#nevermind the scenario but help she looks so pretty here

[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.)

[stormgardenscurse]

Scuse me! If possible, could I request the first years sneaking into a girls' sleepover that a female reader is attending, and they're disguised as girls? Please and thank you!

sleepover! — twst first years

Summary: First years sneak into a sleepover you're attending (other attendees are all girls). They’re just worried about you (and maybe were bored and thus made bad decisions), but maybe this time they bit off more than they could chew?

Characters: Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Sebek

Note: I don’t specify the reader’s gender within the work. Due to the nature of the request it’s easily assumed that the reader is female—but really, you can imagine it as anything you’d like because I don’t use specific pronouns here!

Ace

No one’s sure who initiated this whole thing, but they can be sure that Ace was the most conflicted about this. On one hand, why was he going through so much trouble just to do something dumb and embarrass himself? On the other hand, they’ve heard… things from their classmates and senpais about how sleepovers can get sometimes, so of course they’re worried about you! (Read: said classmates and senpais talked about horror scenarios for the drama, not knowing they were applying it to a very real situation).

The moment Ace texted you to ask how long you’ve known those people, it was over for them all. How could you go to a sleepover with people you’ve only met like, twice?! Ace is swearing under his breath as he somehow finds himself at Sam’s shop, buying what looked like cosplay outfits and wigs, just to sneak in and make sure you’re fine.

…And maybe he’s doing this because a part of him is afraid you’ll ditch them for new friends, but no one has to know that. Ace covers this sentiment by talking—a lot—and being the one that makes excuses/fake stories while the girls at the sleepover ask them about themselves. Even making a remark about you and Ace, who they've identified (jokingly) as the type that's extroverted at first but only leans on a few friends:

“Despite loosening up now, Ace must not be used to large gatherings like these, huh? She keeps leaning toward you! I can tell you guys are close.”

He doesn’t do that normally, right…? Surely it’s because of nerves and how ridiculous this situation is. Yes, definitely.

Deuce

Deuce didn’t realize the obstacles of this plan until they all arrived at the sleepover; how does he blend in with girls - there’s no specific way, right? They’re just people— And then they start talking about their type in guys and Deuce can’t help but turn red at the idea that somehow, his thoughts just float to you.

He’s admittedly very interested in what answer you’d give (and a little hopeful that it gives him a little guidance in… Uh, nevermind.) And then it’s his turn, and somehow Deuce just blanks out and says that he’d like someone like you—not explicitly, but he ends up describing your traits and only notices later, when Ace’s answer is instead just flippant, that ‘oh, mine was too specific.’

The other girls there assign Deuce with the ‘sporty girl’ type of vibe, and while he’s flattered, he can’t help but get distracted by how your laughter catches him—it’s so clear and bright, Deuce wants to hear it again and again—but moments like these where you’re sparkling in his eyes are rare, and what Deuce doesn’t know is that it’s not your new friends that caused this, but just the memory of how the first years barged into the sleepover with a mission and ‘I’ve got you!’ written across their faces, despite how they’re completely out of their comfort zone.

Deuce in particular does look very cute in a high ponytail; it’d be a crime to not take some pictures together to commemorate the event. Just don’t show them to any of their senpais, alright?

Jack

Jack agreed to go in an attempt to make sure the others don’t end up doing something that derails the entire night for you - he’s pretty sure you could take care of yourself and know what you’re doing, but boys will be boys… And the last thing he’d want is for their sneaking-in to ruin the sleepover.

The long hair and crossdressing outfit is a little uncomfortable though. When you offer to help Jack tie his hair up, he doesn’t know why he starts to feel embarrassed at how your hands brush against the back of his neck, murmuring a little thanks to you.

He doesn’t talk much during the evening because of his voice, but Jack’s quite relieved at how smoothly the sleepover goes. He just doesn’t want to become a liability (you shouldn’t need to worry, just enjoy yourself!), so when he’s asked about his hobbies or interests, Jack answers that he likes to cultivate cacti.

There’s no reason to lie about such a thing, after all - but it surprises him when the other girls ask you if that’s why you wanted to take a detour to a flower shop the other day to get a beginner’s plant.

Unbeknownst to them, you’d actually wanted to try taking care of one and then gift it to Jack later on... So you improvise, saying that yes! It was Jack’s influence that made you want to try it out (still the truth, but without the detail of you wanting to offer it to him along with a proper confession… Maybe you'll need to rehash you plans to be more romantic.)

Epel

Please don’t point out how he could just enter the sleepover and probably not even need a disguise—Epel still had to apply makeup and dress up to blend in! Honestly speaking this idea seemed entirely ridiculous to him, but he got so caught up in the others’ determination and energy that he ended up here too.

Epel isn’t too happy about how you obviously find him cute in this getup, but he’s relieved from the pretense of acting like a shy, soft-spoken girl when you bring up that he really likes magic wheels!

“Epel looks so cool whenever she goes on a joyride, and she plays Magift too!”

“Really?! I never would’ve guessed! Now I’m starting to admire her too... I wish I could do all those things.”

…Okay, so maybe this isn’t so bad. Aside from pretending he’s a girl, Epel’s glad that the people here are really open-minded about hobbies. He even ends up agreeing to race one of them someday (they’re from another magic school, and one of the girls are quite good at flying).

Despite somehow becoming a favorite of the night, Epel doesn’t let you feel left out! He’s here for you first and foremost, and to him, you’re the main character of the day.

…Also, he wants you to be with him whenever he does show off how cool he is. Wowing everyone else fills him with pride, but there’s something he chases after in the way you smile at him - supportive and lingering with amusement at the inside jokes you share.

Sebek

To be honest, the fact that he agreed to do this in itself is really sweet—Sebek found the idea of joining the sleepover ridiculous, until the other guys started appealing about "what if the prefect ends up not enjoying it?” “What if they need our help?”

Ahem. While Sebek isn’t as worried about your socialization skills, he does worry a bit at the idea that you’re going to someone’s house when you haven’t known them for long. So for the sake of your safety (read: his peace of mind), Sebek agrees to go. Just to check on you and leave.

And then two hours pass and suddenly he’s sitting next to you at the sleepover, in what is honestly an embarrassing disguise (who decided to give him that fake bra?!), and trying not to lose his composure while he answers questions from conversation.

Despite all this though, Sebek does conduct himself with poise and the careful way he’s speaking (trying very hard not to be too loud, and really just sitting straight because it’s good practice plus he’s kinda nervous right now. Are girls always this touchy with each other? He can handle some pushing around, but you’re sitting awfully close to him right now!)

The question of celebrity crushes does appear though, and of course Sebek confidently replies that Malleus is the only right answer (slowly convincing some of the girls of Malleus’ appeal when he rambles about the prince) - but at the end of the day, he’s acutely paying attention to you and responds before you even have to ask for things; asking for the snack bowl and letting you take some before he does, placing a blanket over your shoulder when it starts to get cold—it’s cute when he doesn’t expect you to offer the same comforts to him, sharing the blanket and leaning against one-another while a movie plays on the TV.

[thewritingofspencerrose]

M.Hughes Masterlist

First Day on the Job

It's chilly in the arena when we enter, hand in hand, for my first day.

Only a week into living here and I still don't fully think this has all set in.

I may be working on a medical team, but I'm going to be the first stop of all injured players as soon as they're off the ice.

It's all on me.

"Hey, what's going on in there?" A physical knocking on my forehead brings me from my thoughts, Trevor's smile being the first thing in front of me, mocking and coy.

Part of me wants to just smile and say I dazed off, but this is Trev, he's my partner in

"What if someone bleeds out? Or worse, what if everyone hates me?"

"What's the worst scenario?" Jamie questions from our side, not even attempting to save his laugh, Trevor pulling me closer to his body. "Everyone hating you?"

"You do realize everyone loves you right?" They're tag-teaming my nerves right now, and honestly I'm not even sure that'll be enough.

No exam prepared me for the nauseous anxiety that starting a lead job would bring.

"They don't know me!" It's a lame argument, but valid all the same as I pause just outside the locker room door. I know I'm allowed in. It's where I've been instructed to meet Coach Cronin and introduce myself to the boys.

"We have all heard literally everything about you, I'm pretty sure I could tell you things about yourself that you don't even know, Mags," his words are meant to be assuring, but assuring isn't loading properly right now.

"Then what if I don't live up to their idea of me?"

Even if I hadn't already been on the edge of a breakdown, the look on Trevor's face as he takes my shoulders, his shoulders slumped and eyes downcast.

"The boys already love you because I love you, and that's never going to change. So we're going to march your cute little ass into this lockerroom and wow everyone with all that Latin-anatomy-nonsense that we studied the last four years, got it?"

Sorry Dad, you better be saving for a wedding.

I just smile though, small and wide while he returns my look. But Jamie's groaning, moaning on about something involving us getting a room, and I can hear the sound of staff coming down the hall.

"Okay, let's get this over with so I can go home and rant about it with Q."

The boys both laugh, but Jamie is the one to open the door, Trev taking ahold of my hand with one of his, his other covering my eyes as he leads me into the loud atmosphere.

"Okay boys! Put 'em away! My girls here and unless you break 'em I want them nowhere near her eyeline!" Nevermind on the wedding, I may just kill him here and now.

"Trevor Zegras!" The team laughs loudly, oohing and ahhing while I pry Trev's hand off, and I can't help but laugh as I look out around me.

These boys are going to make me cry. Correction, I am crying.

"You guys-"

Trevor's hands wrap around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder and I can feel his smile. "Welcome to the team, Baby."

"And welcome to the team from the rest of us," the one I know to be Mason greets, everyone around clapping. "I'm not going to call you baby, because I value my life, but we're all really glad you're here, Margaret."

"Maggie," I correct softly, Mason's smile growing as Leo jumps up like a happy puppy.

"We get nickname privileges?"

There's a joy throughout the room as I take in his smile, the banner saying CONGRATULATIONS in Ducks colors, balloons and all sprawled about.

How could I not give these boys nickname privileges when they seem just as excited to see me as they would an old friend. It's like they're seeing Trev or Jamie after a long break.

"Of course you do, as long as y'all keep from getting too beat up," I offer, sticking out a hand. "Deal?"

"Deal to do our best," Leo accepts, shaking my hand as some of the veterans laugh.

Gudas just chuckling and shaking his head as he watches us both. "She's going to run this whole show."

[viky2318]

Hey! It's my first time here and I have no idea of what I'm doing, but I'm having fun so I'll keep doing it!

Hotland, Underground

Muffet was waiting at her bakersale. A misterious letter told her to wait for a "fabulous person" to talk about a certain buisness. The letter was kinda fancy, and the person seemed to have a huge ego. But they talked also about money, and that's what she needed right now. She needed to buy a little van to bring the spiders in the Ruins outside of it. But she didn't have enough money to buy it, and she also had the bakery and her clan to keep safe. She took a cup of tea and quietly took a sip, thinking about the last months. None of the other clans wanted to help her cause, and the other monsters weren't willing to help. And if her calculations were correct (and they always were), she would have needed at least two years of selling at least five donuts and five croissants at day. Sometimes a good soul made a tiny donation in the Ruins, buying a donut or a cider, but she couldn't count on unregular entrances for this kind of prevision. A sweet voice interrupted her thoughts. "Good afternoon, darling". She turned around to see a tall figure in a coat that let only the head uncovered. It had short black hairs that covered the right eye. The other eye was black and looking at her with superiority. The voice was familiar, yet she couldn't recognize it. "Good afternoon mister. Who are you?" Muffet asked politely. The man smiled and answered: "oh, you don't need to know little lady. All you need to know is that I need you to do something for me". The fact that she couldn't know the name of the man was a little annoying, but she appreciated the fact that the guy went right to the point. "What is it, and what will I have in exchange?" the spider asked. He sat on her table and simply answered: "I need you to capture the human that recently fell in the underground and take away their soul, then give it to me. You will have 150000 G". Oh. This wasn't expected. But a human soul? Is kind of risky... But from what she heard this human was just a kid... And all those money... She thought about it for a little bit, then slowly shook her head and sweetly smiled. She wasn't going to kill a kid. "You really want me to kill a child? Even if they do are a human, they never hurted us". The man huffed, then tilted his head on one side and said: "well, that's not completely true. I heard humans hate unconditionally spiders. They love to stomp them, to kill them. To tear away their legs, one by one". What?!? Who in earth could only think about doing such horrid things to an innocent spider?! The man kept speaking. "This human in specific is pretty violent, and have a certain amount of fun by doing it". Ok, this changed everything. "Well if this is the case, then you'll have their soul for sure" Muffet declared. The man's smile widened, and he took a little bag from under the coat. He put the bag in her hands and said:"Here, an anticipation. Do your best darling". With that said, he got up and walked away. Muffet looked at him going away, and after a while it seemed... Changing? Huh, nevermind. Too distant to see clearly. She looked in the bag at the shining coins. "Yes" she mumbled. "This is going to help our cause".

Hope you liked this tiny scenario! I think I'll keep doing those things, maybe with other games even?

[baby-walsh]

Anything

Summary: The best day of Shane's life is when Rick comes back.

Rating: Teen and Up, no smut, some language and suggestive content.

Rick getting married was the worst day of Shane Walsh’s life. Of course, he was the best man as he had known Rick the longest. His new wife was nothing special, or so Shane thought. She’s pretty if not a little plain, some privileged girl from Atlanta. He understood why Rick chose her. She’s safe. She’ll clean the house, make him dinner, and have his babies. That’s all Rick really wants anyway.

Shane stood by his friend that day and when the preacher asked if anyone wished to speak, all Shane could do was wish. The words were trapped in his throat, turning liquid and leaking out of his eyes. He turned away, wiping the tears as they kissed, hoping for their sake it looked like he was happy for them.

The worst day of his life was the love of his life getting married.

Shane stayed friends with Rick, even though it killed him inside every time he was invited to a barbecue or a birthday party. He was happy that Rick was happy, but it wasn’t fair. Shane had stayed single over the years, having a few hookups here and there. He knew he should move on from Rick, but he just couldn’t.

Especially not when they worked together. Shane and Rick had both become sheriff’s deputies at the King County Police Department and ended up working as partners. They were both great cops, Shane would argue, but in different ways that made them a good pair. Shane’s good with weapons and Rick’s good at deescalation.

They don’t need Shane’s brute force nearly as often, so he sees himself more as Rick’s backup. Like his bodyguard. Even though Rick is more than capable, Shane just likes being with his friend.

The worst day of Shane’s life was when he saw Rick get married. Until one day, while out on a call, Rick ends up getting shot. Shane’s blood runs cold as he sees him go down. He yelled to Rick, asking if he’s alright. Rick confirmed as Shane runs over.

“I saw you get tagged man, scared the hell outta me.”

“Me too,” Rick replied, breathing heavily. “Son of a bitch shot me, can you believe that?”

“Your vest catch it?”

“Yeah,” Rick says, checking himself out. “Shane, you do not tell Lori that happened. Ever.”

Right as Rick turned to ask Shane if he understood, a third man stood and shot Rick in the left shoulder blade. Shane immediately fired back, dropping the guy in seconds. He dropped to his knees next to Rick, yelling for help while attempting to soothe Rick, who’s choking and struggling to breathe on the ground.

The worst day of Shane’s life was watching the love of his life get shot.

Shane stayed by Rick’s side as long as he could, until a mysterious illness swept through the state causing the dead to rise. With orders to evacuate, Shane did the best he could getting Rick’s wife and child to safety while Rick was still in the hospital. He went back one day to see if he could get Rick out, but it was too risky. He was in a coma, hooked up to machines that did God knows what. Shane put his head on Rick’s chest and tried to hold it together as he didn’t hear a heartbeat. Meanwhile, in the hallway there were military soldiers patrolling. He wasn’t sure if he would make it out by himself, nevermind taking Rick with him. He swallowed sobs as he leaned over and kissed Rick’s cheek. He caressed his face.

“I’m sorry. I love you,” Shane said, knowing he had limited time. He ran out into the hall, having the sudden idea to put a bed in front of Rick’s door. If he had to leave him, at least he could protect him from the undead.

Roughly two months have passed since Shane had to leave the love of his life at the hospital. Things are going about as well as you could imagine in an apocalypse scenario. The camp that Shane established has different families together, most met on the highway when Atlanta was bombed. Shane is the unofficial leader of sorts, but they’re trying to take it day by day.

He’s taking care of Rick’s wife, Lori, and son, Carl, like they’re his own family, but he misses Rick every day. Especially when Carl looks at him. Carl has the same blue eyes as his father.

Lori had been understandably freaked out when the news first came about. First, her husband had been shot, then dead people started walking again and she had to leave her home. It’s been terrifying, but at least she has Shane to protect her and her son. She settles into day to day tasks and, after a while, it’s not so scary. She finds herself missing Rick. She and Shane talk about him after Carl goes to sleep. She finds comfort with Shane, even going so far as to kiss him one night.

“What are you doing?” Shane asks, pulling away.

“I’m sorry, I thought…We’ve been getting so close…I just wanted-” Lori trails off, seeing the man’s face.

“I can’t.”

“Because of Rick?”

Shane nods slowly.

“He’s gone,” Lori reasons.

“It’s still…too much for me right now. I’m sorry.” Shane gets up and leaves the tent before Lori can say anything else.

Shane can pretend like he’s just trying to do the right thing and honor Rick’s memory by not taking advantage of his grieving widow, but that’s not the truth. Shane’s not interested in her in the slightest. In one terrible moment of grief, he wished it was her that got left behind so he could have Rick.

The best day of Shane’s life was when he was 16, at a party. It was an end of the school year event at one of the rich kid’s houses. The kid in question had an adult sibling who bought booze for everyone. That’s how around seven of the kids from Shane’s class, including Rick, ended up playing Truth or Dare. They had already gone around once and done simple truths and simple dares. It’s Rick’s turn and he picks Dare.

“Make it something difficult.” Shane scoffs.

“Okay, make out with one of the guys here.” the girl giggles.

“No, I’m not doing that! I’m not gay!” Rick exclaims. The girls laugh and Rick looks embarrassed. Shane heroically steps in.

“Hey, that’s like such a cheap shot, but fine, Rick can make out with me to get you guys off his case.” Shane rolls his eyes, trying to not seem too eager.

Rick looks between Shane and the girls, who are waiting expectantly. Rick gives him a quick kiss on the lips. Everyone immediately starts to protest. Shane grabs his friend by the back of his neck and pulls him into a deep kiss. The girls scream while Rick is frozen in Shane’s arms. The guys get up, uncomfortable. Shane figures it's long enough and he breaks away, pretending he didn’t enjoy it as much as he did. Rick is bright red. The attention moves away to a girl getting dared to flash everyone, so it seems like everyone moves on pretty quickly. Shane doesn’t. He thinks about that kiss for years. He thinks about how soft Rick’s lips were. How even though he protested at first, his lips molded to Shane’s. He didn’t seem in a hurry to stop either, but that could have just been the shock of Shane taking control. In Shane’s mind though, it’s because Rick didn’t want him to stop.

He even jokingly brought up the incident when Rick was staying over. They were in his grandma’s living room, with their sleeping bags and blankets, watching a horror movie before going to sleep.

“You can snuggle with me if you get scared, I won’t tell anyone,” Shane teased. Rick pushed him and called him stupid.

When the movie finally finished, they decided to go to sleep.

“Want a kiss goodnight?”

“No!” Rick replied.

“Love you too.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Shane knew that Rick didn’t like him like that, but he could hope.

The best day of Shane’s life had been when he got to kiss his best friend. His friend ended up in a coma and the world fell to shit. Shane went on thinking that he had lost the love of his life, until one day, a group of other survivors who had been out scavenging came back.

“There’s a new guy, he’s a cop like you,” A guy named Morales says. “Hey, helicopter boy! Come say hello!”

Shane stood by a stolen mustang one of the survivors used to get home and watched as a man emerged from the box truck the rest of the group used to escape. The man is fairly tall and skinny, brunet, and wearing a cop’s uniform. Just like the one Shane used to wear. Shane focuses as the man comes into view. He realizes that it’s-

“Rick?”

“Daddy!” Rick’s son runs over to him. They meet each other halfway and Rick picks his son up, nearly tumbling over. Lori has run over too, throwing her arms around her husband.

Shane is overwhelmed seeing Rick again. He wanders over to him, pulling him into a strong hug. He thought he would never see Rick again, so he doesn’t let go until the other man is basically prying him off. He puts his hand on Rick’s cheek, the same one he had kissed at the hospital.

“I’m so glad you’re here. How did you even? I can’t believe it,” Shane says, looking him up and down.

“Yeah, I know. I’m really lucky. I’m even luckier to have found you guys.” He looks at his family and smiles.

Rick gets cleaned up and later that night they’re around the campfire, eating dinner, and telling stories of the old world. It hasn’t been that long, but functioning society seems like a distant memory at this point. Shane can’t help but silently stare at Rick, who has an arm wrapped around his wife across the campfire. He wants to hold Rick like that.

Lori takes Carl to bed and Rick lingers. He told the group a plan to rescue Merle Dixon, another group member who had gone with them to scavenge, but had been chained to a rooftop by Rick.

“Rick, don’t do this,” Shane says, when he finally gets a moment alone with his friend. They’re sitting by the dying fire as group members peel off to go to bed.

“I have to, Shane,” Rick murmurs.

“You don’t owe Merle anything. What he did was his fault.”

“I chained him up there. It’s on me. Besides, what about Daryl?”

“Then Daryl can go get him!” Shane replies, frustrated.

“It’s not just Merle. There’s that bag of guns. We need that.”

“It’s too risky. You just got here. I just-” Shane stops himself and looks away, hoping Rick can’t see the tears in his eyes in the low light. He subtly wipes them away.

“You just what?”

“I just got you back, man,” Shane whispers. “I’m not letting you go.”

“I’ll be okay. I understand it’s risky, but I’m okay,” Rick details his plan to Shane, which includes taking Glenn with him, because he knows the area, and whoever else wants to go. “You could come too.”

“They need me here.” Shane responds quietly. He thinks it’s stupid to go into the city. He doesn’t even like sending scavenging groups out, but they need supplies.

The two men sit in silence for a few moments, before Rick gets up to head to bed and Shane is on watch, heading to the roof of Dale’s RV. Shane pulls Rick into another hug, hoping this won’t be the last time he gets to. He can’t go through losing him again. Rick hugs him back. Shane pulls away slightly, only to move his face towards Rick’s. He kisses the other man gently. Rick tenses up, but doesn’t resist.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Shane mumbles, breaking away. He walks away from Rick, leaving the other man standing confused, watching him climb the RV. Shane didn’t want to see Rick’s face. He can’t handle the rejection. When he looks down at where they’d been standing, he sees that Rick is gone.

It’s going to be a long night.

Shane hopes that Rick won’t want to talk about what happened last night. To his relief, the group is leaving early enough that they pretty much have time for breakfast and saying goodbye.

“Be careful, man.” Shane says. Rick nods.

“I’ll be back soon.”

They share a silent look. Shane can’t tell what the other man is thinking, but he feels like desperation is written all over his own face. The group leaves and that’s that.

Shane watches the love of his life leave.

“He’ll be back.” Carl says matter-of-factly, joining Shane in watching the group go.

“You think so?”

“Well, he came back the first time, against all odds.”

“You’re right, little man.” Shane puts his hand on Carl’s shoulder.

It’s an agonizing 24 hours. All Shane can think about is where Rick is, if he’s okay, if he’s actually completing the mission or if he has to abandon it. He wonders if he’s on his way back. Shane can’t sleep.

The following day, around noon, the group comes back. Shane pushes past everyone to see who came back, but he’s only looking for one person. He sees Rick and walks briskly up to him, pulling him into a hug.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” Shane murmurs, holding the other man tight.

“I’m alright. We’re okay.” Rick smiles. Shane lets him go and the group gets settled with the return of their members. No Merle, but they did get the guns, and a few supplies as well. It’s almost worth it, Shane thinks.

Later on that night, Shane’s in his tent when he hears a voice outside.

“It’s Rick,”

Shane unzips the tent and pokes his head out.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Shane replies.

Rick joins the other man in the tent. It’s close to the one with his wife and child. Shane’s stomach tightens as he knows they have to talk about the kiss.

“I came back,” Rick states, looking around the small tent then at Shane. Shane sits on his makeshift bed and nods.

“You did and I’m glad.”

“Why’d you kiss me?”

Shane’s quiet for a few minutes, unsure of what to say. Rick sits down next to him and waits.

“Lori wanted me to have sex with her,” Shane admits. “She kissed me, nearly begged me, and I said no. I want you to know I said no.”

“Okay? What does that have to do with-”

“I love you, you idiot. I’ve always been in love with you. And when I thought you were gone…that was it for me,” Shane admits. “Then I got you back only to have you turn around and leave me again. So, yeah, I kissed you. I’m sorry.”

Shane avoids Rick’s eyes. He doesn’t want to have this conversation right now.

“Shane, look at me,” Rick says. When Shane doesn’t, he reaches over and grabs the man’s chin, forcing him to look up. “You’ve always been in love with me?”

“Since we were 15, man.” Shane admits quietly. Rick smiles, letting out a nervous giggle.

“I always wondered…”

He kicks off his shoes, getting comfortable on Shane’s bed. Shane, still sitting up, watches him. Rick beckons him.

“Rick, don’t do this,” Shane groans.

“Do what?”

“Don’t tease me when we both know I can’t have you,”

“Who says?”

“Well, first off, you’re not gay and secondly, you’re married.”

Rick rolls his eyes and grabs Shane, forcefully pulling him down by his shirt. The man loses balance as he’s pulled on top of Rick, who caresses his face and kisses him roughly. It takes a second for Shane to react, but when he finally comes to his senses, he kisses Rick back. They spend the next few minutes in each other’s arms, kissing, until they’re both gasping for air.

“I love you too, Shane,” Rick murmurs, tracing his finger along the other man’s jaw. “I wouldn’t say I’m gay, but I do have feelings for you. I always have.”

“Shut up. You always have? Since when?”

“Remember when we were at your grandma’s? And you said I could snuggle with you if I was scared?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that. I asked if you wanted a goodnight kiss,”

“I did. I really did.”

“Then why didn’t you-”

“Cause I thought you were fucking with me. I thought you knew I liked you and that you were testing me.”

“I mean, I kinda was testing you, but only to see if you’d be down to make out with me.” Shane holds Rick, overwhelmed with how good it feels.

“Well, now you know that I was.”

“Twenty years later,” Shane snorts. Rick kisses him again.

“Better late than never.”

“What about Lori?”

Rick shrugs, laying his head on Shane’s chest. He softly strokes Shane’s arm.

“We’ve been having problems for a while now. I think if the world hadn’t gone to hell, we probably would’ve gotten divorced.”

Shane rubs Rick’s back, selfishly loving the feeling of having him in his arms. He never thought that this would happen.

“I want to be with you, Shane,” Rick adds, looking up at him. “I’m sorry it took so long to tell you.”

Shane gives him a kiss and smiles, “That’s okay. I’ll always wait for you.”

They talk late into the night about everything, making out in between stories, until Rick falls asleep in Shane’s arms. Shane watches him sleep until he starts to feel sleepy as well, but he couldn’t be happier. This, he thinks, is the best day of his life.

[babebinder]

Veloce narrowed his eyes at Giselle. The woman shrugged and leaned back against the door. She did not return to her book though.

"Got any advice for camping out here?" he asked.

"Shit away from the stream and don't shit where you eat." Giselle shrugged. "With the way the Hollow maintains itself, it's probably not a risk, but I don't camp out here and never bothered to see what does or doesn't stick." She nodded toward the Fog. "You will want to be alert for attacks during the day, but since you just fought off one, there won't be another for at least four days. You'll have a full week of rest before the next attack at best."

"Really? I don't need to worry about getting attacked in my sleep?"

Giselle nodded. "It's a risk in the Pit, but not here."

"Want me to set up away from the door?"

"You can set up on either side of the frame if you feel like it. If you do and keep things neat and compact, I wouldn't mind keeping your things safe if there's an attack and you're not here for whatever reason." She cocked her head toward the Temple doors. "But if it looks like there's going to be a breach, I have different priorities."

"Fair enough, thanks for the offer." Veloce looked over the Hollow. It was just a token review. There wasn't much space, and he didn't know enough to judge one spot from another. "I think I'll take you up on it."

Another nod. "Other than that, I suggest finding something to do with your time. It's usually pretty boring out here."

On one hand, Veloce felt relieved to have the time and space to collect data and move forward with at least some of the studies involved in the experiment. On the other hand, what about Philomena? What was going on back home? The idea of sitting on his hands for a month while he waited for Doctor Johnson and the team to set up a new lab. There were only so many samples he could take and studies he could do in the field with what he had.

At least with Philomena, he had one unconfirmed lead. Turning back to Giselle, he asked, "Did you leave your friend a message? About mine?"

"Associate," Giselle corrected in a cool tone. "But yes, I texted her. She hasn't responded yet, but she should respond by dusk."

"Any suggestions on preparing to go to the Pit and come back if it turns out she's there?"

"The return trip is what I would worry about." Giselle leaned back and looked away as she considered the trip. "My charge may be able to help you circumvent the problem, but if she can't…" She trailed off. "I don't know of another path leading out of the Pit. All I have is speculation."

"What's the worst that could happen?" Veloce asked before his own mind provided him with possibilities.

It could be that the Pit was inescapable by conventional means. It could be that Doctor Johnson and the team wouldn't be able to open a portal into Garden Hollow again without Veloce's assistance. It could be that they would be unable to open a portal to the Pit if Veloce made an expedition in that direction.

"Nevermind, I think I can imagine the worst case scenario."

"Inescapable?"

"More or less."

Giselle huffed, a small laugh judging by the slight curl to her lips. "Excuse me, I shouldn't laugh. You don't know, so you can't imagine," she said. "The Pit is so named as much because it appears to lie within a valley as it is because of its concentrations of negativity that dot the land. Those concentrations are themselves pits, although ones filled."

"A bit like flooded potholes or sinkholes?" Veloce suggested.

"Or pit traps," Giselle shuddered at her own words. "If you do end up exploring there, take my advice: tread known ground whenever possible. Falling into one of the concentrations is... unpleasant."

Veloce furrowed his brow, considering the possibilities. "Not dangerous?" he asked. "You call them concentrations of negativity. I would have expected that they would be spiritually damaging or corruptive."

The idea gave Giselle pause. "Perhaps through long-term exposure that is the case, but in short-term exposures it feels similar to falling into a pit of mud." She grimaced. "Though that's not to say that it's only that bad. There could be a psychological reaction to it, but I have been the only one thus far to suffer the fate, and I have only suffered it the one time. Given my duties and that I was engaged in combat, most of what I felt at the time had many alternative explanations." She shrugged. "The stuff does feel less gritty and grimy as it feels greasy. It flows like water in some moments and like tar in others. It's strange stuff."

Giselle paused a moment. "But I digress. It may be that you will need to dive into those concentrations to leave the Pit."

"What?"

"My charge has speculated that the negativity must come from somewhere. Given that it doesn't saturate the ground and turn the whole Pit into a thick soup, the holes we see may be openings to flooded tunnels." Giselle turned to look at the Fog shrouding the only easy way in or out of Garden Hollow. "It may be that the negativity is like the Fog- an obfuscating fluid zone between more stable places."

Veloce frowned. "Wait, if that's the pattern you're suggesting, then wouldn't that mean that leaving the Pit would involve diving into one of the holes and going someplace worse?"

Though Giselle smiled, it was a sad, resigned thing. "You understand how that is worse right?"

"Garden Hollow is as safe a place as any, plenty to eat and drink with regular attacks by shades. The Pit lacks hospitality, I assume?" At Giselle's nod, Veloce continued, "So that and irregular attacks by shades create a more dangerous environment, but not one that is actively hostile. So diving into one of the concentrations may lead to somewhere where the environment actively threatens the well-being of visitors."

Veloce stared at Giselle for a moment. "Well, fuck."

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for taking your boyfriend, Peter, to the mall

Peter Parker x reader

warnings: ZERO nwh spoilers

a/n: please note that oneshot requests have a detailed plot, this qualifies as a headcanon request because it’s a small scenario

prompt: anonymous: “one-shot with mcu!peter x stark!reader- reader taking him to the mall and peter is just enjoying being w her and carries all her bags and just gets all blushy when she tries stuff on (idk if you write stuff like this but if you’re comfortable maybe reader forces him to go into victoria’s secret or something)”

it was just a fun little mall date

like teenagers do

it was annoyingly busy but so was all of new york

“peter? peter! where’d you go?!” -you

“right here!” -peter sticking his hand up in the crowd

what did you expect from the mall on a saturday?

filtering in and out of stores without buying anything really

“hey, y/n, look at me” -peter, wearing novelty “disguise glasses” in spencers

“wait, where did you find those! give me a pair!” -you

taking goofy pictures together

“okay, let’s get out of here. no, peter! don’t go back there!” -you

dragging out a very uncomfortable and/or scarred peter parker

peter stopping at the phone repair places and shyly telling them they’re doing something wrong

“peter, they’re gonna call security if you keep hovering” -you

stopping by the food court for a little lunch date

chinese food and smoothies (no i dont think they go together)

“wait, can i try yours?” -you

“my smoothie or my chicken?” -peter

“yes” -you, stabbing his plate and snagging his drink

he made it even

“nooo! that’s my smoothie!” -you

“and that one’s mine!” -peter

“no, it’s ours” -you

“i’ll remember this next time we go web swinging” -peter

stopping into the lego store where peter absolutely lost it

you diligently looked for a good, affordable set (no such thing)

“nevermind we’re getting the most expensive thing here. do you have happy’s card?” -you, holding the giant millennium falcon ship

“don’t tempt me” -peter

“i’m tempting” -you

you walked out of the store with a very big bag (sorry happy)

you and peter also built minifigures of yourselves

“aww, we’re so cute. make them kiss!” -you

peter clicked them together

“can i get a kiss?” -peter

“sure” -you, taking your mini you and pushing it near his face “kidding! come here”

hand holding (but breaking the bond when giant crowds decide not to move)

getting a notification on your instagram “@flashpoint tagged you in their story” and it’s a stalker-y picture of you two walking with your lego bag and flash trying to make fun of you

“i guess flash is here, too” -you

ned saw it though and peter got a text message from him

Ned 🤠🪑: WHAT’S IN THE BAG

Peter 🕷🚫: y/n says “back off, it’s ours. just kidding, help us, ned leeds, you’re our only hope”

quick stop in the arcade

“just one round” -you

“okayyy” -peter

you checked your phone for the time and it was LATE

but you and peter managed to hit the stores you wanted to go to

you bought peter a dorky shirt and some pins

and peter got you a cool jacket, matching socks for you and him, and a nifty mug

overall it was a pretty awesome date

“if we’re late for the subway, we can just swing home” -peter

“i think the lego bag will give you away” -you

“oh, it’s okay. my secret identity isn’t that big of a deal. what’s the worst that could happen?” -peter

taglist: @alwaysananglophile // @rorybutnotgilmore // @locke-writes // @sweetheartlizzie07 // @queen-destenie // @natasha-danvers // @johnmurphyisqueer // @pappydaddy // @captainshazamerica // @freya-xo // @ravenmoore14 // @canarypoint // @zoeyserpentluck // @randomawesomeperson102 // @brutal-out-here // @wonderful-writer // @of-a-chaotic-mind // @resplendentlady // @procrastinatingsapphictrash // @lxncelot // @swanimagines // @randomfandomimagine // @petersgroupie // @dindjarinsspouse // @werewolf-himbo // @lost-fantasy // @moobrvoobl-moobmoob-oobmpoobroom // @summersimmerus // @cipheress-to-k-pop // @augustvandyne // @spoodermans // @the-did-i-ask // @glxwingrxse // @scarthefangirl // @cyanide-mustard // @druigmybelovedone // @beth-gallagher22 // @bad4amficideas // @magnificentzombiebasement // @sheridans-dynamos // @seraphinevalentine // @happypixy380 // @simsrecs // @prettysbliss //

[supercorpkid]

hai!! im LOVING that i found this gem of an account of yours 🤩 could i request a scenario where supercorp's reaction to their daughter cutting their hair really short,, (girl crush vibes)?? I'm loving your works the more i read!!

YAY!!! That makes me so happy to hear it!

Here’s how I think they would react like. Thanks for the prompt!

Haircut

Word Count: 1510.

“I wanna cut my hair.” You announce, walking in the kitchen and both Lena and Kara raise their eyes at you.

“Ok. I’ll get the red sun lamps and the scissors.” Kara agrees, motioning to leave.

“No, no.” You stop her before she leaves. “It’s nothing you can do.”

“Kid, I’ve been cutting your hair since you were born. I can do anything.” Kara says and you raise an eyebrow at her.

“Really?” She agrees with her head. “Then why do I have the same haircut ever since I was two?”

“That’s not-” Kara starts, but Lena cuts her off.

“It’s true. You basically only trim her bangs and sometimes the tips.”

“See.” You point at Lena. “I want a different haircut. I want it to be very very short.”

“But you have such pretty hair. Why would you do that?” Kara asks, looking confused. “Next thing you’ll say is that you grew out of bangs.”

“I did grow out of bangs, but there’s not much I can do except wait for it to grow now.” You shrug. “But the hair, yeah, I want to change it.”

“But-but-but” Kara says with tears in her eyes. You look at Lena.

“You know, maybe it’s not a good idea to cut your hair, baby. Wouldn’t it be weird if both Superkid and you got a haircut at the same time?” Lena asks, you first roll your eyes as a response, then you add.

“Superkid doesn’t exist anymore. Besides, didn’t Kara Danvers and Supergirl get bangs at the same time and no one noticed, including you?”

“I’ve noticed.” Lena mumbles. “I just didn’t want to comment on it because I thought it would be impolite.”

“Telling momma she got the same haircut as Supergirl would be impolite?”

“Yeah, and that she was too old for bangs.” Lena shrugs, making Kara snap her head up and look at her.

“What?” Kara furrows her brows at Lena. “I looked great in bangs! Here’s proof!” She points at your hair, and you sigh.

“Ok, whatever. Nevermind.”

But it’s not really whatever. And you might have said nevermind to them, but you mind. You really do mind.

Vou: Hey! Can you do me a solid?

Aunt Alex: What do you need?

You: Can I meet you at the DEO?

Aunt Alex: I’m here!

It takes you a while to get there. You must say, sometimes you miss being Superkid, just because it was so much easier to move around town. Oh, and much faster than a bus.

“Hey!” Alex greets you when you walk in the DEO. “It took you a while.”

“Yeah, I flew here on a bus.”

She laughs, rolling her eyes at your very Kara-like joke. “What do you need?

“Can you cut my hair?” She looks lost at the question, so you decide to give her more information. “You know, red sun emulator and scissors?”

“Right.” Alex agrees, making her way to where the red sun lamp is kept. “Doesn’t Kara usually cut your hair?”

“Usually, yeah. But I want to change styles a little. I was thinking more like 2015 Alex and less like 2020 Kara .”

“That’s a big change. Are they ok with it?”

“Aunt Alex-” You put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m 16. I’ve saved National City a few times. I think I can choose my own hairstyle.”

“Ok, kiddo.” Alex points at the chair. “Let’s do it! I’m up for you looking more like me! And my hair in 2015 was a look.”

You sit on the chair and Alex turns the red sun lamp on, so it dampens your powers. You give her a thumbs up and an excited smile.

Forget about the fact that you’re cutting half of your hair, because you think it would make it harder for people to recognize you. Forget about the fact that you believe it could take the weight off your shoulders. If glasses had been your disguise for years now, maybe a new haircut can buy you some time before people remember about your existence.

You shouldn’t focus on that. You should focus on the excitement that change brings into a person’s life. And maybe this outside change can help you with your inside change too.

“Ok. Oh my God, I swear you look like a total badass.” Alex puts the scissor down and you look to the floor and see big chunks of your hair lost in there. Ok. You hope she’s right. “Here, look.”

Alex raises the mirror in front of your face, and you smile at yourself. Perfect. You not only look like a total badass, but somehow you also don’t look like yourself.

“It’s perfect.” You stand up from the chair, throwing your arms around her. “Thanks aunt Alex. You’re the best. I’m gonna go show Jamie.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m here for you, kiddo.”

So far the reactions to your new haircut have been:

Alex: You look like a total badass.

Kelly: Oh, wow. You look so fancy with this new hairstyle!

Jamie: Oh my God. OH MY GOD! You don’t even look like a dipshit anymore! I love it!

Maya: Uh. You-You-Uh-How-Oh God, it’s hot in here, isn’t it? Babe, you look so good it’s hard to get my words out.

And now, onto your moms reaction:

“Hey babygirl, where were y-'' Lena looks at you with incredulity in her eyes. “You cut your hair.”

“Mhm.” You walk past her, pretending it’s not a big deal. Lena holds your arm before you move away.

“Let me look at you.” She asks, and you stop, staring at her with an expectant smile. Her hands go to your hair, as she feels them on her hands, twisting a lock on her fingers, then putting it behind your ear. “You look beautiful, baby.”

“You think so?” You ask, with a bigger smile now.

“You always look beautiful.” She holds your head and kisses your forehead.

“Do you think momma will like it too?”

Lena furrows her brows. “What? Where did you get a haircut if not with Kara?” Eyes wide. “Don’t tell me you went to a hair salon.”

“No! Mom, come on. It was aunt Alex.” You give her a reassuring smile.

“Alex did this? Huh. Can’t believe I’ve been flying to Paris to have my hair cut when she can do stuff like that to one’s hair.”

“Hey love! Oh, and who’s that?” Kara asks, coming inside the house from the backyard door. You turn around to look at her with a smile. “Oh.”

Kara’s brain seems to be malfunctioning as she only stares at you saying nothing and with no other reaction. Your smile slowly fades as you wait.

“Kara? Say something!” Lena says and she finally blinks.

“Oh, you got a haircut!” Kara furrows her brows. “Who-who cut your hair?”

“Aunt Alex.”

“Huh. Ok. Well, I’ll be right back.” Kara says and she flies away. You look back at Lena.

“She hated it.” You sigh woefully. Pout, and soon, you’re bawling your eyes out in Lena’s shirt. She tries to calm you down, but you can’t be stopped. You didn’t know you needed Kara’s approval that badly.

So you make your way to your bedroom, ready to not get out of bed for a while, wrap yourself in a blanket, and keep crying into your pillow.

“Hey.” Kara shows up a few minutes later. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not.” But you are. With your face squished against the pillow so she can’t see it.

“Can you look at me?”

“No. Go away.”

“Little one, please. I wanna show you something. Look at me, come on.” Kara asks and you turn your face slowly to look at her. You blink your eyes when you realize what it is that she wants to show you.

“You cut your hair like mine?” You sit up right away, and Kara smiles at you.

“Yes! I mean, I always wanted to cut my hair like that, but I was scared of how it would look, and then you did it. And Rao, you look so perfect! Like, kid, you legit look like a freaking rockstar. So, it would obviously look good on me too, right?” She looks so excited it’s hard to wrap your mind around it. “Right?”

“Yes! Of course! You look incredibly handsome, momma.” You say, and she lets out a relieved breath. “But what about the whole Supergirl and Kara Danvers getting the same haircut at the same time?”

“Oh.” She thinks about it for a second. “I mean, I got away with bangs. No way I won’t get away with this now.”

“I guess.” You shrug and Kara cleans your tears, with a smile.

“Go wash your face so we can take a selfie with the same haircut.”

“God, momma. No. You’re way too old for that.” You joke, and Kara shows you her tongue. But you still take a picture with her, because she does, indeed, look handsome and you want to show off your new haircut too.

[agermanadventurer]

A start

Let’s start somewhere shall we?

The German language is generally considered quite hard because of it’s grammar - which is understandable. If you are a monoligual English speaker you have never encountered the different complexities that are going to show up. But have no fear-! All of these things have been learned before and can be learned by you if you aspire to. I am not going to make this blog a step-by-step blog to learn German - I simply don’t have neither the time nor the patience to do that. But I will guide you to some free sources to get started to be able to follow along with other things I’ll be talking about in the future, and these are both things I’ve come across in my studying and also things I wish I had found earlier.

BOOKS (pdfs)

german language course - Simply named German Language Course is a pdf book that is written by several collaborating authors in an effort to create a beginner’s guide to the German language. It’s constantly being improved but the newer version here is lacking a bit and the original release from 2006 linked above is a bit more put together but choose from your own accord.

basic german - Basic German, a text/work book for grammar! Really- there’s a lot of grammar in there but it’s quite easy to navigate and can be useful for anyone learning the language or the grammar. 

mein-deutschbuch.de - Mein Deutschbuch is technically a website but nevermind that. It offers lists of different grammar rules and gives you excercises to practice your grammar. The only downside is that everything is in german. It’s great for more advanced learners though.

pdfdrive.com/german-language-books - And here’s a link to many other free books that can be downloaded.  

YOUTUBE CHANNELS (for language learning)

Get Germanized - A youtube channel dedicated to teaching it’s viewers German and also about the German culture. There are full course German videos only focusing on exposing and teaching as well as shorter videos with cultural comparisons and entertainment. 

Easy German - Easy German publish videos for both advanced learners and beginners. They focus much on teaching spoken German but also talks about grammar,  and they offer new vocabulary. 

Learn German - A channel that uses a simple artstyle to explain different parts of the German language. The channel also sorts their videos after language level so even for someone in level C1 might find something useful in there.   

Learn German with Herr Antrim - Herr Antrim wants to teach you German for free. His videos brings up grammar, pronounciation, and tak about the German culture.

Besides these channels you also have plenty of videos repeating german phrases and vocabulary for when you sleep (can’t really recommend to sleep while you listen to them) and you can sit down and take a few notes from those too if you want to become familiar with the sounds and some of the phrases.

YOUTUBE CHANNELS (for entertainment and exposure)

Hi From Hamburg - Lila is an american who moved to Hamburg and is making videos talking about her experience with it and she makes a lot of videos for simple entertainment. Her channel is one of the few English ones I’m going to include in this list. 

Dinge Erklärt - Kurzgesagt -  Kurzgesagt is a channel with pretty animation explaining different concepts, ideas, and myths in our modern society today. They talk about philosophy, science, religious ideas, psychology, and more.

maiLab - MaiLab is a scientific channel in German. In their videos they talk about various topics within biology, chemistry, psychology, or of different concepts and myths in society today.

Related to maiLab are also channels like Quarks and MrWissen2go.

100SekundenPhysik - For those who are into physics, this one can be intresting for you. 100SekundenPhysik brings up and explains physics, but in German and in short comprehensible videos. 

Dagi Bee - For those not as interested in science, here’s an entertainment channel (and a few more after this). Dagi Bee is a channel created for entertainment, she features music videos, make up and hair turtorials, reaction videos, vlogs and more.

Marvyn Macnificent - Marvyn makes entertainment and vlog videos; challenges, make up tutorials and reviews, collaborations (and videos with friends), and also different types of discussions of other social media figures.

Alycia Marie - This channel is for any make up and cosplay fan. Alycia’s channel is made up of make up tutorials, make up reviews and comparisons, as well as cosplay displays. She also have a second channel for her music.

Other channels like Dagi Bee and Alycia Marie is for example Luisa Crashion and Jasmin Azizam

DoctorBenx - A look into the gaming part of youtube and we have DoctorBenx as a prominent figure on the list. His videos consist of him playin games such as Minecraft and Roblox but also GTA5 and simulator/indie games. He works closely with the youtuber AwesomeElina.

Vlesk - If anyone’s still into Among Us you’ll want to check out Vlesk who almost exclusively makes videos of said game at the moment. His channel is rather young still but the older videos are him playing TTT in Garry’s Mod. 

Zombey - For those more intrested in playthroughs, Zombey is more appropriate. His channel features many different games such as Demon’s Soul and Fall Guys. 

APPS

Duolingo - Duolingo is always mentioned when it comes to these things, but it’s a good app. It provides a simple, almost game-like, format that helps you practice different concepts in your target language.

Memrise - Can’t forget Memrise on this list. Memrise uses video clips of real life people using the language to get you to associate the phrases with the situation and to get you to immerse yourself with the language. 

Drops - Drops focuses on visual learning, getting your brain to associate the vocabulary you’re exposed to with the pictures and symbols on the screen. The app is great for learning new vocabulary and you can choose yourself which topic to start with.

Wordbit German - WordBit German is useful for vocabulary exposure. You download it and every time you open your phone a German word is shown on the screen and you can mark different word by familiarity.

HelloTalk - This app helps you to reach out to native speakers of your target language and you can also help others seeking to learn your language. You can send voice messages, make corrections and translate the messages directly. The app can be used for free, but there are many functions that are limited without paying. Other similar apps are also available (often with lower quality but they are free). 

PODCASTS (language learning)

Slow German - The journalist Annik Rubens talks about everyday topics and phenomenons in the german culture and society in short recordings. Perfect to practice your listening comprehension as a beginner and get used to the new parts of the phonology - and it’s available on Spotify. 

Easy German - They also have a podcast! They also talk about the german culture but also topics relevant to the rest of the world, though in a bit more natural speed and with a bit more relaxed manner. (Available on Spotify)

Radio D - Unfortunately not available on Spotify but it is easily found with just a google search (and by the attached link). The podcast is made for complete beginners, guiding you throughout different scenarios and settings and building up your understanding and basic knowledge of the language. Transscripts are also available for download.

Coffee Break German - A series of lessons where the listener, together with the English speaking host Mark, gets to learn German phrases and vocabulary from scratch with the help of Thomas. Each episode is between 20 to 30 minutes so get your pen and paper out to take effective notes. (Available on Spotify)

 You will come across many other podcasts, these are just a good place to start.

PODCASTS (for entertainment)

Eine Stunde History - With new episodes every Friday this podcast takes events throughout history and compare their relevance to today and the future. Perfect for those who have an interest in history. (Available on Spotify)

ZEIT WISSEN - Woher weißt Du dass? - The central theme being science, this podcast gives you a scientific perspective on a new question that is being explored every week. You want to know if humans can hybernate or what the consequenses of having sex with the neanderthals were? Not necessarily! But now you can! (Available on Spotify)

Verbrechen - This podcast features true crime, being led by Andreas Sentker and Sabine Rückert. Sabine is the one talking about the cases she’s been met with throughout her career in law enforcement. (Available on Spotify)

Biologie Passion Podcast - If you have a biology test coming up, if you want to repeat some long lost knowledge from school, or maybe you just have a passion for biology - then this is a good podcast for you. Christian Schweda is happy to teach (or reteach) you some biology. (Available on Spotify)

Eli’s Abitur Crashkurs - For those of you who are study freaks in general, you can visit Eli on Spotify! She has made a podcast on everything she has to study for during her Abitur. And the best thing is - they only come in 10-20 min episodes. But be aware for speedy speech. (Available on Spotify)

Die Copycats - Both on Youtube and on Spotify these guys talk about all sorts of nerdy things from video games to bad music and give their opinions on many other things. They’re quite small so go and give them a bit of love. (Available on Spotify)

#QueerAsBerlin - Not available on Spotify unfortunately. But as the title suggests is this podcast a commentary, interviews and a view on different aspects of social problems through the lens of the LGBTQ+ community in Berlin.  

Bin ich Süßsauer? - For my fellow asian LGBTQ+ people out there; this underrated podcast features an asian host in Germany, talking about different parts of LGBTQ (from what I understand the host themselves are trans and therefore the general theme) with different guests. Of course this can be enjoyed by anyone, just a small shout out for diversity. (Available on Spotify)

Schnapsidee - der Podcast über Liebe, Love & sexy sein - From the name alone you are most likely able to deduse the theme of this podcast. Anna and Paula talks about their love life, relationships, and sex! Their content is lighthearted and enjoyable to listen to. (Available on Spotify)

Dick und Doof - Without any real theme to their podcast, the two friends Sandra and Luca is having a great time, and we get to listen to their conversations about anything and everything. The both of them focus mostly on humour, sprinkled with an insight in their private lives. (Available on Spotify)

Alliteration am Arsch - Or AAA in foreshortening, features Bastian Bielendorfer and Reinhard Remfort who found themselves as friends after realizing the things they had in common and now we get to listen as the both of them discuss anything and everything through the lens of comedy. (Available on Spotify)

[ca-8]

Yakko x Reader Scenario: When You First Meet

'This is it. The beginning of the end.' 

Gripping on the straps of her backpack, (Y/n) exited the bus and stared up at the water tower that displayed the famous Warner Bros. logo. As expected, it emitted a smug aura onto the entire area; however, surprisingly, there was a slight twinge of mystery to it as well. But she didn't have time to ponder about it, so she only gave it an uneasy look and headed straight for the entrance.

Her heart stopped. She knew the place was going to be busy, but it was like an entire New York City packed in one section! So many writers, producers, actors, large men carrying heavy sets, every type of person working in film was scattered all over the place. It was like an ocean, with the people as marine life doing what they're designed to do, and (Y/n) being the puppy that was abandoned at sea.

The moment it all settled in, an involuntary realization invaded her thoughts. 'I don't belong here.'

The young girl reminded herself to breathe and rushed over to a vacant wall, then pulled out her phone. She had already sent her mother about a thousand messages telling her she was here, but since she hasn't responded, a few more shouldn't hurt. Fingers rapidly typing away, she bit her lower lip, already wishing she had stayed on that bus. 

"Oh, you're just gonna love it!" Her mother's squealing voice had already filled her skull. "You're so talented, I know you're gonna fit right in."

'Yeah, standing around all day with a bunch of people I don't know while doing something I suck at is exactly how I wanna spend my summer.' She let out a soft sigh. 'It's fine. Just shut up and make her happy, (Y/n).'

Several attempts of calling and texting later, no response. (Y/n) sighed again, and her eyes wandered over to the bustling crowd. 'No way. Absolutely no way.' But if she wanted to get the day over with, absolutely yes way.

First, she walked up to a lady looking down at the clipboard in her hands. "Um, excuse me," (Y/n) said. 

The lady's head snatched up. "KYLE!" she yelled, her eyes now ablaze with fury, "YOU IDIOT! THAT GOES IN THE WAREHOUSE ACROSS THE STUDIO!" And like there was nothing but a breeze behind her, the lady stomped off to the poor soul that had to face her wrath.

The breeze took a step back and ran around the corner. 'Maybe I'll find someone else instead…!' (Y/n) stopped and spotted a man sitting on the steps that lead to the entrance of a small building. She swallowed whatever was left in her mouth and reluctantly approached him. 

"E-Excuse me, sir?" she stuttered, hoping her voice was louder than the last time. As she got closer, (Y/n) noticed he was chuckling, and his gaze was glued onto a small piece of paper. 

"I...I did it…!" he said. She yelped and shrinked back when he suddenly jumped to his feet. "I FINALLY DID IT! WE'LL SEE WHO'S REGRETTING THE DIVORCE NOW, MARGARET!" And with a manic laugh, the man dashed into the building. 

'...Or maybe I'll just find it myself.'

It wasn't too long before (Y/n) got herself lost. Despite the help of maps that were stuck to some of the buildings, all of them seemed exactly the same. It was like a maze, and with each passing minute, she was more and more convinced that there was no finish line. Even worse, her mother was too busy to respond to anything she sent her. 

'Oh, what should I do?' (Y/n) thought for the thousandth time. No matter how hard she pinched or held them, her arms refused to stop trembling. Not too long ago, the outside of the studio became deserted and she'd hate to walk in a warehouse and possibly interrupt something important, so asking for help again was out of the question.

...Or, perhaps it wasn't. 

A tiny, hopeful smile crossed (Y/n)'s face when she heard the sounds of frustrated grunts around the corner. It was the first time she was so relieved to see a stranger. 

And thank god that stranger was a security guard. Though she wondered why he had a giant net in his hand, she shoved the curiosity as far in the back of her mind as she could and reached up to gently tap his shoulder. 

"Um, excuse me sir?" she asked as loud as she could. 

His head whipped around, revealing angry eyes and a scowl that said he was ready to kill. But right as his gaze landed on her, it changed within an instant. 

"Oh, hello!" he said with a bright smile. 

(Y/n) blinked, cocking her head. ‘What was this guy up to?’

"I'm sorry to bother you, but do you know where (M/n) (L/n) is filming? I'm her daughter, (Y/n), and I'm trying to look for her. She's not answering her phone either."

His joyful expression slowly melted into a confused one. "Uuhhh…(M/n) (L/n)?”

“Yes. She’s a part of Animal Kingdom? Do you know where that’s being filmed?”

“Oh! I know there’s a zoo around here called Animal Kingdom! I don’t think you’ll find it in a film studio, though.”

(Y/n) frowned. “...No, I mean the show. Aren’t they filming in a warehouse today? Do you know where that is?”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

Her eye twitched, and she was just about ready to drown the entire studio in the nearest ocean. “N-Nevermind, I’ll just-”

As if the universe wasn’t satisfied with tormenting her enough, the security guard suddenly launched up into the air and flew into the sky. Right before her eyes, the heavens were coated with explosives of every color that ever existed. 

“Oh my god!” (Y/n) yelled. ‘Who strapped fireworks on that guy?!’

“Oh, I knew you’d love it!”

Her eyes were ripped from the loud fireworks show as she was immediately smothered in a hug. “It’s so nice that another girl’s here! All the other ones here are either too busy or just keep shouting about a restraining order for some reason. I dunno, but anyway, I just know you're gonna love it here! Anyway, my name’s Princess Angelina Louisa Cantessa Francesca Banana Fanna Bo Besca the third! But since we're friends now, you can just call me Dot.”

This confirmed it. This was a trap set up by her mother to deliberately drive her insane, because how else can someone explain the nut jobs and talking dogs in pink dresses? 

A combination of those two things happened to be clutching her head and digging her face into hers. “...Huh?” (Y/n) mumbled.

‘Dot’ jumped off of her and smiled widely. “Sorry about Ralph by the way. I figured out you were coming at the last second and I really needed someone for your welcoming gift.” she said.

(Y/n) glanced up at the sky where the fireworks were slowly dying down. “Um...Is he gonna be okay?” she asked.  

“Of course he will!” her backpack said.

The teen screamed and threw her bag on the ground. A hand popped out and unzipped it with impossible ease, then a taller boy version of Dot jumped out, pulling up his long brown pants and flashing a grin. 

“H-...H-H-How did you…?!” (Y/n) stuttered, pointing at him. 

“What? Never heard of cartoon logic?” he said, approaching her. “And Ralph’ll be fine. His skull’s so thick, concrete’s the last thing that can kill him.”

“What-?”

“Anyhow,” he walked over to Dot and put an arm over her shoulder, “The name’s Yakko, this here’s my beloved baby sister Dot, and this is-” He stopped, staring at the empty space to his left. He leaned into Dot, whispering, “Say, uh, you don't mind looking for Wakko, do ya sis?”

Dot glanced at (Y/n) for an uncomfortable moment and suddenly shot her brother a glare. "I've got eyes all over this studio, Yakko," she warned, slowly stepping away.

Now (Y/n) certainly knew she didn't see pairs of eyes appear around every inch of her sight. 'Oh god, I didn't breath in drugs on the way here, did I? Actually, that would explain whatever the heck's going on.'

Yakko smiled as he watched his sister leave and turned to (Y/n). He walked closer to her, and she realized that his half-lidded eyes had a strange glint in them. “Sooo, your name’s (Y/n), right? A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

(Y/n)’s face heated up. ‘First I get lost, then see a guy get blown up, and now some other guy’s flirting with me? ...To be honest, this is still better than what Mom had planned for today.’

“So what brings ya’ here?” he asked.

“O-Oh, well, my Mom was supposed to give me a tour of the studio, but I’ve been giving that to myself all day. I tried finding her, but I’m pretty sure I’m nowhere near it by now.” Her eyes wandered over to the ground, but a realization made them perk back up and over to Yakko. “Hey, do you happen to know this place by any chance?”

“Know it? Please, my sibs and I live here, we know this place by heart and soul!” He mumbled something else, along the lines of “Basically made our hearts and souls”. 

Her heart jumped; finally, a piece of good news. “Really?” she said, a smile spreading across her face.

He nodded. “So where do ya’ need to go?” Before she could answer, he pulled out a piece of folded paper and moved in so close, their shoulders were smooshed together. Yakko unfolded it, and it turned out to be the biggest map (Y/n) has ever seen. “Well, from here, you’re gonna need to take a right and continue straight until you get to the Harry Potter and Fantastic Beasts exhibit. But be careful, I heard some of them escaped, and if anyone asks if you’ve seen any of them, don’t tell them I gave one to Dot as a late birthday gift. Anyway, you take a left from there, then a right where you’ll see the lot where they used to shoot Game of Thrones. Now this is only a rumour I’ve heard, but I think some of the producers are still on that set. If you happen to see them, do not, I repeat, DO NOT mention season eight, or maybe just don’t mention the show at all. Actually, don’t even look at them. As a matter of fact, you probably shouldn’t even go there at all, just keep heading straight until you get to the D.C. Universe lot. Then you just take left there, then a sharp right over over, then you keep going straight until you get to here, turn up over there, turn right there, and then you’re there. Did ya’ follow all that?”

(Y/n) stared at his face, which was practically radiating with enthusiasm, and she felt her eye twitch again. “...No,” she said, shaking her head.

His smile dimmed, but it became just as bright as the sun again a split-second later. “Ah well, maps are gettin' old anyways,” he said, throwing the map over his shoulder. “WAKKO!!”

And, low and behold, another anthropomorphic dog popped out of nowhere, and (Y/n) was starting to question if there was an army of them hidden somewhere. But she had to admit, it was pretty cute how this one was dressed in an oversized blue sweater and red hat. 

“Tablet, please,” Yakko said politely, holding out his hand. 

‘You're not gonna walk me there-?'

Wakko suddenly held his head back with his cheeks puffed out, then leaned into Yakko’s hand as he forced out a small object from his mouth. After an incredibly uneasy moment, a tablet glazed in spit was in Yakko's grasp. While he praised the little guy, (Y/n) forced back the urge to vomit.

“E-Ehhhh…?” She couldn’t say anything else while her gaze frantically went back and forth from Wakko and the regurgitated tablet. 

“Oh! Where are my manners?” Yakko said. “(Y/n), this is my dear little brother, Wakko. Wakko, this here’s our new special friend, (Y/n).” 

“Hello!” Wakko greeted, who was suddenly in her arms. “You’re really pretty!”

“Ehh? Thank you? I guess??” she said apprehensively, and finally managed to make eye contact. Despite his...quirks, he's actually a little adorable... She let herself grin a little.

The moment of semi-peace was ruined when she took notice of Yakko’s narrowed eyes. “ALrighty, (Y/n)!” he said loudly, grabbing his little brother by the collar and gently setting him on the ground. “Animal Kingdom, right? Let’s get ya’ right over there.” He moved right beside her and taped the screen a couple times. 

“Um, what’re you doing exactly?” she asked.

“Doing what every person does to get somewhere nowadays.” He grabbed her waist and pulled her against him, and (Y/n) flinched from his touch. “Please keep your arms, legs, and personal items inside the tablet at all times.”

Just when she was about to question him for the hundredth time, he pressed the screen again, and her vision became nothing but white. Her body felt like it was launched into a tornado; a strong force of wind thrusted her back, and somehow, the boy’s arm kept her from flying off from his side. A second later, her feet were back on the ground, the sky was where it needed to be, and reality was back in place. 

Except for (Y/n)’s mentality. 

She stumbled around, trying to find her balance as the world unbearably whirled around her. Finally, she shook her head, and quickly turned back towards Yakko, whose face tried to tell her whatever happened was perfectly fine and normal. 

“What was THAT?” she yelled, staggering towards him and gripping his shoulders.

And he still had the audacity to have that 'why-are-you-freaking-out-so-much-we-do-this-every-Friday' smile. “Thank you for attending Warner’s Travel Tours! I would say my Agent Ralph’ll take your bags, but I left him alone with my sibs, so he’s probably in the middle of the Pacific Ocean by now.”

(Y/n) could only stare at him. Her mind was twisting and turning, trying so hard to make any sense of what happened but only making her headache grow larger and larger. And then, her thoughts just went blank.

She smirked. Then giggled. And a few seconds later, she had burst out laughing whilst holding her stomach. (Y/n) looked back up at Yakko, wiping a tear from her eye. “Th-Thank you…” she said, catching her breath. 

His smile had grown and she thought his white cheeks were red for a moment. Yakko had opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by a net suddenly covering his entire body. Ralph was behind him, his skin and clothes burnt and ears practically smoking. “You’re coming with me, Warner!” he said.

And yet, Yakko only grinned. Like physics was his enemy, he disappeared from inside the net and appeared sprouting from the security guard’s back, cheerfully waving at (Y/n). “I’ll see ya’ around, yeah?” he said, then ran around the corner with Ralph sprinting right after him.

(Y/n) giggled and reached for the straps around her back. But when she only felt the (f/c) fabric of her shirt, her smile dropped, and a deep sigh escaped her lips. “Great…” she whispered.

“(Y/N)!” 

She gasped as a pair of arms squeezed the life out of her. Her mother spun her around to face her gleaming smile, which was immediately replaced by an apologetic frown. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get your texts! That scene took forever, but I’m glad you found your way here! You’re so smart! Anyway, I know we don’t get as much time now, but there’s still so much we’ll be able to see!...”

She rambled on and on and on and on. Her daughter’s shoulders slumped and she followed her to where she wanted her to go, but the frown on her face didn’t last long when she remembered the fun she had just a few seconds ago. ‘Maybe this summer won’t be that bad.’

[barbarianprncess]

did you mean it?

read on ao3.

It’s a total of 3 significant events that led to this, her forehead knocked against his, breaths heavy and mingled, eyes wide and hearts bleeding.

It’s a total of 3 significant events that led to this, her forehead knocked against his, breaths heavy and mingled, eyes wide and hearts bleeding.

The first event isn’t really an event at all. It’s a prologue, necessary context to truly understand the monumentalism of this moment. It’s the memory of her eyes, piercing and reproachful, being the first thing that he saw after losing his mother. It’s shared trauma and oreos while they’re young and naive. It’s truces and training and growing up too soon together. It’s stargazing and stupid jokes saving eachother in every possible way. It's the culmination of the years Percy spent growing, learning, and being with Annabeth, and the unknown and therefore repressed feelings that came with it. Feelings are like the sea in that way, they don’t take well to being restrained. Percy has found that you cannot box in oceans or sentiments, they always find a way to spill over and out, with no regard for the destruction left in its wake.

The second event is Dionysus deciding on a whim that the inhabitants of his camp are ‘uncultured pests’ and taking it upon himself to set up a field trip for campers to the Ancient Greek Cultural Center in New York. (Percy thinks it’s really just to distract kids that were still shaken up about the battle at camp and the losses it caused. But, Dionysus would never say so. He’s far too proud to admit to caring for the children he’s been assigned to look after.) Argus loaded all the kids he could fit into the strawberry vans, as Chiron listed all the reasons this was a terrible idea. As it turns out, his worries were in vain as miraculously, no monsters attacked, and no mortal asked too many questions. No, instead, the only hitch in his plan was the glaring inaccuracies of the Center sending Dionysus into a fit of rage. He ranted for so long, their 2 hour long field trip ended up lasting until the place closed.

Event the third is the ridiculously long line leading to the mens room at the rundown gas station they’ve stopped at, causing Percy to traipse into the woods, deep enough to know that no one other than the squirrels were watching, and pee there. Unbeknownst to him, Annabeth had decided to take a quick walk in the forest as well, (in the opposite direction of his peeing endeavor) with the purpose of clearing her head. Both returned to the parking lot after 10 minutes, with no truck in sight. The gas station lights are turned off on the inside and the door sign has switched decidedly to closed. They look at each other in disbelief.

“Percy?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh...did they…”    

“They didn’t. They wouldn’t.”

“I think they would.”

“They would never-”

“I have pretty solid evidence to the contrary.” Annabeth deadpans, casually letting her hair loose and hopping on top of the miniature gas machine for motorcycles.

“But, how did-”

“No Argus.” Which means, no all-seeing eyes to double check the headcount. Percy begins to pace.

“Okay, but-”

“Two trucks.” Both of which are probably assuming Percy and Annabeth are on the other.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, gods.”

“Leave them out of this.”

“Those fuckers.”

“Which ones?” She asks. He looks up and she’s fighting a smile. He pointedly doesn’t notice the way her mouth curls up, or the way her hair falls around her shoulders and down her back, or how pretty she looks lit up by the neon red lights of the gas stations prices, which apparently doesn’t turn off when they close.

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“I know lots of things you don’t.”

“Ha-ha. I mean about how to get out of here.”

“Ohhhhh, let me think.” She wrinkles her nose in faux concentration, tilting her chin up towards  the sky. Percy is too annoyed to think it’s adorable. “Nope, not a clue.”

“Your phone?”

“Left it on the truck.”

“Iris message?”

“Percy, it’s dark as shit.” The laughter she’s been holding in comes pouring out. Nevermind that he feels his chest sigh in relief at hearing it for the first time since their quest, this is serious.

“You’re laughing.”

“Just a little.”

“You’re telling me, you don’t have a brilliant plan to get us on a truck.”

“Yes.”

“So, we’re stuck here.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re laughing?”

“You’re just really funny when you’re stressed.” She giggles. He can’t remember the last time she giggled. He missed it. He hates her.

“Oh my gods.”

“Okay, okay, look, I’m sorry. We’re halfway to camp right?” He nods. “I’m sure they’ll figure out we’re missing before they get all the way back to camp, but let's say, worst case scenario, they don’t-”

“Not helping-”

“And they make it the rest of the way back to camp. It took us four hours to get to the center, which means camp is two hours away, so if they make it the two hours back to camp before they realize we’re missing, and they drive back up-”

“C’mon ‘Beth, you know I suck at math.”

“We’re stuck here for five hours at most.”

“Five hours?”

“And that's if no passing cars let us use their phones to hurry the process up.”

“Five hours.”

She’s laughing again. “Seriously, what is so funny?”

“It’s just-” Her cheeks are red and she’s very poorly attempting to suppress her smile. “You’ve been calm in so many life or death situations, and being stuck at a gas station is what finally breaks through.”

“It’s nighttime.” She stares at him for a moment and then she’s laughing again, full bodied real laughter, and he's laughing too.

And it’s as if this gas station became their own personal Ogygia, an oasis, a resting place for them to be stupid kids again. And they don’t talk about the battle, or Rachel, or the volcano, or any of the million things set on tearing them apart. They talked about his mom getting serious about his new boyfriend, about Tyson’s underwater adventures and Grover’s searching shenanigans.

They smack talk with no real heat about who the better fighter is (Oh please, Seaweed Brain, I've been training since before you could tie your own shoes.), and argue about which ancient hero had the greatest journey (Hercules, are you kidding? Did you even read the myth?). They break into the gas station for snacks (What the fuck, Annabeth, where’d you learn to pick a lock? No, I wouldn’t prefer you break the glass, you psycho. Oh my gods, can you really break the glass?), and dissolve into giggles as they try to fit five drachma into the cash register.

They end up back outside sitting on the gas machines facing one another from three feet away.

“Your mom called me the other day.”

Percy, who’d been lazily squinting up at the murky sky, searching for any sign of stars, whipped his head to look at her. “What?”

“She called me on the phone. We talked for a bit. She said she wanted to make sure I was alright.”

“That sounds like something she would do.” He sighs and hops down from the machine, turning away from her, hoping to hide his blush from the dim light. “She cornered me on one of my off weekends, asked what was going on with us.”

“Oh.” He hears the shifting of fabric and assumes she followed him in sliding off the gas machine.

“Yeah.” It’s silent for a long time before she responds.

“What did you say?” She asks, her voice smaller than it was moments ago. He hears her scratching at the flat metal top of the machine. “When she asked, what did you say?”

He runs his finger through his hair, and one gets caught in a particularly large snarl. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.” She whispers and gods he’s terrified but he really doesn’t have a choice when her voice wavers like that. Her words shake and every ounce of his being tells him to do whatever it takes to soothe it.

“I said we were fighting. That there wasn’t one sole reason for it, just a bunch of little reasons. I told her that I scared you when I….went away for two weeks last summer. And that you didn’t like bringing Rachel on your quest. I told her that we….. disagree about how to best handle Luke. That I probably wanted to protect you more than I wanted to listen to you.” She laughs softly and he blames what he says next on her laugh. It is the catalyst for everything that follows.

“I told her that we’d be okay. Because no matter what happens I’m always gonna love you.”

He hears her breath catch. He doesn’t have to look back to know she’s turned to face him fully. “Did you mean it?” She calls. He doesn’t answer. The words haven’t caught in his throat, they’ve spontaneously combusted in his vocal chords and he doesn’t think he’ll ever speak again.

The sound of gravel crunching gets closer until suddenly she's beside him, and he didn’t tell his torso to twist toward her, he thinks she might just be his center of gravity.

“Did you mean it?”

She’s looking up at him, and her hair smells like lemons, and her cheeks are pink, and her eyelashes go on for miles, and her sunspots are better than stars. And it’s as if she pulls the words right out of him, he’s hypnotized by everything about her.

“Of course I meant it.”

She exhales and closes her eyes and while he mourns the loss of the sight, his body moves on it’s own accord again and he’s edging closer and closer and she opens her eyes and here they are.

Their noses brush, and this time he closes his eyes, and their noses brush just so, and…

Whoa.

He was wrong, it wasn't just those three significant events that to her forehead knocked against his, breaths heavy and mingled, eyes wide and hearts positively bleeding. It’s clear he’s been waiting his entire life for this moment at this shitty gas station.

Waiting for this. Waiting for her.  

They kiss for a moment or an eternity, and they fit. His hands are on her hips and hers clutch at his shirt before sliding up to his throat, and it’s like his soul is whispering, oh there you are.

And then she’s pulling back, so she has just enough space to shake her head without disconnecting from his forehead.

She's breathless when she whispers, “This is a bad idea.”

His hands trail up and down her forearm of their own accord, and when he whispers back he’s breathless too. “Yeah, really bad idea.”

Her hands slide up from his chest to his shoulders, and then she’s kissing him again, with purpose, and he’s kissing back like his life depends on it because he thinks it might, thinks if he lets go of her he’d die on the spot.

It seems his theory might get tested when she pulls back again just far enough to whisper against his lips, “Is it always like that?”

He kisses her again, once, twice, because he can’t help it and whispers back, “I don’t know, you were my first kiss.”

He’d released any serious hold he had on her the moment she hesitated, but then she’s rocking back up to meet him halfway and his entire body thinks thank the gods. He actually sighs his relief into her mouth, as his hands desperately reach for her face, some fingers tangling in her hair, and their lips are magnets, opposites that don’t have a choice but to pull together. Despite how much he wants to keep doing this forever, he has to tell her.

“I don’t wanna lose you, again.” He means not ever, but he figures she understands the severity in his voice. She’s running her hand through his hair, and his slide up and down her back, and she knocks her nose against his as she answers, “I know, me either. I’m confused, this is confusing me.” And she tilts her chin just so, like she did a million years ago, and this time he kisses her.

They kiss for an infinity, he gets to taste her laughter when she giggles at the absurdness of it all, and it’s better than ambrosia. He kisses her until he doesn’t know anything else, until his entire universe is Annabeth Chase, with her cheeks and her curls and her lips. She is everything.

And then headlights penetrate their universe, voices bring an end to their infinity, and Chiron is speaking but it’s nothing, it’s all white noise because she’s no longer in his arms, and his center of gravity is being ripped away and he hears someone ask, “What’d you guys do?”

He’s still looking at her face when she answers, “You know, tried not to strangle each other mostly.”

But, she looks back before she turns all the way around and her gaze is charged and her lips quirk with the secret they share.

He is so screwed.

[ladygenius]

A Coffee to break the Ice? II

God, I have like 4 different stories I’m currently working on. I decided, however, to finish this part II first :) I really hope you like it.. it got pretty long so I hope it’s not getting boring. I’d love some feedback! 

description: After your embarrassing first encounter, Spencer is lost in his thoughts about you.. until there is an unexpected surprise. 

pairing: Spencer x femBAUreader

category: fluff, mutual admiration, getting to know each other 

warnings: none really, except maybe some self-conscious thoughts and behaviour 

wordcount: 1.7k 

~ feel free to reblog 

“Woah, hold on a second. What’s gettin' pretty boy all smiley? Judging by the coffee stain on your shirt you should’ve had the worst morning in history” your co-worker Derek Morgan concluded mere seconds after arriving in the bullpen. He swings back his chair with ease and plunges onto it a cheeky smirk resting on his face. Damn it, he’s only ever paying attention when he’s not supposed to.

"Nothing", you countered probably slightly more high-pitched than necessary, "I-, um, I just remembered a really good article on astrophysics I've read on the subway on my way to work, wanna hear 'bout it?" Your curious colleague threw his arms up in defense: "Nevermind, I'm good!"

Just like you expected.

Right away, your thoughts wandered back to the woman you didn't even ask for her name. Her shiny wavy hair falling around her soft features just beautifully, the adorable look in her eyes when she realized what had happened. Who was she?

You've definitely never seen her around and judging by her restless appearance and the box she was carrying she has to be a newbie.

"If you ever see me around", she said.. but was she really starting to work here? She definitely can't be an addition to the team since you would have heard Hotch mention it at least once alongside Garcia being super anxious about it, protective of her family as she was.

Usually, you're not so keen on changes like that either but this time it made your heart ache that there wasn't a future scenario in which the mysterious girl would be your colleague working cases alongside you.

The unlikely probability of you having even the slightest chance of winning her over, making her laugh, maybe even getting someone like her to... like you? How ridiculous.

Being a man of science you didn't really put much thought into the concept of love at first sight either, it rather confused you, really. But the way your stomach flipped when her eyes met yours for the first time was something you couldn't quite make sense of.    

Shortly after, JJ ripped you out of your daydreaming as she called everybody into the briefing room announcing that there's something important to talk about. This baffled you at first, considering today was supposed to be a paperwork day and she seemed way too relaxed for an urgent case to have come up.

Being the last one to enter the briefing room you could barely trust your eyes as your gaze landed on the cause of your meeting, standing right next to Hotch.

"Guys gather around, I want you to meet someone. I'm sorry I've been keeping it a secret but lately, I've been interviewing quite a few applicants considering our latest cases revealed that we're desperately in need of a helping hand. This is Agent y/l/n she will be joining the BAU as our newest team member. Please give her a warm welcome."

The bright smile on the very familiar woman's face froze immediately once she took notice of you, changing into an amused look of disbelief. Her cheeks flushed and she bit her lip nervously. If you didn't know it's impossible you would think your heart just skipped a beat. You couldn't help but grin even though you were just as shocked as she was.

You can't express how much pride you felt in this moment. Not only did it turn out to be exactly how you wished for so desperately but you also were the only one to already have a connection with her. Not the most ideal way of breaking the ice, obviously, but still.

Outside of the world you and y/l/n just created around you a surprised and excited murmur was going through the room, topped by Garcia's pouting since she hadn't had a clue this whole time. However, she was also the first one to approach the new agent. "OMG, you look hella cute, I can just tell you and I will have inside jokes going on in no time. Hi I'm Penelope!"

Her quirkiness was answered by a giggle which must have been the most pleasant and melodic sound you've ever heard.

"So nice to meet you all. I'm y/n and I can't tell you how excited I am to work with each of you!" the young woman chimed.

Y/n. What an utterly beautiful name, fitting so perfectly to a character like her. Hearing it now, you can't imagine ever not having known her name.

Derek was of course instantly turning on his charm: "Wow, Agent y/l/n. Excuse me for being so straightforward but to what do we owe the pleasure of welcoming such a lovely lady in our midst?" he flirted as he acted like kissing her hand, emphasized by a cheeky wink.

You could see her cheeks flushing adorably in a mix of flatter and speechlessness. As much as you liked seeing her this way it also stung a little that you weren't the one getting her to react this way. But you got it. The ladies love Morgan.

After most of the others had introduced themselves, her attention fell back on you. "And this is..." started Morgan patting your shoulder before noticing your amused and slightly embarrassed looks at each other. "Wait what.. have you guys already met?"

"Well, sort of.." you tried to explain, gaining curious looks from your colleagues.

Y/n cringed visibly. "Yeah, um.. I might have ruined my new coworker's shirt first thing this morning when I arrived here." The other's look fell on the coffee stain that showed a little from underneath your jacket. They all burst out in vibrant laughter.

"Well, it really wasn't that bad.. Now that we meet properly, I'm Spencer Reid" you tried to introduce yourself as composed as possible. "A pleasure to meet you Agent Reid" The impact of her saying your name was again something you weren't prepared for. At all.

The laughter in the room suddenly froze when the others saw what happened right before their eyes. And you knew why.

You, Dr. germaphobic Reid, were willingly shaking hands with a total stranger. This caused y/n to freeze as well, panic governing her eyes.

"Wait, have I messed up again?" Her soft hand pulling back from yours quickly. "N-No! Not at all" you blurted out. "It's just that...Um"

"Our resident genius here just isn't a huge fan of handshakes, that's all" Morgan came to your rescue. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. I can't believe I'm embarrassing myself again." The heat grew to your cheeks just thinking of her feeling humiliated just because of your weirdo tendencies.

She must surely hate you by now. Great.

"Don't worry, I really didn't mind, how could you have known?" you tried to save the situation smiling at her reassuringly. If only she know how much you didn't mind.

"Trust me, girl, besides that, our doctor here definitely won't hold any of today against you. He's a clumsy mess himself, you'll see." The others big time supported Garcia's statement. "So.." Hotch cleared his throat "since you already broke the ice so smoothly. Reid, the desk opposite to you should be currently empty anyway. Why don't you show Agent y/l/n her new workspace?"

As the briefing room slowly emptied and the two of you were left alone an uncomfortable silence filled the room and you could tell there was something on y/n's mind.

"So.. the genius with the three doctorate degrees on your team.. from what I just heard I figure that's also you then?" You could see her pained and guilty frown as she looked up at you from under her thick lashes.

"Um, yeah.. that, that would be me" you admitted shyly.

Funny how you desperately tried to keep the facts people reduce you to from her so that she wouldn't put the weirdo label on you like everyone else you meet and yet somehow it all came out already after like five minutes.

"Wow, respect. You really are hella impressive then." Her reaction was sincere. There was no dismissive comment, no eye-rolling. "I just hope you can forgive me another misstep when addressing you earlier without your title" now she was clearly being sarcastic as she raised her eyebrows exaggeratedly.

"But I'm sure you're getting asked about your academic successes all the time anyway. So. What makes Spencer Reid tick otherwise? When he's not being a genius with three Ph.D.'s?"

You were pretty much caught off guard by this. No one ever reacted to you that way before. It was new. And nice. She was incredibly nice.

"Well.. I'm actually interested in a lot of things" you started what inevitably had to end in a massive rant, of that you were sure. But she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she rather seemed genuinely interested, her vibrant eyes searching for eye contact accompanied by the cutest chuckles every now and then as you showed her around the bullpen.  

"And um, by the way.. I couldn't help but notice your volume of Poe earlier. You know, I-I really didn't wanna intrude but when I was picking up your stuff-"

"Oh yeah, that" she laughed breathily looking to the ground. "I was a little self-conscious for a split second. I honestly thought you laughed at me because of it."

"What?! Are you kidding me? I-I mean I'm sorry, it's just.. I actually really love Poe's work. I admire his short stories, his writing style is unparalleled if you ask me."

"I absolutely agree" The way her face lit up and her eyes widened as she looked up at you sent shivers down your spine. Your eye contact lasting for just a moment longer before y/n cleared her throat and went to settle in at the workspace facing your own arranging her belongings.

"Well then, now that I know of your excellent taste I hope you're ready for me to annoy you with random literature discussions at any given time, Doctor Reid" she specifically emphasized the last part, locking eyes with you an irresistible smirk decorating her features.

God, she is beyond gorgeous.

Trust me, you couldn't even annoy me in a million years, you thought to yourself.

"I can't wait, y/n."

Wanna read the first part? Here ya go: Part I 

[a-libra-writes]

SFW Alphabet - The Huntress

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Anna is plenty affectionate when you both are alone. It took some time for her to be more open to hand-holding or cuddling and not just hovering over you, anxiously looking around for any danger lurking by. When you first began to take her hand or sit close to her, she almost wasn’t sure what to do, but she welcomed it. It’s been such a long time since she had this sort of affection.

The most obvious way she shows affection is by doggedly protecting you, but there’s more. She likes to have you in her lap while she sharpens her hatchets or bandages up her fingers, put a hand on the small of your back while you both walk through the forest, whittle you little wooden animals … Good luck leaving unless there's a Trial. She won't want you leaving her sight and wouldn't understand why you'd do such a thing.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

A friend is already as rare as a lover, so she treats them much the same. She'll be less overprotective, but just as stubborn, and will still want to teach them things and spend time with them. Anna is almost normal when you're her friend, sometimes you forget she's a giant axe-throwing killer… then she'll do something creepy and put you on edge all over again. And she certainly won't be more merciful in trials.

She's surprisingly easy to approach, if you want to attempt making friends. Unlike most killers in the Fog, she won't try to axe you right away (unless you're a man or present as one…). She'll let you watch her hunt and follow her from a distance, but eventually she'll approach if you don't do so. 

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

She loves cuddling! And such a big woman is excellent at it. She’ll cuddle anywhere you want, but it’s most comfortable in a warm space with a fire - that's more for your comfort, not her’s - and she’ll pull you into her lap and wrap her strong arms around you. She adores it when you press against her chest or her neck, especially when she can feel your soft lips against her skin. She’ll want to pet your hair, sing to you, listen to your chatter - anything. When it comes to sleeping next to her, the cuddling is less cozy because she holds you so close and leaves you little room for wiggling.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Anna would just love to have a blissful domestic life with you. She wants you to live in the cabin her mother built, with a little girl or two you both raise together, with a garden and maybe a good hunting dog and … you get the picture. It’s sweet how much she yearns for this, how clearly she can see it in her mind. It really would hurt her if you didn’t want to at least live with her (nevermind how difficult the Entity makes that whole scenario…). She’ll teach you all she knows, too: She’s excellent at cleaning and cooking all the game she hunts, and she’ll fix up the cabin anytime it needs repairs. 

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

It would take a long time for Anna to get to this point. She’s so lonely and so attached that she’s willing to put up with a lot. She will eventually draw a line, though, and she’ll make her concerns known. Depending on how you break up, Anna will either keep her negative feelings to herself and sulk in the Fog… or she’ll go out of her way to target you in the Trials. 

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Her experience with feelings like this are next to none, but she believes you two must be meant to be together! She has such wonderful, light feelings when you’re around. It’s the only good thing in this strange, confusing place she’s been brought to. Marriage doesn’t mean much here, but if you brought it up, Anna would be tickled to wear something matching and have a little ‘ceremony’. It binds you to her even more.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Anna tries her best to be physically gentle, but she is a strong woman and may grip you too hard, especially at first when she’s so unused to being with someone. She has trouble reigning in her strength when she’s worried, angry or excited. Though when she hears you cry out, she instantly stops and carefully handles you like glass for the rest of the day. She’s always very careful when carrying you while you’re injured … even when she has to put you on the hook eventually, she'll make it quick and give another Survivor a little extra time to get you. If you've had an especially bad series of trials, she'll brutally sacrifice every other Survivor and gently carry you to the hatch. Anna thinks this is a very good, kind thing to do.

For emotions, Anna isn’t so good with that. She doesn’t always understand the terror or anger or sadness you might have… Hell, when you first met, she didn’t understand why you were afraid. She was instantly intrigued, yet you kept running. Sometimes talking to her about emotions is difficult because she wants to act and fix it, but that isn’t always possible. She’ll even get upset if you don’t seem to cheer up after a while.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

She pulls you into her arms and gives you a long hug that’s warm and almost too tight. Often she’ll rest her head against your shoulder, since you’re much shorter, and just stay there for a minute or so. If she was more talkative, she’d probably express how worried she was and how relieved she is when you’re back from the Trial, but this is enough to get her point across. Quick hugs are fine, but the lingering ones are the most intimate. 

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Anna says all sorts of sweet phrases and words in Russian, you aren’t positive what they all mean, but they’re certainly good things! Though there’s one phrase she says that’s always softer, always muttered when she’s holding you tight. You have a feeling you know what she’s saying, and it doesn’t take long for her to form that attachment to you.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

She doesn’t get jealous, exactly; her protective instinct takes over first. If someone is flirting with you, she perceives them as a danger first, not a rival - especially if it’s a Killer. A Survivor could be clearly flirting and she’d assume their closeness and lingering eyes means they’re going to do something dangerous. Anna’s reaction is the same: She pointedly steps in front of you and tells them to leave… with or without hatchet in hand, depending on her mood.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

She loves any kiss you give her, but the light, playful ones are the most fun because she doesn’t expect them. She just lights up when you kiss her scarred knuckles and her rough palms, or place a kiss on her cheek. She’s a little shy to take off her mask, but when you kiss her nose, it’s just so cute! It helps her relax into your deeper kisses. She likes to kiss your chest, to feel your heartbeat and soft skin between your breasts. Her second favorite place is wherever makes you giggle. It’s just too cute to hear. Anna’s lips are pretty chapped, which is to be expected. Initially she kissed a bit too hard, as it was a new thing, but once she gets the hang of it she likes being gentler.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Anna says she adores children, especially girls. She likes to chat with them, play with them, teach them things. Her mother taught her everything, after all, and she loved her mother. Though the more you talk about this, the sadder Anna becomes. When she speaks to you about the little girls - the ones she ‘saved’ - you start to wonder if Anna actually knows anything about raising children, even if her heart is in the right place. It’s probably best she doesn’t, at least not without you to help.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

If you both were in the real world, in some idyllic country cabin, Anna would wake up just before dawn. She’d give you a kiss on the cheek while you slept before going off to her morning chores, usually cleaning something she hunted, getting firewood inside or clearing a path in the snow. By the time you’re awake, she’s made coffee and washes up before joining you for breakfast. 

… Though this is the Fog, so the schedule is a bit different. Neither of you need much sleep, but she’ll still “wake up” before you to patrol around. She hates anyone coming near the little shack you both tend to stay in, especially killers. When she comes back, she brings something she hunted that you two can roast over the fire. You’re… pretty sure the animals in the Fog are edible…?

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Snuggled up to the fire in the evening is Anna’s favorite. Before she’d endure the cold and a little fire, but it’s so much better when she’s got you wrapped in a blanket on her lap. You’ll still need to add logs and stoke the fire because her tolerance to the cold is near freakish thanks to the Entity. It’s modest,  but it’s a luxury considering the rest of the Fog. You have a feeling she’d want the same if you both were in the “real” world again, but you could introduce her to hot cocoa and a silly tv show.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Anna isn't so talkative, but you can glean things from how she acts and what she teaches you. Her protectiveness and paranoia is obvious, but there's also the careful way she looks after her equipment and how easily she hunts. When she starts mentioning her past, things begin to click into place. You can ask her most anything, but thinking of the little girls she lost and her mother can get her quiet for hours. It’s still a painful subject.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

When it comes to you? Anna is incredibly patient as she guides you through tracking in the wilderness, making a fire, throwing an axe, actually using the axe properly to chop something, and so on. She’ll smile (and maybe suppress a chuckle) when you inevitably mess up, and gently correct you. When you’re done she wants to check over any calluses and bruises, and wrap them up herself. 

You’ve seen the other side, though. When you come back battered from a trial, and she knows who did it just based on the injuries. She doesn’t speak, only gesturing you to stay put before she furiously stalks off into the Fog, her shoulders hunched and her fists tightening hard around her hatchet. There’s no amount of calling after Anna, or god forbid, grabbing her so she’ll stop. Even the mention of a Survivor bothering you is enough to get that dark glint in her eyes. 

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Anna remembers … unusual things. She knows your scent, even when you’re covered in muck and blood. If you’re shampooed and perfumed, well, she can pick that out from an impressive distance. She remembers your gait, the way it sounds and how it looks through the fog. When she’s alone, she remembers new songs you’ve given her to hum, and how you feel against her. Things like favorite colors, movies or random facts of your time hold less water. They aren’t immediately important to her.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Her favorite memory, even years after you both are together, is the first time she got to hold you in her arms. There was a lot of build-up before that; following Anna around, getting to know her, you both getting closer and you finally allowing her to be so close. That’s what it felt like, permission, and she was more than happy to scoot in and cuddle up. She was delighted that you were just as soft and warm as she always imagined.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Incredibly protective. It cannot be understated how much Anna wants to lock you into her mother’s home like she did those girls, but this time she knows what to do. She could keep you safe, she says, if only you both were in her home again. It hurts her that she can’t fight the Entity or keep you permanently safe from the other Killers. Sure, she can wound them or chase them off, and she can tend to your wounds after Trials, but it’s not the same.

You know this weighs on Anna some days, so it’s best to comfort her and indulge in her desire. Yes, it would be wonderful if you stayed at her cabin.  You could cook the meat she brings home, and tend to a little garden outside. There’s not much you can do to “protect” such an imposing hunter, but these sweet fantasies make her feel much better.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

It's difficult to keep track of time in the Fog, so the concept of anniversaries or even normal dates is asking for a lot. Still, Anna puts clear effort into your relationship. She protects you, brings you little trinkets she's made or found, and likes to find quiet, safe places to keep you until a Trial starts.

If the two of you weren't trapped, she still wouldn't be the best about remembering specific dates. But she'd still do little things to express her love every day.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

She’s quite insistent that she knows the best way to protect you. Not that there aren’t plenty of things the Entity has dragged in specifically to murder you, but sometimes it can border on paranoia. You’ve often felt that if you ever came across Anna in the real world, she would have locked you up “for your own good”. Even just considering the things and people that could hurt you fills the intimidating woman with a sense of anxiety and dread… and she turns that to resolve. Trust her, dorogaya. Just let her take care of everything. 

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Anna doesn’t think much of her looks, and never has. Not once was it something her mother raised her to consider important. Everything about her attire is meant for practicality… except for the trinkets around her waistband. And the masks. Those are sentimental, not mere decoration. After knowing you, she makes a point to clean her hands and nails before any cuddling and romance goes down. 

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

There was always that horrible feeling she had after losing a girl. If she lost you, it would be so much worse. She didn’t think it could be this much worse. It was unbearable. Anna would lash out, freezing her heart even more than before. She’d alternate between lashing out at the Entity and those around her. Her axes would still hit their targets, but it would be a much bloodier affair - more the work of a butcher than a hunter. It’s so much harder to move on this time, and for once, the idea of finding someone new to protect isn’t helping.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Anna has a variety of animal masks, but her rabbit is her favorite and most worn. They were just fun things her mother helped her make, one of the few real toys she had growing up. So it’s sentimental and makes her feel comfortable when she wears them. She doesn’t mind taking them off when you’re both alone and she wants kisses, but not in front of people she doesn’t like or trust. She thinks you look adorable when you wear one!

The Entity has given her some mutations, though they aren’t apparent from a distance. The most obvious are her eyes and nose. When she takes off her mask, you can clearly see her sclera and irises are all black, with her pupils being little specks of light in that blackness. They can be a bit unsettling. Her nose is oddly shaped, clearly not natural; it reminds you of a panther. Her nails are thick, short and black, with the nailbeds being a purpley-black. Her gums and most of her veins have a blackish tint as well. While she was already a powerful woman before, the Entity has made her even moreso. She has a high tolerance to the elements in general, and the pads of her feet are rough and black like a dog’s paws.

This is probably obvious, but Anna dislikes men. ‘Hate’ is a strong word but she has an instant reaction to throwing an axe to anyone presenting as male - as opposed to a woman, where she might hesitate or observe before throwing it. She doesn’t like men talking to her, she doesn’t trust them, she gladly tosses them around like dolls during Trials. A man you greatly trust will not be free of her suspicion and ire, but she’s willing to be begrudgingly civil if you scold her.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

She dislikes cruelty, both in a partner and in people. Note, Anna doesn’t consider what she does to be cruel - she tries to minimize suffering, or at least, that’s what she believes. It’s why she has little patience for the other Killers. She also doesn’t like someone who might be secretive, or doesn’t trust her. She’s trying to help. Why would you leave without telling her? Can’t you see she’s doing what’s best for you? This stubbornness isn’t cute. 

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Anna can sleep anywhere. She can sleep sitting up or standing, on the hard ground or covered in a cloth under the snow. She’s become so accustomed to rough sleeping conditions that if ever given a chance to have a soft, clean bed, it would be a little disarming. The sheer softness would make it difficult to sleep - like she was going to fall through the fluff - and she’d probably accidentally rip any sheets. When she sleeps, she’s oddly still; only the soft noise coming from her nose is evidence she’s resting. It’s hard to tell if her eyes are closed with that mask on. Often, she sleeps with a hand on a hatchet.

[shokobuns]

something sweet

maybe having someone to help you out in the stockroom wasn't so bad after all.

PAIRING: itadori yuuji x reader

GENRE: fluff, strangers to lovers

WORD COUNT: 2.5k

WARNINGS: almost stabbed, mentions of sharp things (boxcutters and broken glass), making out

it’s not like you had a problem with the same menial tasks everyday.

in fact, you would even say that it was a fun way to spend your free period. it was better than doing some complicated assignment or even having to talk to people with your lack of sleep and patience. coffee never allowed for a proper nap no matter how exhausted you were and your teacher wouldn’t allow that anyways.

it was an easy job that you could do with minimal help. all you had to do was put the beakers away, clean up the floor once in awhile, maybe pop some bubble wrap when new packages arrived. being alone in the stockroom was nice because you were able to turn on some music on your headphones, do whatever dances you felt like doing as long as you were still doing your job. no help was needed or wanted.

“where should i put this?”

you jump, nearly stabbing the blonde haired boy behind you with a boxcutter. luckily, he was quick, jumping backwards with a yelp as you took a deep breath in to process the situation. you didn’t accidentally hurt the boy in front of you, did you? your face falls and the initial rush of fear turns into guilt. “i’m sorry! i didn’t know you were there!”

“it’s okay,’ he responds with a smile, unphased by the fact his shirt had almost been slashed, ‘i understand. you’re probably here alone most of the time, right?”

“yeah, i wasn’t expecting for anyone else to be here,” you sigh before realizing what he had probably walked in on before the whole ordeal, “wait.. did you see me doing anything?”

“you’re a pretty good dancer if that’s what you’re asking.”

embarrassment. your cheeks feel unbelievably hot and your stomach turns while embarrassment settles in your body. this period was your alone time, your chance to flail about and having someone else witness it? definitely not preferable. although, he does seem nice and he hasn’t made fun of you. not yet, at least.

his voice brings you out of your train of thought. “so, where should i put that thing?”

he carries on as if nothing happened. thank god. “the flask goes in that cabinet, bottom shelf. you’ll see more just like it.” you reply, pointing to the space.

he mumbles a quick thank you before doing unloading more of the new flasks onto the cabinet. you work on your own, choosing to count the new magnets on the other side of the room, doing your best to avoid him considering you just embarrassed yourself in front of the stranger by nearly injuring him for asking a simple question. though, he looks slightly familiar, he’ll probably be gone tomorrow and that’s all that matters.

behind you, yuji takes small glances while he puts away the flasks, waiting for you to turn around and ask for his name. hell, he’s waiting for any type of question. after all, who sees a random boy in their work space and doesn’t question it at all?

when the next day comes, you’re proven wrong because he sits in the chair, awaiting another order from you. you curse under your breath before putting on a faux smile. “do you need help with anything?”

“do you need help with anything?”

“no, thanks. i’m good on my own. you can go back to whatever you do in this period.”

he scratches his head, eyebrows furrowing together. “i thought you needed help. that’s what my math teacher told me when he sent me here.”

“not really? i can usually get a lot done on my own. who told you i needed help?”

“gojo. i’m his teacher assistant, but i don’t know how to do the math he’s teaching, so i can’t really help anyone.” he explains

“oh, yeah! i had him for calculus last semester,” your eyes light up at the mention of your favorite white haired mentor, “weird guy. good teacher.”

wait. gojo’s teacher assistant?

you’ve heard your friends talk about him, given that they were in that exact class the blonde haired boy was supposed to be in right now. the one guy that pe teachers fawn over and coaches try to recruit? why did they put him in the math department instead of pe? what’s his name again? yuki? yugi?

“you’re yuji itadori?”

“yuji itadori.” he confirms and you’re relieved. good thing you didn’t mess up his name.

no wonder he looked familiar. miwa was fascinated by his physical ability, you distinctly remember her pointing him out during lunch and telling you about how he was ‘scarily fast’ and could probably ‘lift ten of her at a time.’ although, it was from far away and he was partially blocked by a girl with short brown hair and megumi, the intimidating spikey haired quiet boy in some of your classes.

but yuji didn’t look like someone who could lift ten miwas up close. maybe he was hiding behind the oversized hoodie he wore, but he was a kind looking boy with wide eyes and messy tufts of strawberry blonde hair. throughout the short time you’ve seen him up close, he always had a slight smile on his resting face. in short, he looked approachable and was seemingly friendly.

“so, do you need help with anything?” he asks again and you decide that maybe he can be of use to you. especially if he has the strength that miwa had described.

“actually, yeah. can you lift those boxes over there and bring them to the other side of the room? they’re kind of heavy-”

she was correct because he lifts the box, which is supposedly about thirty kilograms according to your teacher, with ease. now, you don’t have to constantly go back and forth around the room just to put the packaged metal away in a farther cabinet and he can probably just put them away himself, too. it goes that way for the next hour and a half, both of you staying in your respective sides of the room, putting away your own respective items.

“thanks, itadori.”

“call me yuji.”

“will do.”

over the next two weeks, you two don’t talk as much as yuji had hoped.

he still remembers gojo’s words of encouragement, his push to get his favorite student to talk to the person who drops off notes to the teacher across the hallway from time to time. he’s never talked to you and he doubts you would even know that he existed in the first place. in fact, he was perfectly content with just stapling the papers that gojo would give him, maybe getting his own homework done in the period, but he was insistent.

“i’ve seen you staring outside the window whenever they pass by, yuji. just talk to them.”

“it’s okay.’

“no it’s not. get to know her. what if they’re nice? hmmmmm?”

“i’ll talk to her myself at some point.”

that was all it took for gojo to leave him alone, not that he didn’t like gojo or anything, especially with gojo being his second favorite teacher in the first place, but he’s content with his little crush. and again, he doubted that you would remember him in your history class and from the looks of it, he was right.

he just didn’t expect to be sent at the very stockroom that you would be in. for the rest of the semester. gojo had definitely set him up for something.

yuji was in that conflicting position in which he didn’t know whether to start a conversation or not because he didn’t want to bother you. but he also wanted to get to know you up close. of course he can sense your exhaustion himself through droopy eyelids that threaten to close and your dependence on caffeine, something he had learned about you so far in these few weeks. the only thing, it seems like.

as for you, a short talk with your science teacher confirmed that he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon and though you will miss dancing around the stockroom by yourself, he wasn’t bad company. he mostly kept to himself, often being more rigid when you barely spared him a glance. at the times you would speak to him, he seemed more excitable and easygoing, listening to every word you say.

“yuji?”

“hmm?”

“come help me by unboxing these beakers, alright?” you patted the spot next to you before sliding the blade down the tape, “don’t worry. i’m not gonna stab you.”

“i guess i’ll help,” he snorts, “don’t you usually do these by yourself?”

“yeah, but since you’re spending the semester with me in here, we might as well get to know each other right?”

the whirring of the fan, the sound of your voice — it all seemed to fade into the background as his heart thumped hard in his chest. a million thoughts, both good and bad, race through his head as he formulated different questions, answers, and scenarios in his mind, all of them being a jumble of fantasy and panic.

you wave a hand in front of his face in an attempt to catch his attention. he seemed completely frozen, staring at you with dead eyes and it’s now that you realize you haven’t seen him up this close. honey brown eyes, the soft curve of his nose, and were those crinkles under his eyes, too? up until now, you only knew him as the ‘athletic man who was bad at math’, but he was also undeniably beautiful with his carved face and strawberry blonde hair.

“yuuuuuuuji?”

“oh! i’m sorry! did you say you wanted to get to know me?”

“yeah, we’re kind of stuck in this room everyday for an hour and a half together. i might as well find out what your favorite color is or something.”

“red! my turn! what were you listening to when you almost stabbed me?”

“hey! it was an accident!” he giggles, slicing the tape seal down the middle and opening up the package and pointing right at it. “you see that? that could have been me. i should at least know what i’m being stabbed to.”

“meg thee stallion..”

“nevermind. she’s beautiful and i wouldn’t mind dying to her music.”

you snort, thinking up another question. maybe you should ask him about why that megumi guy was so gloomy? nope, might get too personal. what about the reason he’s here? nope, you already know.

“why don’t you do any sports even though you’re literally physically gifted?” you ask curiously. there’s still a smile on his face, but his expression becomes more wistful. you didn’t accidentally hit a spot, did you?

“my grandpa is in the hospital,” oh shit, you think, “i visit him everyday and if i was on a team, i would have to go to practice at the same time.”

“i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to hit a sensitive topic, but that’s sweet of you.’

“i don’t mind. and i’m sorry if i made you uncomfortable.”

“no, it’s alright. let’s just keep asking questions then, okay?”

he nods.

in one hour, you learn that yuji itadori also likes karaoke, rice bowls, and that he’s just as bad at science than math. ironic. and yuji enjoys getting to know more about you, falling into easy conversation, becoming less of a nervous wreck. the more you speak, the deeper he falls into the trance and he silently thanks gojo for letting him get a closer look because you’re even better than what he could have imagined.

but the period is coming to an end and it’s time for him to carry off the last box of beakers to his side of the room. at least there’s time for another question and it’s his turn to ask.

“what’s your type?”

you place your fingers on your chin as you think for a moment, finding a common trait in every crush for a proper answer.

“i guess my type would be sweet boys. with pretty faces, like you, i guess.”

the response is nonchalant and you don’t think twice about it. maybe you were a little too tired to process how he’d interpret it or maybe a little too tired to filter yourself, but it slips out of your mouth like butter and you’re completely unphased. shameless, even.

meanwhile, the box drops to the ground and like before, every other noise besides his own heartbeat fades into the background, even the sound of shattering glass. heat creeps of his neck into his cheeks until his face is burning, his feet stuck in their place and his palms becoming uncomfortably sweaty. his mouth is wide open, but no words come out.

“yuji! we need to clean this, hurry up!”

your voice brings him out of his thoughts as he realizes what’s been done and immediately snaps back to carefully, but quickly, picking up the shards of glass and placing them in this box. “i-i’m sorry!”

“don’t worry. just leave the box on the counter and we’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

maybe you didn’t quite realize what you had said or what effect you had on him during that time in the stockroom because you continue everyday as if nothing happened.

it’s been, what? a little over a three weeks? and sitting next to you still causes his mind to go to odd places, ones with you. he starts to notice little things about you, too. how your tongue peaks out of your mouth when you’re peeling another sheet of bubble wrap off of some glassware, how you only count in even numbers when you take inventory of the containers.

god, you were adorable.

“yuji?”

“yeah?”

“did gojo ever tell you that there’s no cameras in here?”

“no? i thought they had security cameras everywhere.”

“that’s only hallways and classrooms. there’s none of them here. do you know what that means?”

“what?”

his head is already turned in your direction, the perfect opportunity to lean in and catch his lips. it’s small and he’s hesitant at first, but before you know it, your hands tangle in his hair, bringing him closer to you. he tastes like something sweet, like cherries, and his lips are warm. one hand rests on your cheek, his thumb brushing against it endearingly. when he pulls away, both of you are panting for air, the packages long forgotten.

“this sounds bad, but i’m glad that you’re terrible at math.”

“thanks.” he laughs and admires the look of your heated cheeks and swollen lips before pulling you back in for another searing kiss.

sure. being in that room by yourself could be fun, a perfect break with menial tasks lacking human interaction. you were far too tired to be patient with other people. but there was an exception.

© this is a work of @crybabygumi, all rights reserved. do not plagiarize, copy, or repost.

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

So what exactly do you think about the whole vampire “mate” thing? Along with the whole idea that the vampire emotional nature is like “stone” and thus can only love romantically the once?

Mates? I don’t think they exist.

Alright, fine, a serious answer.

I think it’s not so much mates, per se, that there’s one person out there for you in the whole wide world and if you miss them you’re a soulless husk forever but a product of vampire neurology. 

It’s not so much that vampires don’t change, or at least, no less than humans do (we tend not to change without catalyst either). However, I do think that vampires are a bit more stubborn in their nature than us humans and their profound memory helps them along.

A vampire never forgets the joy of being in love, never forgets what they initially loved about their partner, and in the case of Marcus never forgets the grief of losing them. 

But I think they feel love, sorrow, anger, etc. as much as we humans do. They just have this overly romantic mythos that they themselves have bandied about for thousands of years.

What do I mean?

Well, the ‘mates’ we see are unconvincing. There’s Marcus, yes, and it’s implied that he had something truly profound with Didyme. But what about the others?

The Cullen Family alone is full of disastrous marriages that will fall apart any second now.

Bella/Edward is such a shit show of yikes involving no love whatsoever and more the lust that a lion feels when about to feast on a gazelle (that Edward also uses this analogy really says something to me). Remember that Meyer presents Bella/Edward as the best and brightest of all the mated pairs.

Edward marries and falls in love with her while she’s still human, a very rare phenomenon. He tries to leave her but finds himself physically unable to, within six months both he and Bella attempt suicide (nevermind that Bella was clinically depressed and Edward is in love with his own tragic theater and martyrdom). 

Meyer describes them of having the wonderful spiritual connection of Carlisle/Esme and the physical intamacy of Rosalie/Emmett (which of course means that Rosalie and Emmett are the only couple in this goddamn house that actually have any sexual intercourse). 

This is the love story the entire series hinges on.

And it’s like a virtual novel where you’re playing as Bella Swan, and if you made even one, small, wrong choice along the way Vampire Patrick Bateman sneaks into your room and devours you, your father, and maybe your entire graduating class.

By some miracle, Bella unwittingly travels the golden path. For her, that is, for everyone else it will end in very very bad places.

Then we have Carlisle/Esme, where they seem to be held together by wishful thinking and denial. Neither is really what the other wants, they share completely different values, their miscommunication is profound, and while I won’t get into it here I will say that I think they very likely have 0 physical intimacy for a variety of reasons.

Edward looks to Carlisle/Esme as his ideal relationship and what he wants to recreate with Bella. Which is... very Edward.

The only ones in the Cullens not a complete disaster, but still should have couple’s therapy, are Rosalie and Emmett. And here’s where I go, “alright, maybe there’s something to this mated pair thing”. Because the story of Rosalie is she finds this man torn apart by bears, after having been a victim of gang rape, carries his bleeding carcass for miles, dumps him on Carlisle’s table, and says, “MAKE ME A HUSBAND”. And it somehow works out for them. It’s the world’s weirdest pairing, in Midnight Sun we learn that Rosalie is just as weirded out as we the audience are, because her brain just tells her that this man is her husband.

So perhaps there’s some instinctual connection, but we certainly don’t see it in all vampire couples. So, if the mate thing does exist, I suspect it’s a) extremely rare b) is probably not one unique match in all the world.

That said though, even Rosalie and Emmett have issues and I’d hardly call them soulmates. They don’t really get each other, I think. Emmett certainly doesn’t understand Rosalie and I think Rosalie does find Emmett is often a boor. They love each other, certainly like each other, but they’re not two connecting puzzle pieces.

Otherwise, outside of these guys there’s... Pretty much Marcus.

Aro is gay, clearly enamored with Carlisle, and locked his wife in a tower.

Caius also locked his wife in a tower.

Eleazar left the Volturi for Carmen, but Eleazar is a dick and useless (this is for another meta). By the sounds of it Aro was jumping at an excuse to get rid of him.

Marcus, mourning for two-thousand years straight, is enough to convince me that something’s up. However, he could simply have been in love the way elves in LotR love, and they don’t have soulmates either.

Plus, mates are so cheap to me.

Every time, every time, I see it used it’s a cheap prop to do away with actually convincing us this is a convincing and moving love story.

Bella and Edward belong together because they’re soulmates.

Kylo-Ren and Rey are a dyad in the Force and therefore their love is a great one.

Tom Riddle and Harry Potter have their names written on each others arms in your fanfiction du jour and it’s very angsty because they’re soulmates with their greatest enemy and someone they don’t even like. Don’t ask how they could possibly be soulmates in this scenario, they just are, because I say so.

Every time you resort to using mates to convince your audience that your pairing is a superior love a puppy dies. 

Right, the falling in love romantically once, well look at my fics and I clearly don’t believe that. What I will say is that vampires can hold onto their memories longer than us, so if they want to reminisce over being romantically in love, they can, and falling in love with someone else might be harder for them. 

However, I don’t think there’s anything stopping them. We see many vampires with very complicated and frankly very human relationships. They play themselves for fools, yearn, and settle for people they do not truly love just as much as we humans do. 

[aravas-writing]

Secret Star AU: Yang finds the movie(s) Jaune did with another blonde, for some Brother and Sister Bonding, now wants that for herself.

She couldn't help herself.

Yang just had to watch another video of her childhood friend! The first time she found out about his prior employment, she guiltily watched one of his works.

And it was good.

Dammit, she shamelessly touched herself to Jaune pounding some girl into the mattress, relishing the sight, drinking in his form as she envied the girl who got three creampie from him.

Three!

Today would be another day where the blonde had the opportunity to lust after her childhood friend. It was a bit pathetic for her, but...

She was really nervous, okay?!

Therefore, in part to build courage and in part for self-indulgence, she went on the site and searched for his porn handle. Now she had to-

...

"Stepsister home alone fucked by stepbro?" Yang whispered in disbelief as she stared at the title. She saw some blonde girl with a long braid getting it hard and good from the guy. That one could actually pass as an Arc girl.

Yang tapped the video, then made sure her headphones were alright.

"Ah, home alone," the blonde girl sighed as she strode around in a blouse and skirt combo, with leggings hugging her thighs. She strode around empty halls And started to smile as she heard a shower running.

Blondie hummed and Yang knew what was going to happen. Fairly old-fashioned as a scenario, but effective regardless. The shower turned off, and Braid pranced towards the bathroom door, biting her lip in anticipation.

Right on cue, Jaune came out and Yang's hand moved over her mons. Fit, but not quite cut and chiseled, he still looked yummy go the maiden in love.

Who watched him rail another girl who pretended to be his sister.

Why was the incest angle suddenly hot?! Yang played with her clit a little as she bit her lip.

"Gah!" Girl startled him, letting him drop his flimsy towel. "What are you doing?!"

"What do you think, bro?" She cooed as she pulled really close to him, grabbing his flaccid dick. She started pumping it slowly. "Mom and dad aren't home for the weekend, so we got the house all to ourselves."

He breathed a little deeper, his cock growing in her hand, but then Jaune pushed her away. "We can't! Last time was a mistake, and you know it!"

Braid stood by her desires as Yang realized that there was a bit of a deeper story to this after all. "You know that you want me, too." Her blouse dropped to the floor, exposing a blue brassiere cupping full breasts. "I'm pretty sure no other girl could drain you like I can."

"I..." he tried as his make-believe sister slowly undressed before him. "I can try looking for one..."

"Why do that?" Her bra came off now, exposing pink nipples. Yang pinched her own as Jaune's cock twitched. "I'm here and all yours."

With her piece said, Braid then sank to her knees and took Jaune into her mouth. "Oh fuck," he sighed, and Yang could tell that he gave in in that moment, ready for debauchery with his sister.

Yang was also blonde; she could work that angle. Thinking about that riled the pugilist up like nothing else, why was it that way, damn if she didn't want to go "What are you doing, step bro" with him!

Jaune gasped as Braid sucked him off with gusto, gazing up at him adoringly as she worked the shaft. The sister was sucking on his cock noisily and spreading saliva all over it.

Jaune was so fucking hard for his stepsister.

"Come on," Braid beckoned as she stood up, pressing a kiss to his collar and then taking his hand to drag him off to her room.

Yang was masturbating openly now. No more teasing! She was feeling too hot and bothered for this! Her fingers burrowed in between her folds, imagining it to be Jaune.

The guy was feeling as hot and bothered as Yang was, as Braid was suddenly pushed on to the bed, with him looming over his stepsister.

"The whole weekend, huh? I only need you, huh?" Jaune was being aggressive all of a sudden and it sent a shiver through Yang. "You have this whole weekend to prove it, sis."

"Fuck yeah," she moaned out, then repeated it louder when he entered her.

Yang came. Jaune was being aggressive and forceful as fuck with that stepsister, not giving her a moment of rest as he beat up her pussy. Braid was really enjoying the treatment as he suddenly came inside if her, making her squeal.

And he didn't stop! Jaune just kept fucking this girl.

"You better...keep your word!" He roared as he fucked her, his hands groping her tits as he ravished his fucking stepsis. "You are going to be my fucking onahole, sis!"

"Yes!" Yang gasped, before silencing herself. Damn, she should turn the video off...but he was turning her around, getting her into doggystyle, grabbing her hips to breed his fucking sister-

"I'm back!"

Nevermind! The video was quickly shut off, hand out of her pants as she pulled the sheets over her just a bit more.

Thank fuck for precautions.

"Hey, Rubes." Yang tried to sound nonchalant as she wiggled her feet under her sheets a little, to make it seem like she got comfy. Though, within her mind, the step fantasy replayed in vivid detail, though with herself instead of the braided girl.