everything. But that wouldn't have been humiliating enough like seeing a nurse dig through my underwear and pads and diary.

Outside of the psych ward, my family kept up a similar approach. They did not search my room at least, knowing it was futile because there were always knifes in the house if I was desperate anyways, and a store down the street that sold razors. But locked doors were my mothers enemy. If I locked my door to masturbate, and she noticed it was locked? She would knock and yell until I opened it. If I simply wanted to relax in a bath but she decided it was suspiciously long ? The same.

When they couldn't catch me in the act but my scars kept getting more and more theyd threaten me with being hospitalized again.

When the hospital ER would send me to the closed ward for cuts that had nothing to do with suicidal ideation, but they decided I must be lying because it was deep enough, no matter how often I said I simply "messed up" because of adrenaline and blades that were sharper than expected. They had no legal ground to lock me up again but who cares, right. Its just one of those freaks who cuts themselves anyways.

And none of this kept me safe. None of this prevented me from cutting majority of the time. It made me distrust the ER. It made me distrust nurses. It made me hide my body even around my family. And when it did momentarily work I simply started harming myself in other ways. I ended up covered in bruises, with minor concussions, increasingly starving myself, depriving myself of sleep, ...

No one ever went "let's really try to figure out why you do this." Instead they went "why the fuck wont you just chew some bubble gum and roll a spikey ball on the soles of your feet you depressed fuck" or some shit like bro I am being severely traumatized by the world and this is my reaction. It's all "you are the problem".

And as an adult whos decided that I'm not interested in quitting, who "only" practices harm reduction I know that absolutely no one wants to accept that as a choice I should be allowed to make. Doesnt matter that I'm an expert at taking care of wounds and I have not had a single infection in 10+ years aside from once on wounds that got fucking stitched at the hospital. that I actively do my best to avoid lasting damage. That I try to keep the frequency low. They put me through years of surveillance and shame and threats without ever trying to see the root cause, only ever treat me as a bratty problem child who's being difficult just to fuck with them, and can not understand why that wouldn't make me want to stick to the goals they have set for me.

Therapists genuinely lose their mind when I tell them I don't want ~sobriety~ I just want to reduce harm and get on with my life. Their teachings do not allow for this to be but a short term compromise. I do not care.

[girliism]

senior year was all you and your best friends art and patrick dreamed out. but since you’re threesome became a twosome senior was not what you dreamed.

art spent the first month ignoring you and patrick which was hard given you all had the same classes. patrick was trying to pretend it didn’t hurt him as much as it did but you can only pretend for so long.

the two of you were at his house doing homework. patrick sitting on his bed and you in his squeaky desk chair. “can please stop squeaking.” patrick said very annoyed. you stop your movement. “sorry” you mumble. patrick sighs upset at himself for his outburst. “i didn’t burst at you tennis just sucked today.” you spin around in your chair and crawl onto the bed to take place in his lap. “what happened?” you question pushing your forehead against his. “art traded me for someone else to double with.” art and patrick have been double partners since forever. they never switched not even when patrick kissed art when they were 12 and art punced him in the face and didn’t talk to him for weeks.

you were getting sick of the silent treatment. you missed your best friend you missed art. you missed being with the both of them.

“ok class, today i don’t feel like teaching you so we’re gonna play dodgeball. girls to the left boys to the right.” dodgeball was supposed to be banned in school for promoting violence but your gym teacher could care less. “have we as a society been pushed so far back that you must still separate us by gender in game used as an excuse to be violent.” some girl in class complained. your gym teacher got in her face. “either get to the left or fail my class. now remember nothing below the waist and nothing above the neck.” his whistle rang throughout the gym, and your body moved faster than your mind immediately picking up the ball and chucking it at arts face. “oh my god.” you rush over to him. “what the fuck?” art’s holding his bleeding nose. “what did i just say! jesus someone get this kid to the nurse.” “i’ll do it.”

the two of you walk side by side to the nurse in complete silence.

“you’re our third dodgeball incident this week. hold this i’ll be back.” the nurse leaves. the ticking from the clock cuts through the silence. “so um, how was your summer? is your grandma doing better?” you speak first. “it was fine and my grandma’s fine too. she asked about you and pat.” art’s voice was muffled by the tissue he held on her face. “what did you tell her.” art cocked his head up at you. “that the two of you ripped my heart out and stomped on it.” he said sarcastically. the two of you. art realized this summer that’s his feeling about you and patrick were a lot more complicated. maybe he wasn’t completely upset that you guys were sneaking around maybe it was the fact you guys were doing it without him.

you kicked art in his shin. “ow! will you please stop hurting me.” he lightly kicked you back. “will you please stop being so annoying about this or does a nearly lifelong friendship mean nothing to you?” art wants to forgive you guys it kills him inside, watching the two of laughing and hanging out when it’s usely the three of you. “i’m not ready for that yet.” the nurse walks back in. you and art just staring at each lips saying nothing but eyes saying so much.

“boyfriend.” you smile walking out of your house to patrick’s car. “girlfriend. you ready.” patrick hooks his arm around your neck placing a kiss on your cheek. it was senior ditch day and something you guys always wanted to do for senior ditch day was to go paintballing.

“you guys get an hour in the arena if you run out of paint balloons there’s extra room on the side.” the worker instructed us. “room for one more?” a voice says behind you. “art.” you and patrick say in unison surprised but happy to see he came. picking up on the weird tension the worker added. “also no sex in the arena.” the three of you share a look before heading in.

it’s been five minutes and no one has moved. each seated behind their own pillar waiting for the other to move. “will someone please throw a balloon.” you huff. “i’ll go first. art why don’t you stop being such a jealous pussy.” patrick chucked a ballon at art hitting his arm with paint. “why couldn’t you keep it in your pants.” art threw a ballon back hitting patrick leg. “why can’t we just have a fun time.” it’s your turn to throw ballons at them. “not until he admits that he’s jealous.” patrick steps out into the open. “what the hell would i have to be jealous of.” art steps out too. the two standing face to face. you peak your head up to watch the interaction. “i’m glad you traded doubles partners with me, now i don’t have to do all the work.” patrick stares at art. “only cause you can’t breathe without all the attention being on you.” art smashes a ballon right in the middle of patrick’s chest. “you little shit.” patrick tackles art.

patrick and art roll around on the ground fighting like children. “maybe if you weren’t so scared of your own feelings you would be with us instead of moping around like a lost puppy.” patrick says rolling on top of art pinning him down. art knees him in the back cause patrick to fall over. “fuck you, you don’t know anything.” sick of the both of them fighting you come out from your hiding spot. “would the two of you shut up.” one of them accidentally knocks you in the ankle causing you to fall on top joining in on the rolling. “and what about you huh kissing both of us and making everything confused.” patrick accuses, elbow digging into your side. “don’t blame this on me. it not my fault i want both of you.” the three of you stop rolling and lay on your backs looking up at the sky.

“what does that mean.” art ask even though he knew exactly what it meant. “means she wants to date both of us. freak.” patrick says adding the last part jokingly. you punch his arm. “but you can’t date two people just because you can’t make up your mind.” you groan coving your face. “that not what i meant.” you whisper. the implication of your words float through the air. “oh. i mean i wouldn’t mind you know dating both of you.” patrick understood first cause he too has thought about it. this was all too much for art. “you guys are insane.” art stands up staring down at you and patrick still on the ground. “why are we the insane ones? what’s insane is still after all these years you ignore what you feel for me.” patrick scoffs getting up to confront art. art feels like he can’t breathe and he breaks down crying. “shut up. i don’t have feelings for you i-i can’t.” you and patrick pull him in for a hug letting him cry out everything he’s been bottling up since middle school. “it’s ok art.” you whisper squeezing him tight. “my dad would kill me.” art speaks. “we’ll take care of you.” patrick says. the three up you stand there for a while just hugging before going to get milkshakes.

it took a while for art to get comfortable with the whole throuple thing. you guys told yours and patrick’s parents but were waiting tell you were in college to tell art’s parents though his mom had a feeling. “it’s so good to see the three of you together again.” arts mom set a plate of cookies in front of you guys before leaving you to eat them. she turned around suddenly remembering she had to tell art to call his grandma later but stopped when she saw how the three of you huddled together. your arm looped lightly with arts and how patrick ruffled his hair letting his hand linger longer than normal.

days blended into months and before you know it you and art were pack his car up to drive to stanford for early set up. “you know it’s not to late to join us pat.” you say wrapping you arms around his waist. “yeah i’m sure your dad has contacts there he could get you in easily.” art adds slamming the truck shut coming up to hug you from behind sandwiching you in between them. “as tempting as that sounds i fear life on the road to the pro tennis league is calling me.” you and art pout breaking away from him. “you’ll come visit us right.” patrick looks offended you’d even ask. “my two favorite people in one place together, i’m gonna be there every weekend.” patrick places soft kisses on yours and arts lips before pulls you guys into a hug. “call me when you get there.” you tell him ok getting in the passenger seat and art in the drives as you ride off sticking your hands out the window to waving until your out of sight.

maybe adulthood won’t be so bad now.

(and that is the end. the throuple continues to live happy and healthy forever ☺️.)

[meowpupp]

Lord have MERCY THE PRIXE PUPPYGIRL FIC IS KILLING ME 😍😍😍

May i please request a price with his puppy girl fic, but she is in heat? Poor little reader cant take care of it without him :((

this isnt super edited but we ball.

tw// spit play, hyrbid smut, uhhhh idk

ownerprice! who comes home from work to find his poor pup splayed out on her back, legs spread, stuffing her cunt with two of her fingers. his poor girl, all achey and sore. you drip slick, the sticky fluid running down your thighs and ass.

part of him wants to scold you. you're a smart girl, well-trained and obedient, and yet you've soaked the bed with your fluids. another part of him melts, your teary face and puffy cunt making his heart ache. he watches you from the doorway for a moment longer, before stepping inside the room. 

“oh poor pup, i know, i know,” he reaches forward, gripping your ankles, pulling you towards him. he spreads your thighs, exposing your sore cunt. his fingers, still clad in his work gloves, gently rub circles on your clit, fabric making your poor cunt sting slighty, “my poor girls in heat- thinkin with her cunt hm? tell me pup, what do you need?”

he does let up, even as you yap and whine for his cock, making you beg until tears are streaming down your face (which doesn't take long.) he circles your swollen clit, occasionally pinching it as he makes tortures your poor body. its only when youre in hysterics, crying and throbbing for his cock that he decides to take mercy.

a hand cups your face, kissing away the tears as he grinds the rough material of his jeans against your soaked cunt. it hurts, poor body sensitive and twitchy. “im sorry sweetheart, such a mean owner aren't i?” he reaches down with his other hand, squeezing at the fat of your hips, gliding his hand along your pudge as he moves to roughly grope your tits. “shhh, shh, i got you pup. gonna stuff your cunt real full, fuck you real good.”

the hand on your face slides down to your throat, the other leaving your tits to unzip his jeans. he laughs at you as you buck and squirm, hands reach up to claw him closer, begging and whining for him to fuck you, fill you, breed you. 

when he does stuff you full with his fat length, price is mean. He fucks you like a toy, hips slamming into yours as he buries himself in your cunt. his eyes dont stray, train on your cockdrunk expression, how your mouth parts, tongue slightly sticking out and eyes half lidded as you moan. He grips your jaw, forcing your lips to part further so he can spit a fat glob of salvia onto your tongue. grinning as your cunt squeezes down around him.

his hands move to grip your waist, holding you still, thrusting as deep as possible. “yeah- fuck- feel better pup? just needed something in that desperate little cunt. cant go five minutes without cock, huh?” 

you cant reply, mind focused on the delicious stretch he provides, “such a desperate pup,” hes panting now, fucking you harder, “sloppy cunt- fuckin hell, so fuckin tight”

he stuffs you full for the entire night, pumping load after load inside you. after four or five rounds, when you've lost your voice from begging and whining, he finally pulls out. 

a large hand splays over your tummy, forcing you to lay flat on the bed. your legs twitch when you feel something cold press against your fucked out cunt. “cmon now, take it like my good girl. can't have you leaking cum everywhere.” 

he slowly pushes inside a plug, letting you feel the slight burn. “there we go, good girl,” his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing slow circles, smearing some of his cum over your throbbing clit.