#she's not going after both at the same time or anything and/or just felt the best way to describe it

[wndaswife]

To your stepmother’s surprise, you come home from a Christmas party asking for her to care for you; it’s been months since her wedding to your father and months since you’ve paid her any attention at all.

Tags: angst, kiiinda fluffy, stepmom wanda loving you so so much, almost nearly unrequited love

drabble for matriarchal disturbance

I forgot my keys. 

You texted Wanda some time during the evening once you realized you had forgotten them, and since she was the only one at home until tomorrow, she’d have to let you in. Or at least keep the door unlocked. 

Oh no. It’s okay, I have work to do so I can unlock the door when you come home. :)

It was Christmas break and you were home for just a little, so you were out drinking with some friends from high school and some of their new college friends. 

Wanda had texted you a week or two prior asking when you might be coming home. You didn’t answer — you didn’t ever feel in the mood to talk with your stepmother — but you knew it was still her curiosity talking through your father when he called a few days after you left her on read, asking the same question. 

They were both happy to have you home, but Wanda particularly, though you could tell she was trying not to be overbearing. 

She offered to make you tea or coffee once you were unpacking and offered to make you whatever you wanted for dinner that evening, and very subtly tried asking if you’d be home all break or if you might consider staying longer than when you planned to leave. 

Your holiday break ended much later than the day you were planning on leaving, but you didn’t want to stay around much longer than was necessary — you’d spend New Year’s at home, and then you’d leave. 

You weren’t really excited to be home, but you weren’t so cruel as to not come back for the holidays. 

Still, you weren’t really looking forward to having to deal with your stepmother’s longing, curious looks, always wanting to talk with you or bring something up but not knowing how to and not wanting to spoil her limited time with you. 

The feeling you got from seeing her look at you from the corner of your eye wasn’t necessarily all a form of annoyance, but some kinds of pity too, and perhaps some guilt. 

There was something about the Christmas party that sorta had you feeling down, and you weren’t quite sure what it was, though perhaps it was simply because there were many things that had bothered you and you just couldn't pin it down to one thing. 

It was something about meeting some of your friends’ other friends, and even some of their new partners. You hadn’t drunk anything, and perhaps it would’ve been worse for you if you did — you tended to get a bit more emotional while drunk. 

All in all, you just felt… left out. And like you were missing something, or like you never wanted to be there at all. 

You wanted to be somewhere you belonged and where your presence was not only enjoyed but needed — somewhere it was warm and loving and kind and soft. 

While seeing all your friends together with their new ones and their partners, you just kept thinking of Wanda.

And you really hated yourself for it. 

You wanted to go home to see her, and you knew you couldn’t stop it, because you’d been thinking of her all night. So you drank enough to feel just a little drunk — to get just enough confidence to make a bad decision — and went back home early. 

From the window facing the street, you could see through the curtains that the living room lamp was on.

Wanda opened the door when you knocked like she said she would. From the door, you could see a book laying on the couch. She smiled at the sight of you. 

“Did you have fun?” she asked immediately, stepping back a bit to allow you in. Then she said sympathetically after taking a better look at you, “You look a bit tired.”

You thanked the stars for having taken a few shots before you left. 

You stepped into the house and wrapped your arms around Wanda, feeling the warmth of her knitted sweater against your cheek, then against the tip of your nose when you turned your head to bury your face in the crook of her neck. Her hair tickled the space between your eyebrows. 

There was a split moment before she wrapped her arms around you that would have been indiscernible if you hadn’t felt how immediate her embraces were a million-and-one times before. 

“Y/N, are you okay?” Wanda asked, having turned her head to look down at you so the breath of her soft whispered voice blew warm and gentle against your ear. 

“I wanna be your baby again,” you confessed — stupidly. 

Wanda tried to speak immediately for how she felt deep in her chest when you spoke the words she had only dreamt would come out of your mouth ever since the wedding, but found she could speak only in stutters. 

Then she finally said, “You’ll always be my baby, Y/N.”

You hugged her tighter and you knew that if you hadn’t been just a little bit drunk, you would’ve been angry at what she had just said. But now, it could nearly make you cry. 

“Can you bring me to bed?” you mumbled quietly into her neck, still seemingly a bit embarrassed through your drunken state. 

“Of course,” she answered, smiling down at you. This was the closest you’d been to her in months, and likely the longest you’ve spoken to her with undivided attention in that same span of time too. She almost didn’t want to move at all for how you’d unwrap your arms from around her once you headed up the stairs together. 

You unwrapped yourself from around her body and she closed and locked the front door; you’d literally just been standing embracing each other in the wide-open doorway for several moments. 

Then you swiped at your eyes when you pulled away in case you accidentally had cried. 

Wanda smiled at you sweetly, and a bit tiredly too, and you knew she must’ve finished her work a little bit ago and decided to stay up to wait for you. She took your hand and you walked up the stairs beside each other in silence. 

She squeezed your hand and you squeezed back, and Wanda looked over her shoulder at you shyly as you stared down at the steps of the staircase. 

“Can I help you get ready for bed?” she asked once you both arrived in front of the washroom. 

You nodded silently then looked up at her with a small smile. “I just have to get my stuff from my bags,” you told her. Then, a bit hesitantly, you let go of her hand and walked towards your bedroom. 

Wanda turned on the washroom light and paced around a little, playing with the knitted fabric of her sweater nervously and checking her hair a bit in the mirror, and even trying to repress a tiny smile as she couldn’t help but make comparisons to how it all used to be before the wedding. 

But she didn’t want to get ahead of herself — after all, every day after this would be different, and whatever had caused you to come seeking her comfort wasn’t guaranteed to happen again from tonight onwards. 

You came into the washroom with a little bag of your toiletries and started unpacking them, starting with makeup wipes and face wash then everything else. 

“Come lean against the counter,” Wanda said, and you did. She began removing your makeup with one of your makeup wipes, the fingers of her other hand delicately perched under your chin to keep your face in the light. 

She was gentle with how she swiped against your face, and thorough with taking all the makeup off. 

Wanda was always so nice and gentle. In taking care of you, and in treating you in any way, really, she always did it as if you were delicate, and special to her too. She never wanted to hurt you, never wanted to make you feel like you weren't the most important thing in the world to her. 

You felt like crying, but really didn’t want to ruin how casual you were trying to make everything seem. 

She must’ve noticed how your eyes were filling with tears because once she finished she set the makeup wipe down and held you to her chest wordlessly, running her hand down the side of your head soothingly with her other arm wrapped around your waist. 

She seemed to understand that you still had your reservations about being with her like this again, and that you weren’t trying not to get into things too quickly. 

Even so, she couldn’t help but… hope, even just a little, that the feeling of how she held you and brought you close might make you miss her enough to want to be her baby again for more than just an evening. 

“I’m gonna brush my teeth and stuff,” you mumbled and straightened out of her hold, swiping at your eyes again.

Wanda packed up your makeup wipes and slid it back into the toiletry bag you brought. 

Quietly, you asked, “Can I sleep with you?”

You weren’t really sure where to look when you asked, so you tried to keep busy getting your toothbrush ready. 

But when Wanda replied with a gentle, almost eager, ‘Of course,’ you couldn’t help but look over at her to see her smiling at you.

You looked away while she told you that she would also change and get ready while she waited for you — her shared bedroom had a washroom in it. 

Wanda felt ridiculous for how she felt in her stomach — a familiar fluttering feeling dancing around where it would when you were still together. Sometimes Wanda reasoned the memory of the feeling up to a fantasy, that perhaps she may have recalled it as differently as it had been for it’d been so long since she’d felt it. 

But it was exactly the same as she recalled. 

And it was only with you. 

She hadn’t realized she had been smiling until she heard you come into the bedroom, and she instinctively relaxed her face so as to not be overzealous and overwhelm you. 

“Are you ready for bed?” she asked, closing the door of the walk-in closet as she stood in her pajama shorts and tank. 

You nodded then looked away from her for how happy you felt to be asked that, to soon be adorned by Wanda’s kisses and touched by her gentle, loving hands and embraced by her arms the moment you got into bed. 

Wanda seemed to be hesitant at your reluctance for a moment. Her fingers twitched with the urge to walk over and embrace you, to kiss your lips and lead you to her bed. But instead, restraining herself, she went to bed first, getting under the covers and looking over at you encouragingly. 

Silently, you followed after closing the bedroom door. 

She turned off the lamp on her side and you hesitated for a moment before you reached over and did the same. 

Then you were blanketed in the darkness of the bedroom, and for a moment you couldn’t see Wanda in your peripheral vision at all; you could for a moment construe the feelings of blankets under your hands as being in your own bed instead of hers. 

For a moment you felt glad to imagine you had made it all up, but then you felt terribly disappointed and lonely again. 

Without Wanda, it was always just a little bit… lonely. 

But the burst of sudden feelings was contained only within a few moments’ time, for your eyes soon adjusted and you could see the shadow of your stepmother beside you. 

She reached out for you, her hand moving under the blankets and placing it on your bare thigh. She moved closer. 

“Don’t be nervous,” she said quietly. “It’s okay.”

You’d been here before — in Wanda’s bed without your dad being home, in her company, in the spotlight of her undivided attention, in the warm shower of all her heart could pour out for you and only you. 

It was was familiar with Wanda and you knew it for it was the closest thing you’d felt in a while to being somewhere you were certain you belonged in. 

Then she added, “I want you here, Y/N.”

Like you had asked her, Wanda babied you — she cared for you. Her other hand wrapped around your waist and she slowly urged your body to lay down beside her. 

She didn’t stop there; she moved herself onto her elbow only slightly to gain height over you, then cupped your furthest cheek with her hand. She kissed your face gently, tenderly, on your temple then on your cheekbone, and your chin. 

Not your lips — not unless it was you who made an advance towards her first. 

You turned and wrapped an arm around her torso securely, burying your face in her chest. She lowered herself back down and wrapped her arms around you immediately. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you muttered against her, “I love you.”

In the morning when you arose before her, you carefully peeled yourself away from a soundly-sleeping Wanda. There was a pang in your chest as you sat at the edge of the bed, recalling how she held you close after you had told her you loved her.

She held you in a way that communicated desperation and longing; it wasn’t only sweet and tender like she always was, but pained, too. She had cradled the back of your head to her chest, rubbed your upper back and pressed her lips against the top of your head. 

She might’ve nearly said that she loved you a fourth time, though you presumed she had tried to contain the way she wanted to pour herself out for you right then and there. 

You turned and watched as she dozed, her body the very same that you were held against through the night, the same you had thrown yourself into her arms of and were accepted and loved and cared for like you wanted, like Wanda wanted. 

How at peace she seemed having gone to sleep with you in her arms, with all she had been longing for warm in her embrace and sleeping in the eternal comfort of her loving. 

If you were honest with yourself, and you tried to be for how often you lied to Wanda, you didn’t think it was a lie when you told her you loved her, for you still did. 

And you still could, inviting her over to your place and responding to her calls and texts when you were away, letting her care for you and at the very least not pretend she wasn’t always looking at you, waiting only for your eye contact as cue for her to bring up one of the dozens of questions and worries she had about the life that you no longer shared with her — which was to say, all of it. 

Wanda stirred and her fingers flexed outwards slightly, reflecting a slowly-rising sun’s beams against her wedding ring, before she relaxed again, still in deep sleep. 

Just under an hour later once Wanda woke up to find you gone, she texted asking where you were. 

When she texted, you knew that she must have looked first to see if you had moved to your own bed, for you had left and decided to go on a drive. 

She messaged: Have you gone out?

Sitting in a parking lot of a walking trail with the breakfast you picked up, the sun only just having fully risen, you texted back. 

Forgot something at Kate’s last night.

She asked if you were going to eat breakfast there or if you would be home to have breakfast with her; she’d make some now so it could be ready by the time you got back. 

You tried to keep eating after choosing to leave your stepmother on read, but soon lost your appetite. Instead, you went on a walk that lasted until the early afternoon when your dad got back home. 

As you had planned, you went back to your place on the second of January, and that evening wasn’t ever brought up. 

[lvnleah]

Drunken Kisses | Leah Williamson

Based on this and this request combined :)

Summary: after years of you and Leah being best friends you drunkenly sleep together after the last game of the season. you agree to stay just friends but things change between the pair of you, leading to awkwardness and you both avoiding each other.

Warnings: 18+ this piece of writing contains smut. this is not intended for anyone under the age of 18.

Word count is 4.3k :)

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The dimly lit bar buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses. It was a Friday night, and the air was thick with anticipation. It was the end of the season so you and some of your teammates decided to go out for drinks.

It was a bittersweet moment. Your closest friend, Viv, was leaving the team after seven long years so everyone was celebrating her time at the club. You were all sat at a round table, you were sandwiched between your bestfriends Leah and Beth.

Leah’s hand rested casually on your thigh, and the warmth of her touch sent a jolt through your body. She had always been close to you, but tonight, something was different. The tension between you was palpable, even amidst the noisy crowd. Her fingers traced patterns on your thigh, and every brush of skin left you craving more of her. The tension between you could be felt by everyone in the room despite a lot of them being in a drunken state.

Leah leaned close to your ear, you felt her breath against your neck, “Want another drink?”

Your breath hitched in your chest, you didn’t know what was wrong with you tonight but you just wanted to smash your lips against Leah’s.

You nodded, “Yeah I’ll have another one.” You held your glass out to Leah and she slipped out of the round table booth.

Beth leaned close to you, “What going on with you and Leah?” She shouted over the music.

“What do you mean?” A nervous laugh escaped you. You thought you were the only one that had caught Leah’s quick glances and flirty looks.

You’d been best friends with Leah since you were fourteen, you’d met at an England camp and had been inseparable ever since. You’d always been close, you’d always cuddled on the sofa together and slept over at each other's houses in the same bed. You’d never felt anything romantic towards her but tonight was different.

“Oh don’t deny it!” Beth groaned, “There’s something going on between you.”

Before you had the chance to say anything, Leah returned to the table with two drinks in her hand. She set one down in front of you and slid back into the booth.

“Dance with me,” Leah said in your ear, her hand still back to tracing patterns on your thigh.

You nodded, “Okay then but don’t embarrass me!”

The pulsing beat of the music seemed to synchronise with the rapid thud of your heart as Leah led you away from the table. The dimly lit dance floor beckoned, and you followed her, your hand slipping into hers. The crowd swirled around you, bodies moving in rhythm, but all you could focus on was the warmth of Leah's palm against yours.

As you stepped onto the dance floor, Leah pulled you close. Her body pressed against yours, and the scent of her perfume enveloped you. The world around you was forgotten, it was just the two of you.

Her hands ran up and down your hips, feeling out every curve and edge of your skin. Leah's eyes looked into yours, and you could see the desire there. She leaned in, her lips brushing against your ear.

“You look stunning tonight.” She whispered before pulling back.

“Thank you.” You murmured. You and Leah didn’t say anything, you just stared at each other and you danced to the music.

And then, in a moment of serendipity, your lips brushed. Soft, hesitant. A mistake, perhaps. But neither of you pulled away. Instead, you leaned into the kiss, your hearts pounding in sync.

Leah’s right hand pressed on your lower back, pushing your hips together as she took your breath away. Her left hand cupped your face, fingers spread under your jaw as her lips so perfectly moulded against your own, her tongue brushing my bottom lip.

Against your better judgement, you parted your lips and allowed the kiss to deepen, butterflies swarming your stomach with every touch you got from her. Your free hand flew to the back of her neck, a moan so close to slipping from your mouth.

“Back to mine?” Leah mumbled against your lips.

You pulled her back into a kiss, nodding against her lips. You pulled back from the kiss, your hand found Leah’s as she pulled you to the table. Your teammates were now also dancing, giving you the perfect chance to slip away without any questions.

Grabbing your stuff, you slipped out of the bar and grabbed a taxi. The kissing continued during the five minute drive and before you knew it you were at Leah’s apartment. You could barely let each other go as you made your way up in the elevator.

As the door swung open, Leah pulled you inside. She kissed you again, her lips hungry and urgent. You stumbled towards her bed, shedding clothes along the way. Your laughter turned into gasps, Leah’s kisses desperate. As your bodies tangled, you realised that this was no accident and was something that you had both wanted for a long time.

You fell back onto the bed, Leah falling on top of you, never breaking the kiss. You were both in just a bra and your underwear, you could feel the wetness pooling between your legs.

Leah broke the kiss and started to kiss her way down your neck and body, the kisses were a mixture of soft and rough but full of love.

“Do you want this?” Leah asked, breaking the kisses once again to get your permission.

“Yes Leah,” you moaned, scooping her hair up into a makeshift ponytail, “Please just fuck me.”

She continued her kisses and stopped at your breasts, her hand palmed at them as she placed gentle kisses all around. She whispered sweet words between the kisses.

Leah tutted, “Such a needy girl,” she whispered, slipping her hand in your lace underwear. Your breath hitched as she flicked her thumb over your clit, “You’re so wet for me, baby.”

She began to rub gentle circles over your clit, strings of pleads and moans slipping from your mouth. She parted your legs and slipped between them, you whined at the loss of contact on your clit as she pulled your underwear down your legs and threw them somewhere across the room to later be found.

Leah’s soft lips placed gentle kisses against up and down your thighs, each time she edged closer and closer to your throbbing clit. You ran your hand through her hair, scooping it up once again into a ponytail.

Arching your back, moans continued to slip from your mouth, “Leah please do something, I’m begging you!”

A whine slipped from your mouth as Leah blew cool air onto your swollen clit before taking it into her mouth. With her arm wrapped over your hips, she began to suck and run her tongue over your clit. Your moans became louder and louder as Leah worked her tongue on your clit.

“L-Leah fuck!” You gripped onto her hair, lightly pulling at it, “I’m so c-close, fuck.”

Just as you came close to cumming, Leah detached her mouth from your sensitive bud. A laugh escaped her, “Not cuming that quickly, baby.”

Your breath hitched once again and your body squirmed as Leah ran her finger through your drenched folds. With no warning, her mouth latched back onto your pussy. Your hips began to slowly grind against her face as she switched between sucking and flicking her tongue against your clit.

A gasp left your mouth as Leah slipped two fingers into your entrance, she sucked at your clit while her fingers slipped in and out. Strings of moans continued to leave your mouth as you pulled Leah’s head closer to your pussy, begging for more. Her fingers hit all the right places, edging you closer and closer.

“Leah fuck,” your legs wrapped around Leah’s head, gripping her in place, “Fuck, yes! Right there.” You moaned as Leah hit your sweet spot.

“Cum for me baby.” Leah mumbled against your skin. “I love hearing those pretty moans of yours.”

Your legs began to shake, your muscles tightened and an overwhelming sensation overcame you as you reached your high. You clenched around Leah’s fingers before spilling your juices all over her fingers.

Pulling her fingers out, Leah sat up and licked your cum off her fingers, “It’s going to be a long night, baby.” She winked.

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The morning sun filtered through the curtains, it’s warmthing echoing down on you and Leah. Your head throbbed, and your mouth was dry. Last night was a blur.

You knew that last night had escalated quickly. You could remember the drinks, laughter, and then Leah and you stumbling into her apartment, giggling like schoolgirls as you couldn’t let each other go.

You remembered collapsing onto her bed and your lips never leaving Leah’s. You leaned over the edge of the bed and looked at the clothes that were scattered around the room. Memories of Leah going down on you flooded back, the way she felt between your legs entered your mind.

You both went multiple rounds and both had multiple orgasms, everytime Leah made you cum you were begging for more. You’d never experienced sex like it before.

As you blocked your eyes from the harsh sunlight, reality crashed down on you. Last night was the best night of your life but you couldn’t let your feelings be known to Leah, you couldn’t risk losing her as a friend. You had to follow her lead.

Even though it was the best sex you’d ever had, you couldn’t let it happen again despite how much you wanted it to. You enjoyed it but now you were regretting it and the way it could potentially ruin your friendship with Leah.

Leah stirred beside you, her legs tangled with yours under the sheets, her eyelids fluttered open. Her eyes widened when she saw you, and you could practically hear her thoughts racing. You’d both crossed a line, and there was no going back.

"Hey," you croaked, your voice scratchy and tender. "Morning.

Leah sat up, pulling the sheet with her as she rubbed her forehead, "Morning," she replied, her voice equally hoarse. "About last night..."

"Yeah," you said, your heart sinking at what was about to happen. "We were drunk."

She dropped her gaze to her hands. "Yeah, I think it’s best if we stay just friends. I don’t want anything to be ruined between us."

"Just friends," you echoed, but the words tasted bitter on your tongue. You’d been friends for years but now it was something else entirely.

Leah swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and you followed suit. You dressed in silence, avoiding each other's eyes. The room felt smaller, suffocating. You needed air.

You stepped out onto the balcony, the cool breeze hit your face. You leaned against the railing, staring out at the city below. Leah joined you, her shoulder brushing yours.

"I never meant for this to happen,” Leah said finally.

"Me neither," you admitted. "But it did."

She turned to you, her expression pained. "Do you regret it?”

You swallowed hard. "No,” you shook your head, “but we need to just pretend it never happened."

Leah nodded and you stayed outside, the weight of last night hanging in the air between you.

"I, erm, I should go," you awkwardly said, pointing to the door over your shoulder.

Leah nodded, “Yeah, umm, yeah right. I’ll see you later?”

You nodded, “Yeah, I’ll text you.” And with that you left Leah’s apartment. You left her on the balcony, thinking about the night before.

As you walked down the stairs, your heart ached. You ordered an uber and gave them Beth’s address, you just needed somewhere to go. Tears blurred your vision as the uber drove away from Leah's apartment. The radio played love songs whilst the driver tried to make some small talk, eventually giving up.

The drive to Beth's house felt like an eternity. The weight of last night clung to your skin, you needed to talk to someone, to unload the tangled mess of emotions that were suffocating you.

Beth opened the door before you could even knock, her eyes widening when she saw your tear-streaked face. "What happened?" she asked, pulling me inside.

You collapsed onto her couch, the fabric cool against your skin. "Leah," you managed to say, your voice cracking. "It happened with Leah."

Beth sat beside you, concern etching her features. "What happened? Did you two fight?"

"No," you whispered. "We... crossed a line. And now everything's awkward."

Beth's eyebrows shot up. "Crossed a line? What do you mean?"

You took a deep breath, the words tumbling out. "We slept together. Last night. And it was amazing, but now I don't know how to act around her. We agreed to be just friends but I don’t think I can be."

Beth pulled you into a reassuring hug and Viv appeared in the living room. "Oh, darling," she said softly. "You're in deep, aren't you?"

You nodded, tears threatening to spill again. "I can't look at her without remembering her lips on mine. And the way she looked at me—like I was everything."

Beth leaned back, studying your face. "So, what now?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I told her we should pretend it never happened after she said it was best just being friends."

Viv sat across from you, just as concerned as Beth as Myle jumped up onto your lap, “What happened?”

You laughed as Myle licked your tear stained cheeks, “Slept with Leah and now it’s weird.”

Viv’s mouthed formed into an ‘o’ shape, “Sometimes things happen, Beth’s a firm believer they happen for a reason and maybe they do.”

Beth's gaze softened. "Sometimes, you have to risk it. Love isn't always neat and convenient. It's messy and complicated."

You wiped your cheeks, smudging mascara. "I'm a mess."

"You're human," Beth corrected. "And humans make mistakes.”

Viv sighed, “Me and Beth were scared when we first got together, we didn’t want to ruin things. Maybe that’s what you’re both scared of?”

You nodded, “I don’t want things to be awkward between everyone at Arsenal and I don’t want to lose Leah either.”

“You won’t,” Beth said, “I promise you, you won’t. If you both like each other then you’ll make things work, and don’t worry about Arsenal. It’s your life, no one else’s.”

“Why don’t you give it a few days,” Viv suggested, “Think about how you feel and what you want to say and then talk to Leah about your feelings and see how she feels.”

You nodded, “Yeah I will, I just don’t want to mess things up.”

Days turned into weeks and those weeks were awkward between you and Leah. The days after the hookup, you and Leah barely spoke or texted. Everything was radio silent.

Each time you went to text her, you chickened out and put your phone back down telling yourself you’d do it later. Then, a week after you hooked up, you both were at the England camp. You expected to talk to her a few times but things were just awkward, at least a minimum of five words were exchanged between you.

Usually you’d be inseparable, you’d share a room and be partners for everything but that camp you spent most of your time with Beth. Beth tried to help you gain courage to talk to Leah but it was too much and each time you failed at it.

One evening, after camp had ended, a few of the girls decided to go out to a club.

The neon lights of the club pulsed in sync with your racing heart. The music thumped through the floor, blaring in your ears. You pushed through the crowd, your eyes scanning for Leah. The tension between you both had grown unbearable and tonight you were wanting to do something about it.

You spotted Leah near the bar, her blonde hair was shorter than the other day. She was laughing, her eyes crinkling at the corners. But it wasn't her laughter that caught your attention. It was the girl she was kissing. A stranger, her lips pressed against Leah's with an intensity that made your stomach twist.

You froze, your breath catching. The club's heat suffocated you, and you stumbled backward, crashing into Beth who had followed behind you. She steadied you, concern etching her features.

"Hey," she said softly. "You okay?"

You shook your head, unable to tear your eyes away from Leah. The girl's hands were tangled in Leah's hair, pulling her closer. It was like watching your own heart being torn apart.

Beth guided you towards the exit, away from the pulsing lights and the ache in your chest. You stumbled out into the cool night air, the city sounds a stark contrast to the chaos inside. Beth phoned a cab, and you climbed in, the silence heavy between us.

As the cab pulled away, you finally found your voice. "Why did I even come here tonight?" You whispered.

Beth's gaze softened. "Because you wanted to sort things with Leah, let’s get you back to the hotel."

Back at the hotel, you collapsed onto the bed, your mind a whirlwind of emotions. The kiss, the avoidance, the ache—it all felt too much. Beth sat beside you, her presence a comfort.

You laid there, clutching your pillow as Beth soothingly ran her hand through your hair. Your heart ached as tears streamed down your face.

You felt dumb. There was no reason for you to feel like this.

Leah wasn’t even your girlfriend.

She was just your best friend.

That night you fell asleep, tears still falling down your face while Beth comforted you.

Now, three weeks later, you were currently at four weeks of not speaking to Leah and those four weeks had been hell. You were missing your best friend and it was impacting your life but you couldn’t bear to see her with other girls. You were barely touching your food and your whole life felt a mess.

You’d avoided Leah as much as you could, each time you saw her was a reminder of that night in the club. Your heart was broken over a girl you weren’t even dating.

You felt so many emotions towards Leah and yourself.

You felt angry, angry that she’d kissed another girl despite not being romantically together. It felt like a betrayal, even though there were no promises between you.

You felt sad that she’d not been in contact.

You felt angry at yourself for not telling how you felt. You tried to convince yourself that maybe Leah just wasn’t into you like you were into her.

Since the night in the club, most of your time had been spent with Beth and Viv, the two of them were keeping you alive by feeding you and making sure you were looking after yourself. You were also trying to keep your mind off the emotions you felt towards Leah.

“Right, you almost ready?” Beth asked, peeking into the spare bedroom where you were staying.

You nodded, your fingers trembling as you finished the last curl in your hair. “Yep, I’ll be two seconds.”

Tonight, you were meeting your teammates at a restaurant for a catch-up. Only around ten of you could make it, and you wondered if Leah would be there. Beth hadn't mentioned her so you had no idea if she would be there.

A knock sounded at Beth’s door, taking you by surprise. From what you knew, you were travelling with Beth and Viv and picking Alessia and Vic up on the way. You followed close behind Beth, curious to see who was at the door.

Beth swung the door open, revealing a familiar face. It was Leah, her bright smile lighting up the dimly lit corridor. She wore a casual outfit, a stark contrast to her usual professional attire during missions. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her eyes sparkled with warmth.

“Hey!” Leah greeted, stepping inside. “I hope I’m not late.”

Beth chuckled. “Right on time, as always. Come in!”

You and Leah quickly exchanged a glance before following Beth into the living room. You overthought everything you were doing, you felt awkward around Leah and had an ache in the pit of your stomach.

“Right so,” Beth sighed, “there’s not enough room in our car, Y/N are you alright going with Leah in your car?”

You hesitated, knowing that this was Beth’s plan all along. Going with Leah would mean spending more time alone with her, and you weren’t sure if that was a good thing or a recipe for disaster. But then, maybe this was exactly what you needed to sort out your feelings.

You took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah,” you replied, meeting Leah’s gaze. “I’m fine going with you.”

You made your way to your car with Beth and Viv, Leah offered to drive so you took her up on that offer. The awkward silence enveloped you like a heavy fog. Both of your breaths seemed too loud in the confined space of the car, and every passing second stretched felt like it lasted forever. You stole glances at Leah, her lips were pressed together, and her knuckles gripped the steering wheel.

Neither of you knew where to begin. The weight of your unspoken words, four weeks' worth, hung between you both. It was as if the air itself held its breath, waiting for one of you to break the silence. But how could you? How could you unravel the messiness of what happened?

You nervously traced the seam of your jeans, your fingers trembling. The radio played a mixture of different songs, but it might as well have been static. Leah's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, her jaw clenched. You wondered if she felt the same ache, the same desperate need to fix the awkwardness that had grown between you.

Finally, she cleared her throat. "So," she said, her voice brittle, "how have you been?"

The banality of the question struck you. How had you been? You’d been sleepless, haunted by memories of her lips against mine and the way she made you feel. But you couldn't say any of that. Not yet anyways.

"Alright I guess," you replied, your voice barely audible. "You?"

Leah's knuckles relaxed slightly. "Same," she murmured. "Just…fine."

The silence stretched on, punctuated only by the hum of the engine. You wanted to reach across the divide, to touch her hand, to tell her how much you’d missed her. But fear held you back. Fear of rejection, of reopening wounds that hadn't fully healed.

As you approached the restaurant, the tension tightened. Leah pulled into the parking lot, and the car came to a stop. She turned off the engine, and for a moment, you sat there, suspended in uncertainty.

"Leah," you began, your voice steady. "We need to talk."

She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I know. About that night..."

"No," you interrupted, your frustration bubbling over. "Not just about that night. About everything. About us."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Us?"

"Yes, us," you said, your voice rising. "Leah, I've been a mess these past weeks. Avoiding you, missing you, and feeling like my heart is being torn apart. And all because of that night.”

"I missed you," she whispered. "More than I thought possible."

"Leah," you sighed, "we can't keep pretending, we can’t carry on like this. I saw you in that club, kissing that girl, and it broke me, Leah."

Her gaze held yours, vulnerability etched across her features. "I don't want to," she confessed. "I've missed us."

"I've been an idiot," she admits. "I've been scared too. Scared of losing you altogether."

"So have I,” you admit, “I know you said you just wanted to be friends but I don’t think I can be, Le.”

She nodded, “I can’t be either, these past few weeks have made me realised how much I fucking need you. I’m sorry for saying I just wanted to be friends when I really didn’t.”

"But you did," you say, your voice raw. "And now I don't know where we stand. Are we friends? Are we something more? Or are we nothing at all?"

“I want us to work on things,” Leah pauses to take a deep breath, “I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to be able to fuck you like that whenever I want, I want you to kiss me whenever. I want you to be mine.”

Your mind raced. Why would she choose you over anyone else? She was Leah Williamson, she could have any girl that she set her eyes on.

“You’re staring,” Leah teased, her cheeks flushed.

“I—” you stammered. “Why me? Why not someone else?”

Leah’s expression softened. “Babe, you’re everything I could ask for in a girlfriend and more. How could I not fall in love with someone like you? You’re literally perfect.”

Without hesitation, you lean in, closing the distance between your lips and Leah's. Her mouth is warm, and the taste of her-sweet and slightly salty-sends a thrill through your veins.

It's a kiss that holds all the longing, all the missed chances, and all the unspoken words. For a moment, time stands still, and it's just the press of lips, the mingling of breaths.

Leah's fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer. The ache in your chest eases, replaced by something more profound, a connection that defies words. Her lips move against yours, gentle yet urgent, as if trying to convey everything she's kept hidden.

The taste of Leah, the softness of her mouth, and the promise of something more.

When you finally pull away, breathless and dizzy, Leah's eyes search yours.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," she whispers.

"Me too," you admit, your heart soaring. “So you love me then?” You giggled.

Leah nodded, “I do,” she smiled, “I want you to be my girlfriend.”

You leaned in and kissed Leah’s lips once again, nodding your head, “I’d love to be your girlfriend.”

[runningfrom2am]

michigan cherry // part one

summary: walking into a saloon in a nowhere town, billy meets a singer who he just can't get off his mind after she slips through his fingers; onto another town, another show- following nothing but the stars in her path. until he sees her again. another nowhere town and equally dusty saloon, but this time, the band of kids who made up her family is nowhere to be found. he's running away from something, and she is storming full speed toward something else, and tangling into each other's lives may just get both of them exactly where they want to be.

pairing: william h. bonney x fem!reader

wc: 3.2k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: singer!reader (she’s giving very much lucy gray), probably a little bit ooc billy but hey i tried- anyway he’s a sweetheart, use of guns and violence, murder and violence but i try to keep it non-descript, oh also she’s an orphan sorry (once again, lucy gray vibes), strangers to friends to lovers trope eee

the song in this chapter is "Second Child, Restless Child" by The Oh Hellos !!

a/n: heyyyy part one here we are!! i was going to post requiem first BUT the second part of btk s2 came out today so i couldn't resist posting this first :) playlist will be up very soon too!! hope you guys enjoy!!

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // pinterest board // playlist

It was muggy outside when Billy tied up his horse, and even hotter inside the saloon when he entered through its creaky swinging doors.

It was his current life as a bit of a lone wolf that brought him to this town he stumbled across by mistake, in search of a place to camp the night or ideally- a warm bed, but unsure if that was in the cards for him tonight, he decided to grab a drink instead.

He could hear the music before he saw the band, considering the whole town had apparently turned up to hear them play. Or, it was a Saturday night and no one had much of a better idea of what to do. He wasn't sure, until over the loud chatter and obnoxious shouts of men at the bar he could make out the sweet, damn close to angelic tones of the lead singer.

She was beyond anything he had ever seen, when he finally got a look at the owner of that beautiful voice, his blue eyes lit up in the dim light of the saloon. He flicked up the brim of his hat to get a better view as he leans back against the wall, absolutely mesmerized by the rapid pace at which the young woman's fingers strum over the strings of her guitar with expert precision.

"They saw trouble in my eyes, they were quick to recognize the devil in me."

With every word she sang, the smile he had to resist threatened to make itself seen. He could see the trouble in her eyes, even as they scanned the room- crinkled from the grin on her cheeks. It took Billy a few moments to even register that she wasn't the only one up on that old wooden stage- she wasn't the only one playing.

It surprised him even more when he tore his eyes off her to actually take notice of her band, that it was comprised almost entirely of children. Other than her and one boy behind her with light hair and hauntingly dark eyes who was dedicated well enough to his bass, none of the others seemed to be over fifteen.

A boy and a girl, who seemed to be just about the same age side by side playing little hip drums, and a blonde girl on a fiddle who appeared to be just a few years younger than the beautiful young woman taking up front and centre.

The smell of cigar smoke hits Billy's nose and brings him back to focus on where he was. He's not the only one watching this performance, as much as he felt the tunnel vision pulling him in on the girl with the skirt that spun almost as prettily as she did while she danced to her own music.

Completely lost in the song and the noises of the bar, she does a spin holding firm onto the guitar slung over her shoulder. Her hair flares out around her the same way her skirt does, and she has to steady herself as she stops, facing the old and abused microphone again to continue with the next verse.

"Can you hear it hanging on the wind? Can you feel it underneath your skin?"

Her eyes lock with Billy's as she looks around, the wide smile on her face hardly faltering even as his heart quits for a moment. She gives the man with striking blue eyes a small nod, not missing a beat of the song she was singing.

She was absolutely breathtaking to him. His eyes were stuck on every movement she made, every note she sang, and every word she uttered. He had seen pretty women before, but there was something about this girl that was different.

He couldn't help but notice how well she carried herself; with such confidence, and there was also a certain charm to her little nod as her eyes met his. The song and dance of the band were captivating, but his eyes were glued to her.

He raised up one eyebrow and gave her a little smile as he tilted his head curiously. Her voice somehow gave him a sense of home he hadn't felt since his ma passed. A sweet comfort he hadn't had in years.

He was being crazy, he knew as much- so he shakes his head of the feeling and peels himself off the wall to head over to the bar.

When the song was done, your chest was rising and falling heavily as you smile out at the crowd, waving to a few people before moving to set your well-loved guitar down.

"That's all we've got for y'all tonight. Thank you for listenin' to us take up your space tonight, but I sure hope at least a couple of y'all enjoyed it." You say into the mic with a smile, letting out a slight laugh as the crowd does with you.

"My name is Y/N and this is the Covey, and on behalf of all of us, have a good night! But not so good you don't make it home safe." You wink, signalling the end of our set and giving a quick bow to the crowd before stepping back to pack up.

Despite the shouts from saloon-goers and the usual sounds of the space echoing through, it seems quieter now to Billy without her beautiful voice, and he watches until her guitar case is closed and she passes it off the stage to her older bandmate who was helping collect the instruments.

As a matter of fact, he was staring into his whiskey and debating on whether or not he should even bother trying to talk to her when he's blessed by hearing her pretty voice again.

"Excuse me, miss!"

She's calling out to the busy bartender, leaning over the wood surface and resting her arm across it in front of her.

Now or never, Billy supposed.

"You've got quite the voice," He comments, voice rich and dripping with his unique mish-mash of accents- never having quite committed to one from moving around so much in his youth. "I'd wager you could melt even the coldest of hearts."

She turns her head to look at him, giving up attracting the attention of the barkeep. Up close, her eyes pull him in deeper.

"I'm Billy." He continues, extending a hand to her. It was out of character for him immediately- to offer up his name to someone he'd just met without them asking, but something about her made him unafraid to do so. Or... it was the unfamiliar jitters of nerves lowering his inhibitions.

A smile tugs at your lips as you quickly look him over, recognizing him as the man who had been leaning against the back wall while you were performing. You give his hand a quick and polite shake before responding.

"Y/N." You introduce yourself with a smile, despite having just done so on stage. "Was your heart cold 'til tonight then, Billy? Is that what I'm hearin'?"

"It was pretty cold." He admits, laughing. "But it seems like I've stumbled across just the fire to warm it up."

He looks you over again subtly, taking in how you still seem almost a little breathless from the performance you had just finished. It's interrupted by you laughing, shoulders shrugging as you adjust your top a bit, rolling up your sleeves.

"That's a good one, I must say." You giggle, shaking your head.

"Thanks, came up with it myself." Billy chuckles, mindlessly tapping at his almost empty glass. He figured he should at least come by it honestly if you were going to pick up on him so quick. "Tell me something, though. You're not from here, are ya? What brought you in? This isn't exactly the centre of the entertainment industry."

You look around at his final statement, nodding a bit in agreement. "Well, we're musicians by trade- travel about as we see fit. We're not really... city folks." You answer, looking back over your shoulder toward your band as they pack up and the kids play around on the stage.

"I hear that." Billy agrees, following your gaze. "Cities are too cramped for me."

"A bit of fresh air is good for the soul." You hum as you watch little Harvey and Josie chase each other around and behind the wooden stage and Max tries to wrangle them up. Business as usual.

Billy smiles as his eyes drift from the kids back over to you, letting your statement settle in before he spoke again. "Could I buy you a drink?"

You turn back to him again and nod, your smile returning in full. "I was waitin' for you to ask." You grin, waving again for the bartender who this time sees you and begins to make her way over.

He's a little shocked by your confidence in eagerly accepting a drink, but it just makes him more intrigued as he tilts his head at you. "Alright, then, darlin', what's your poison?" He asks, sliding over his glass and nodding to the woman running the bar for a refill of his whiskey.

"Water with a shot of warm honey aside, if ya got it." You smile to the bartender instead of answering Billy directly. "Please and thank you."

You had always had men offering to buy you drinks after your little shows, this wasn't anything new, but you always found a little bit of fun in seeing their subtle reactions to you ordering your water. Sometimes disappointment, occasionally even anger- but this Billy was the first one to ever smile.

"Well ain't you a fancy one." He chuckles, a small smirk on his face as his glass slides back to him over the countertop and he takes it with a nod of thank you to the woman behind the bar. "You one of those religious temperance girls?" He asks, purely out of curiosity.

Your nose scrunches up in response to the thought alone and you shake your head. "Nah." You take the cup of water and the shot glass full of warm honey from the bartender and thank her again quietly. "Just a girl who's overindulged herself one too many times."

Billy takes a sip of his whiskey and nods, watching curiously as you take the honey shot and lick the sweet liquid off your lips delicately.

In theory, that sounded so messy- but you handled it with such grace it honestly could have blown his mind. You must do that often.

"A bit of restraint never hurt anyone." He agrees, watching you dip your finger into what honey clung to the inside of the tiny cup and lick it off your finger before taking your first sip of water to rinse it down. "Hell, sometimes I could use more myself."

You shrug and let out a small laugh at his little joke, looking over at him again and smile as the sounds of the bar are swallowed by the invisible bell jar that seems to have engulfed you both.

"You, uh..." Billy speaks again after a moment, shaking his head a bit to clear his mind. "That song, you write it?"

"That I did." You smile proudly, nodding.

"Ah," He nods, spinning the glass on the counter in front of him. "So, I should ask, do you really have the devil in you?"

The reference to your lyrics makes you smile more and you shrug, taking another sip of your water. "I'd sure hope so." You tease. "I sold my soul to him in an even exchange for our music."

"So your voice is the devil's work, hey?" He laughed, sipping at his glass of whiskey once again.

He took a moment to study you, the way you wiped the inside of the shot glass clean with one delicate finger and licked it free of the stickiness. It drove him crazy just to look at you.

He leaned in a little closer as he continued. "Or are you saying that the whole you is the devil's work? Because I'd agree that you're certainly a little bit of trouble. As the song said, of course."

"That's certainly what I've heard." You giggle, shrugging softly as you put the empty shot glass down. "But I promise you I get into no trouble. We keep to ourselves, The Covey and me."

He smiled at you, the hint of mischief that danced in your eyes, that smile on your face sending chills up his spine.

"Well," He says, leaning in close to you, "You know what they say. The best things in life are dangerous. At least, I'm sure I've heard that somewhere." He chuckles a bit and it comes across with a hint of nervousness as he leans back away from you, not wanting to come across as too forward.

"Says the man with a gun on his hip and two in his coat." You say with a small smirk, nodding toward the inside of his jacket where he had hidden weapons.

He chuckled, admiring your perceptiveness.

There was an understanding about you, one that he was coming to enjoy. It was a quality that was hard to put his finger on.

All he knew was what he had at first glance; a gut instinct about you that screamed, "this will be worth it."

He took another sip of his whiskey, his eyes glued to your own. "You notice everything."

"Trick of the trade." You shrug, bringing your glass up to your lips again and not looking away from him either.

"What trade?" He asks with a slightly confused laugh. "Does singin' come along with a lot of gunfights or..?"

For the first time while interacting with men at these saloons all across the country, you laughed at one of their jokes. For the first time, it was genuine.

It even catches the ears of your band, who give each other confused but knowing looks as Billy's eyes light up with your laughter, knowing he prompted it to fall from your beautiful lips.

"I didn't take you for a funny one, Billy." You admit after a moment, still giggling as your hand comes up to cover your mouth.

"You've got a cute laugh," He said honestly, almost without realizing he'd said it out loud.

He sees your band mates in the corner of his eyes, watching the interaction unfolding before them, and smiled just a little more. He wanted the whole damn saloon to see that he was winning you over right in front of their eyes.

"I could have the worst laugh in the world and you'd still compliment it. You can't trust a man who's tryin' to charm your skirts off." You say, laugh devolving into giggles as you tip your glass toward him.

"Oh, and here I thought my intentions were genuine, and not just to get in your skirts," He said, laughing again. "Is that what you think I am, some kind of creepy bastard with ill intentions?"

You raise an eyebrow at him, surprised that when it's falling from his lips- you actually believe the denial.

"Men often lose themselves in pursuit of provisional pleasures." You comment, tilting your head at him. "It makes it hard to tell when once in a blue moon there's one who means what they say."

He was intrigued. Not necessarily by the comment itself, but more by the intelligence behind those pretty eyes of yours.

He was usually able to play these kinds of games easily, but you seemed to see right through them at every turn.

"Fair play." He says, giving you a nod of acknowledgement, "How do I know I'm the first man you've told that exact little poem to?"

"You just have to trust me." You say with a small smile. "If it helps, I wrote every word in those songs you heard earlier. I only speak when I have somethin' to say, and singin' is much of the same. You don't gotta believe me, but I'll tell you now it's not your wisest move to imply you don't think I'm smart enough to own the words I speak."

He couldn't deny that he had a weak spot for pretty, assertive women. But you were sweet, too, covered in it like the honey you just shot back a few minutes ago.

Those words, that tone, spoke volumes to him.

His lips curled up in a grin, and the tone of his voice took on a slightly more flirtatious edge. "I guess I should just count my lucky stars then. You don't happen to write songs about sweet talking men you meet in nowhere towns, do you?"

"Only about how they're venomous without the correct antidote on hand." You say, leaning against the counter and shifting your weight onto one hip.

He chuckles, his eyes glued on yours, not looking away.

God, he was in trouble.

The alcohol was making him cocky, but he couldn't help the way you made him feel. "And what if I came to you, hat in hand, asking for a cure? Begging you for a cure, because I'd been bitten by this sweet speaking cowgirl who's left me weak at the knees?"

"I'd tell you the nearest damn thing to anti-venom is just to run." You advise him, taking another drink before putting the glass down and sliding it across the bar. "And you'll find the real thing in the next dead end town you call a home, and then the cycle begins again."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Damn it, she had him. He couldn't even argue with that one.

He wanted to kiss her so bad right now, respectfully, of course, but he knew he should wait for some kind of signal from her. So instead he played it cool, grinning back at her.

"Okay, okay. What if," He said, watching with a smile as you raised an eyebrow at him over the edge of your glass, waiting for him to continue while you polished off your water. "And I'm just saying hypothetical here, theoretically, if he promised to stay in that next dinky ass town for a month just to see the woman he fell for again?"

"Then that would make you a fool." You answer. "Theoretically, of course." You add with a wink, standing up straight again.

You wanted to stay, to talk until last call and learn all his secrets- but you knew better than to fall for it all.

"Well, it sure was nice to meet you, Billy."

His heart drops at the words and he sighs, his expression softening as he saw you standing up from the bar.

He should keep it casual, he reminded himself. Be nice. Don't mess this up.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, darlin'." He stood up again slowly, his eyes lingering on yours for a few seconds, before he spoke again. "I hope we run into each other again, if only for a moment. Take care of yourself, Miss..."

"I don't doubt we will." You smile, giving him a small punctuating bow as your bandmates wave you back over.

You glance back at him over your shoulder as you walk away, giving him one of your winning smiles before picking up your guitar case and following your friends out the back door.

Billy stood there in the saloon for a few moments, watching you go with a wistful, almost regretful look on his face.

There was something about you that made him want to do stupid things.

"Run after her," his other half shouted. "I don't care if you look like a damn fool."

But he just stood there, like a damn fool, until he finally shook his head and muttered to himself. "Damn it."

no taglist this time around!! my fics usually get over a hundred requests to be added to the taglist so instead i made a library! follow me over on @runningfrom2am-library and turn on notifs to get updates when i post new parts!!

[ssailormoonn]

❛ Enemies to lovers ❜

Uchiha Sasuke X Fem!Reader

| SFW | REQUEST? yes | ! headcanons !

REQUEST :: @bejeweledgirl - Hiiii!! Could you please write Sasuke x reader enemies to lovers head canons? Thank you !!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

a/note :: also, Julie, by any chance do we follow each other on wattpad, or am i tweaking? but other than that, i hope you enjoy 🫶🏼

WC; 1.6k+ | !MDNI! | TW/CW; sasuke is a trigger warning by himself, not anything suggestive but sasuke is mean guys bsf. Prerouge!Sasuke X fem!Reader & Rouge!Sasuke X fem!Reader

NARUTO MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

Konoha path (before he leaves the village - meeting him in Konoha)

If we are talking about how you two meet in Konoha, it will have to start back at the Academy. Sasuke absolutely hated you for no absolute reason, but then he grew a reason, he thought you were weak and were a nuisance. He believes that you shouldn't even belong in the Academy. In truth, you are quite strong, but he refuses to see that because he is convinced that you are below him.

It started with you two getting put on the same team, Team 7, and then that just made him realise that your abilities weren't so useless after all, but he still believed that you were weak and had no business being a ninja. This caused you to begin to hate him as well, you started hating his cold demeanour and how avenging his clan and getting stronger was his entire personality.

But, despite your mutual disdain, there were moments when you couldn't help but admire his skill and dedication. During battles, you found yourselves instinctively covering each other's backs, an unspoken acknowledgment of each other's abilities. Even after those moments though, you two will go back to silently hating each other, Sasuke more openly than you.

Sasuke's mentality is, 'I have to keep eyes on her because she is too weak to be left on her own devices.' Yours is, 'I don't understand why he thinks I'm so weak, maybe I have to show my teamwork better.'

These fleeting instances of teamwork made you question the depth of your animosity. During combat you two seem almost friendly with each other, but that isn't the case. It's because of the both of yours mentality that you seek each other out during battle., unconsciously protecting each other. Yet, outside of combat, the icy barrier between you remains impenetrable.

However, during the time he is in Team 7, you noticed the way his gaze lingered on you after the battles longer than necessary, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes whenever he thought no one was watching.

There was one mission that Sasuke had to react in a way different that before, making sure that your weak ass didn't get hurt. It was during one particularly grueling mission that everything changed. Trapped and outnumbered, you sustained a severe injury. Sasuke's reaction was immediate and his protective instinct overpowering his usual detachment.

Sasuke fought with an emotion you had never seen, he ensured your safety, befiore his own which after the mission he bet himself over with. Sasuke had wasted precious time to save you during a mission? Impossible? He unconsciously knew that you were weak and helped you before you got killed.

You were surprised, obviously, you thought you were going to die.

After that mission, the dynamic between you two shifted. Sasuke, while still reserved, began to seek you out during training sessions, his critiques less harsh and more constructive. In some occasions, he'd even ask you for some help, but he was obviously abrasive about it.

The banter that once felt hostile now carried an undercurrent of mutual respect and both you and Sasuke found yourself looking forward to these moments. The trust that developed was tentative, but it was there, a fragile bridge spanning the gap between enemies and allies.

As you spent more time together, you uncovered layers of Sasuke's personality that he rarely revealed. His dry sense of humor, the way his eyes softened when he briefly mentioned something about his past (whether it was something bad or good), and his unwavering determination to protect those he cared about.

The transformation in your relationship became undeniable; the animosity that once defined your interactions was replaced by a deep, unspoken bond. You realised that the line between enemies and lovers is often thinner than it seems, and sometimes, the most profound connections are forged in the crucible of shared struggles and quiet understanding.

It was only so close before Sasuke left the village, and in the end, what began as a hating for each other, turned into something far more complex. Sasuke's journey towards redemption mirrored your own path to understanding and acceptance.

It was after Sasuke told you what his goal was to do, that he wanted to leave the village to find power and you understood him for that. You didn't try your hardest to bring him back to the village, you didn't shed any tears because this is what Sasuke truly wanted, you were going to acknowledge. Right there and then, when you spoke about how you felt, he swore something heating grew inside him.

You weren't going to be mad at him, not yell at him for his decision.

Rouge Ninja path (after he left the village - meeting him while he's a rouge)

You met Uchiha Sasuke under the worst circumstances. Freshly allied with Orochimaru, you were tasked with monitoring him, a job you found as intriguing as it was dangerous. Sasuke, ever brooding and aloof, made it clear he despised every second of your company.

To him, you were an unwanted shadow, a reminder of his own perceived failures and entanglements. You, on the other hand, found a strange enjoyment in teasing him, perhaps as a way to mask your own insecurities. It wasn’t long before you realised that your constant presence irked him to no end.

From the moment you met, there was an electric tension between you two. You could see it in the way his eyes narrowed whenever you entered the room, the tight set of his jaw when you spoke.

"You're in my way," he'd mutter, his voice laced with venom. Yet, you never backed down. If anything, you pushed harder, finding joy in the cracks of his icy demeanor. "Is that so, Sasuke? Or do you just hate that I'm not afraid of you?"

Every mission together was a battle of wits. You were skilled, undeniably so, and it grated on Sasuke's nerves. He couldn't stand the way you seemed to predict his moves, the way you challenged his decisions. But more than that, he hated how your presence made him feel – conflicted.

There was a part of him that begrudgingly respected your strength and wit, even if he would never admit it. You could tell in the way his eyes would flicker with something akin to appreciation when you executed a flawless jutsu or navigated a tricky situation with ease.

Despite the underlying tension, there were moments of surprising camaraderie. One evening, after a grueling training session, you found yourself sitting side by side (unintentionally of course), watching the sunset.

The silence was comfortable, a rare occurrence between you.

"Why did you join Orochimaru?" Sasuke asked suddenly, his voice softer than usual. You glanced at him, surprised by the question. "I have my reasons," you replied cryptically, your eyes fixed on the horizon. "Just like you."

The turning point came during a particularly brutal mission. Ambushed and outnumbered, you both found yourselves back-to-back, fighting for survival. In that moment, something shifted. You were no longer enemies, but reluctant allies.

Your synchronisation was flawless, an unspoken understanding passing between you. When the dust settled, and the enemies lay defeated, you turned to him, breathless and bruised. "Not bad, Sasuke," you said, a genuine smile breaking through your usual facade. For a split second, you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

From then on, the hostility between you lessened, replaced by a grudging respect. Sasuke still rolled his eyes at your antics, but you noticed the way his gaze lingered a little longer, the way he sometimes sought your opinion. The walls he built around himself were high, but you found satisfaction in every small crack you created.

And Sasuke, though he would never say it, found himself looking forward to your company, your banter, your presence.

There were times when the barrier between you seemed almost impenetrable. Sasuke's memories of his clan, his brother, and the darkness he embraced to gain power often made him withdraw. You understood pain and loss, having your own share of scars, and sometimes, in those rare, quiet moments, you shared pieces of your past with him. He listened, not always responding, but you knew he heard you. It was in those moments that the chasm between you seemed to narrow, ever so slightly.

It was during one quiet evening, as you both rested by a campfire, that the tension finally broke. You were teasing him about his brooding nature when he snapped, grabbing your wrist and pulling you close.

"Why do you always have to annoy me?" he demanded, his voice low and intense. You met his gaze, your heart pounding. "Maybe because I see something in you that you refuse to see in yourself," you whispered. His grip tightened for a moment, and then released, his expression unreadable.

In that moment, the distance between you evaporated. Sasuke's grip softened, his eyes searching yours. And then, before you knew it, his lips were on yours, fierce and demanding. It was a kiss filled with all the pent-up frustration, anger, and undeniable attraction that had been building between you. When you finally pulled away, both breathless, you saw a different look in his eyes – not just anger or annoyance, but something deeper, something you both had been denying for far too long.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotion. You and Sasuke continued to train and take on missions, but there was a new layer to your relationship. The stolen glances, the subtle touches, and the occasional tender moment when you thought no one else was watching.

Sasuke began to see that there was more to life than vengeance and power – there was companionship, trust, and maybe even love.

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

NARUTO MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

UCHIHA MASTER LIST

taglist :: @enouche @lovelyandproblematic @kayleegomez

[maximoffcarter]

Enough for you.

Pairings: Casey Novak x Alex Cabot.

Summary: Casey Novak was not for relationships, she was not a person who went to bars and left with the first person that complimented her or bought her a drink; she was not that kind of person. But then she found herself in the same bar as Alex Cabot; how could she say no?

A/n: So...*cough* another angst cause why not. If this goes well...there might be a part 2. This was my own creation from my own mind, so my own request🤷🏻‍♀️ If you got any more requests, please send them my way guys, either on my asks box or message me privately! Hope you guys enjoy this, leave comments, hearts, whatever you like and reblog so this gets some love🫶🏻

*not my gif*

‘You’re still young, you should be having a bit of fun even if you’re busy with work.’ If Casey could get a dollar for each time she heard someone say that she’d be rich at this point, maybe she wouldn’t have to work hectic hours. She knew they were not wrong, she was still young, even if she had gotten a good job at White Collar, she still had a right to live and enjoy her twenties, go for drinks with friends and coworkers every night, but she truly didn’t like that life. If anything, Mary Clark had shown her better, and she was not about to disappoint her; she was willing to focus on her job, to focus on what she came to do, and that was exactly what she was here for, not to go out with her coworkers and then get home all wasted and barely being able to get through the door. Yes, she went out time to time, she was in a softball team, she went to practice whenever her afternoon was free, she had a life out of work. She knew what her coworker meant by fun, but she didn’t want that fun, she didn’t think she’d ever want it.

The last time Casey had dated someone was back when she was engaged, not too long ago, and after that, she decided that she was better off alone. That had been a big mistake, she had rushed things before even meeting the person better and she ended up not only emotionally abused but physically too. Of course she knew that not everyone was the same, she knew that maybe she could be lucky enough to find someone who would treat her right, that could show her what true love was, but she still had many scars left, she still had some pieces to put together, and she was not about to risk it again for someone that she didn’t know, and for someone that could be just like her ex. So that’s why she also preferred to go drink alone every now and then; yes, she liked her coworkers, some of them were fun to be around, but she sometimes believed that she was probably more mature than all of them together so that’s why she enjoyed her time alone.

The one time she decided to finally ignore work for a while and go out with two workers, both of them had ditched her for two guys. There was a third guy, but Casey had rejected him even before he tried to make his move. So she found herself sitting alone at the bar with her second drink in hand, wondering if it was time to go home or if she could have one or two drinks more. She knew she had work to do, maybe she could even go back to the office to pick up her paperwork and take it home along with some take out. But just as she was debating with her thoughts, she felt someone sitting beside her, and at first Casey was going to ignore it, but the strong scent of expensive perfume invaded her nose, making her turn to find a blond woman sitting right beside her. She couldn’t help but stare for a moment, finding the woman beautiful. But when she noticed she had been staring for long, she returned her stare to her almost empty glass.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Casey felt chills running down her spine at the woman’s voice, she was not expecting it…she was not exactly expecting to have any interaction with this woman or anyone at all. “Uh…I think I’m done with drinks.”

The blonde chuckled. “Seems like you do know how to count them.”

Casey nibbled on her lip as she turned to look at the blonde again, a small grin on her face. “You don’t?”

“Not when I had a hard day.” The blonde turned to look at her, offering a small grin.

“Well, then I get why you wouldn’t count them.” Casey chuckled.

The blonde nodded. “You got those days too?”

Casey nodded. “When you’re a lawyer…you gotta have them.”

The blonde raised a brow. “Seems like we got the same job then.” She grinned.

Casey squinted her eyes as she grinned. “Wait…I’ve seen you somewhere.”

The blonde chuckled as she extended her hand. “Alex Cabot.”

“Right…Sex Crimes.” Casey smiled, extending her hand to take Alex’s. “Casey Novak.”

“Nice to meet you.” Alex grinned, letting go of Casey’s hand. “White Collar?”

“Actually, yes.” Casey nodded.

“Thought I had seen you somewhere.” Alex took her drink and took a sip of it, never taking her eyes away from Casey.

Casey couldn’t help but stare into those beautiful blue eyes, almost as if they were enchanting her in some way. “So, what brings Alex Cabot into this bar?”

Alex shrugged. “Tough case. Needed a drink.”

“I don’t think I could ever do Sex Crimes. So I respect you for that.”

Alex smiled. “Well…you learn to deal with it…” she huffed a chuckle as she raised her drink. “And this right here helps.”

Casey chuckled as she nodded. “I’m sure.” She smiled softly.

No, Casey was not planning on staying more at the bar. No, she did not plan on having more drinks. No, she was not expecting to engage in a conversation with someone, let alone such a beautiful girl as Alex. She has heard a lot of things about Alexandra Cabot, some rumors, some facts, she never listened to the gossip, but when she saw Alex in a press conference and the next time she found herself in the same courtroom, her curiosity for Alex started, and now she had spent easily two hours talking about everything with her, and she was fascinated. They decided to avoid talking about cases, so they talked about other things, and laughs soon joined in the conversation, giving them both a feeling of comfort. And no…Casey did not expect for Alex to ask if she wanted to get out of the bar; actually…she figured at some point that it could happen, but what she did not expect was for her answer to be yes.

Casey moaned the moment her back hit the wall, her eyes staring into blue one as her hands worked their way to Alex’s coat, pulling it off and throwing it somewhere on the floor. Alex’s hands soon found Casey’s neck and pulled her for another heated kiss, her body pressing against Casey’s. “Alex…” she breathed out once she felt Alex’s lips traveling down her neck and finding her pulse point.

“Yes baby?” Alex whispered as she looked up to look into green eyes, panting as they stared at each other. “We can stop if you want to.”

Casey breathed heavily as she wetted her lips, her eyes landing on Alex’s swollen lips and back to blue eyes. She shook her head, a small grin on her face. “I want you to fuck me.”

Alex smirked. “As you wish.”

********************

“So, Novak.” Jessica grinned as she stood at the doorframe of Casey’s office.

Casey looked up from her paperwork and furrowed her brows. “Yes?”

“I got a question for you.” Jessica walked inside the office, the grin never leaving her face.

“No, I am not going to drink with you guys again. You left me. Plus, I’m going to the cages today.” Casey returned her attention to the paperwork.

“That wasn’t my question, but good to know that we won’t be counting on you again.” Jessica chuckled. “Why do you suddenly look so happy?”

Casey frowned, looking up at Jessica again. “I look happy?” Jessica nodded. “I…don’t think I look any different than I have before.”

“You’re getting laid, aren’t you?” Jessica smirked.

“I-“ Casey scoffed. “Jessica! What the hell? No! I’m not. I’ve been having good cases, free time, I get to do more out of work.”

“Oh, you get to do someone…”

Casey rolled her eyes. “Please get out.”

Jessica laughed as she walked to the door. “I know you, Novak!”

Casey cleared her throat as she tried to focus back on her paperwork. Yes, it was true. It had been three months since Casey started seeing Alex after work. After that night, both of them had exchanged numbers after Casey decided to leave in the middle of the night. No, it wasn’t her first time being with a girl, she had always suspected that she liked girls but never actually got with one because her parents expected her to be with a guy. So it was no surprise that she was fascinated by Alexandra Cabot. She knew she was going against her own words, saying that she was not that kind of person, that she’d mainly focus on her job, but after some drinks and engaging in conversation with Alex, she couldn’t help it; and she didn’t regret any of it. But that was it…just a hook up. Nothing more. She was not ready to get into anything serious, it could never be anything serious. She was sure she was not the first attorney to fall into Alex’s bed, as bad as that sounded, but she heard the rumors. So no, this was nothing more than a hook up and that was it.

As for Alex, she knew the rumors that went around in her own office, she knew the nickname that was now known even at the precinct, she knew her reputation, but she really couldn’t care less about it. It was nothing, they were simply rumors and gossip, she was mature enough to let it get to her, and some of them, were nothing but lied, but again, if they wanted to tell them around, they could, she knew the truth and she knew who she was, and that was it. Yes, she had her hook ups before, she had stopped once she had joined Sex Crimes since she had focused her whole attention in the job, and she barely had any time to focus on her private life. But that night, the night she met Casey, something called her in, and she couldn’t help but go against her own words but noticing how beautiful she was, that beautiful smile she had, that voice and laugh…she got lost. And she knew she wanted more. It was impossible to not want more.

“Come here often?” Alex whispered as she stood behind Casey, smirking at the way she had shivered.

Casey turned to look at Alex and smiled. “Starting to. I come to meet someone.”

“Oh, so you mind if I sit with you while you wait?” Alex grinned.

“Not at all.” Casey grinned as she placed Alex’s drink in front of her. “Thought I’d get ahead.”

“Oh, thank you.” Alex smiled as she sat down. “Had a good day?”

Casey nodded. “It was slow. Yours?”

Alex sighed before she took a sip of her drink. “Delightful.”

Casey nodded again, looking down at her drink. “That’s why you called?”

Alex furrowed her brows as she looked at Casey. “I wanted to see you.” She offered a smile. “Just needed someone to talk to.”

Casey smiled softly, looking up at Alex. “We can go to my place.”

Alex grinned as she nodded. “Sounds fair.”

It wasn’t the first time that they met at the bar, had two or three drinks, and then left to Alex’s apartment. Most of their nights went like this. Sometimes Alex would go to Casey’s office in her lunch time and make a plan with Casey to meet at night, or Casey went to Alex’s office to confirm if they’d see each other that night. It had now become a routine, for both of them, they barely talked about work, they only asked about their day, had their drinks, and then went to each other’s apartments. Casey debated with her mind daily, saying this was definitely not something she did, that this was definitely not her, but she couldn’t help it; Alex was beautiful, the way she dressed, the way she talked, the way she laughed…the way she moaned Casey’s name, the way she trembled when Casey’s fingers were inside her, the way she came undone and stared at Casey, looking so beautiful underneath her. It was impossible to not want more of that, she couldn’t get enough, and she knew Alex couldn’t either.

Alex kissed Casey’s naked shoulder as she moved to lay down beside Casey. “You good?”

Casey nodded, clearing her throat as she tried to catch her breath. “Good.”

Alex chuckled softly. “Good.” She laid on her side, staring at Casey.

Casey felt Alex’s eyes on her, making her turn to look at Alex, frowning as a smile appeared on her face. “What?”

“Nothing…you’re just beautiful.” Alex smiled.

Casey’s breath hitched as she stared  at Alex, suddenly speechless as she heard the sincerity in her words. “So are you.”

“Thanks.” Alex sighed then, moving to get up from the bed. “Guess this is my cue to leave.”

Casey nibbled on her bottom lip as she sat in bed. “You know…you could…stay. It’s late.”

Alex turned to look at her and smiled softly. “I-“ suddenly her phone went off, making her groan as she stood up and went to find her phone. “Cabot.” She closed her eyes as she sighed. “On my way.” She hung up and turned to look at Casey. “Work.”

Casey sighed. “I understand.” She stared at her the whole time as she collected her clothes and got dressed quickly.

Alex put on her blazer and turned to look at Casey, smiling. “I’ll call you?”

Casey nodded. “Yes.”

Alex bit her lip before she crawled in bed and kissed Casey’s lips. “Sleep well.” She whispered against her lips before she pecked her lips one last time and then grabbed her phone and left the room.

Casey sighed as she heard the door closing, throwing herself back in bed and groaning softly. This was only a hook up. She couldn’t have feelings for Alex, and she didn’t. They just knew each other’s bodies now, they were used to each other, they had a good fuck, and that was it. It was a hook up and nothing more. And it was going to stay that way.

********************

“Heard the news.” Alex grinned as she leaned over Casey’s doorframe.

Casey looked up from her briefcase and smiled, leaning over her desk. “Sorry if I’m gonna take some of your cases.” She grinned.

Alex chuckled as she walked inside, closing the door behind her. “I don’t mind. Not when it’s you.” She grinned.

Casey raised her brow as she bit her lip. “Oh, so if it was someone else, you’d have fought Branch or Liz?” She grinned.

“Maybe.” Alex smirked as she stood in front of Casey, one of her hands going to Casey’s waist and the other stroking her cheek softly. “But now I’ll have you closer.” She whispered softly.

Casey shook her head. “We can’t do this at work, Alex.” She whispered back.

“You sure we can’t?” Alex raised her brow.

Casey grinned as she placed her hands on Alex’s waist, turning her so Alex was leaning over her desk, moving her to sit on it. “We can try it then.”

Alex gasped, her hands gripping Casey’s shoulders. “Thought we couldn’t, Novak.” She chuckled.

“Changed my mind.” Casey smiled as she closed the gap between them, moaning as Alex’s hand wrapped around her and her hand went into Casey’s hair to pull her impossibly closer.

Alex started moving her hands down to Casey’s front, but her phone interrupted them once again. She broke the kiss and leaned her head on Casey’s chest. “Not again.” She whispered.

“Duty calls.” Casey chuckled. She kissed her forehead softly before she stepped away from her. “I need to go to court anyway.”

Alex nodded as she hopped off the desk. “Alright.”

“See you tonight?” Casey smirked. “I’d like to finish what I started.”

Alex grinned. “Sure.” She nodded before she left Casey’s office almost in a hurry, calling Olivia back.

After almost two years of knowing each other, Alex could’ve sworn that there was more between them. Some nights, they stayed in each other’s apartment after many rounds, deciding that it was ‘safer’ for them to not go back to their homes in the early hours. Sometimes they even stayed weekends together, spending the whole day in bed making each other come undone, or just simply talking about everything but nothing at the same time. Alex had been afraid to admit it, she had been in denial for so long, but the reality was…that she was starting to feel something for Casey, and it was so obvious, there was no denial. All those days and nights that they had spent together, all those laughs and smiles they had shared; it wasn’t just a hook up to her, it had become more. But the more they got used to each other, the more she noticed that Casey called her whenever she needed to get off her stress or when she had a bad day. Yes, Alex had done that the first few weeks, but after figuring out that she mostly did it because she wanted to see Casey, it’s when her whole perspective of the situation changed. But she could risk what they had if she said anything, so it was better to keep it to herself and continue as they were. What could possibly go wrong?

And as for Casey, she had been nervous when Branch had called her to his office to let her know that she’d be moving to Sex Crimes with Alex. They had figured out that more than usual, they were loaded with cases and sometimes Alex couldn’t keep up with all of them, so they figured that bringing someone to help wouldn’t be a bad idea. And now she’d be seeing Alex daily, they’d be working together. The idea wasn’t that bad, she already saw Alex daily, but not exactly in the building, now they’d be working together, not only hooking up. She was afraid that the more time they spent together, the more she would let herself get lost, and she couldn’t allow that.

The first few weeks went away so quickly. They had someone fallen into an easy routine and even met up for lunch to help each other out with the cases. Thanks to Alex, Casey was not being accepted by the squad, she knew that they were used to Alex, and Casey somehow worked in her own way and that was something that the squad hadn’t agreed on at the beginning, but with the help of Alex, they were getting used to it. For a moment, she noticed the way that Alex had entirely changed since the first time they had met; she was more…soft. Casey couldn’t deny that she liked it, but she was also not sure that she could buy it. They gave each other what they needed, they gave each other pleasure, they gave each other a space to get off the stress of the day or the week, what they had was nothing but sex. She was sure Alex wanted nothing more than that. And she confirmed it soon enough when she saw her with Olivia.

It was notorious the first day when Olivia was basically pushing away Casey, at first she thought that she had just made a bad impression, but then she saw her with Alex. She acted so differently with her, she got so close to Alex, and Alex to her, and their conversations were so easy, Olivia would do anything that Alex asked her to do, and Alex would give in to whatever Olivia asked from her, but if it was Casey, everything would be different. She noticed the way Alex seemed so relaxed with Olivia, the way she just enjoyed having her in her office, and they could stay there for hours. And that’s when Casey understood, that’s when she confirmed her doubts and answered her own questions; it was only a hook up, nothing more.

Alex smiled as she opened the door to find Casey standing there. “Hey.”

Casey smiled. “Hi.” She walked into the apartment and turned to look at Alex, waiting for her to close the door. She took her coat off and sighed softly. “Day okay?”

“It was.” Alex smiled as she turned to look at Casey. She felt something was off with Casey, so she only stood there and crossed her arms. “Was your day okay?”

“Sure.” Casey smiled. “Should we go ahead?”

Alex furrowed her brows, tilting her head. “Are you in a hurry?”

Casey huffed a chuckle. “C’mon, Alex. We both know why I’m here. So, might as well just save time and get on with it.”

Alex felt like she had been punched right on her chest as she looked at Casey. “Casey…I didn’t call you for that. I just…thought maybe we could just spend the night here instead of going to a bar.”

“We know how that ends anyway, at the bar or here.” Casey shrugged. “Or…did you call me to tell me you don’t wanna do this anymore?”

“I’m…confused as to what is happening right now.” Alex huffed a chuckle as she shook her head. “Did I do or say something?”

Casey nibbled on her lip as she looked away from Alex. “Alex…” she sighed. “Why are we pretending like this is something when we both know this is just a casual thing?” She looked back at Alex. “We’ve been doing this for so long now, we fell into a routine but…the result is the same. We end up in bed and then we start over again.”

“So…it’s just a casual thing.” Alex nodded.

“Isn’t it?” Casey raised her brows. “Tell me I’m wrong. I’m-“ she shook her head as she looked down at her coat. “I don’t really do dating. And since we started this, I made it clear. So yes…it is just sex.” She looked back at Alex with a serious look.

Alex nodded again as she looked away. “I’m glad to know now.”

Casey nodded. “Maybe we should give each other some time.”

“I think you’re right.” Alex bit her lip as she tried to avoid Casey’s stare. “Maybe you should go.”

“Okay.” Casey said softly as she put back her coat, walking to the door. She stopped for a moment to look at Alex who was still looking away. “I’ll…see you at the office.” She said almost in a whisper as she opened the door and left the apartment.

Once she heard the door closing, Alex couldn’t help the tears that rolled down her cheeks. She was afraid that this day would come, and she begged anyone that it would never come, but here she was now. She knew since the first moment that it was wrong to let herself feel anything at all for Casey, she knew that it would hurt at the end, but she still let herself get lost in Casey because she had a bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, she could be wrong and that there was a chance. But there wasn’t. Casey now confirmed it; it had been just sex and nothing more, and there was nothing else she could do about it. She lost what they had…she lost Casey.

[starsreminisce]

What’s really interesting about the idea of choice is that Elain is no different than Feyre and Nesta. It's equally fascinating how both Feyre and Nesta, in their stories, initially chose someone else because they felt they deserved it, only to ultimately choose their mate who would give them the fate the Mother believed they deserved.

By the end of ACOTAR, Feyre’s bond snapped with Rhysand, but she ultimately left with Tamlin because she loved him that she was willing to die for him.

ACOMAF started with Feyre internally struggling, having trouble finding her place, and even dreading to accept what her role in the Spring Court entailed. Rhys rescues her during her wedding, and we see her thinking how uncanny it is that Rhys just knew what she was going through.

By the end of ACOMAF, Feyre decides to accept her mating bond after learning about it. The key difference is how Rhys empowers her.

ACOSF is a more condensed version, but Nesta chose to marry Eris, not out of love but because she felt she deserved to be with someone “as horrible as” Eris. Eris is plotting a coup against his father and, like Rhys, envisions a better Prythian once Beron is gone. Nesta is good at playing politics, but she is also fatigued by the idea of dealing with sycophants, which seems prevalent in the Autumn Court.

By the end of ACOSF, Nesta decides to talk to Cassian and accept the bond after he forces her to face it. Nesta unleashes her power when she thinks Cassian is gone, demonstrating that even with an unaccepted bond, the instinct overrides everything. It's not surprising that Nesta is now the leader of the Valkyries with her mate, the General of the Illyrian Army.

So, it’s even more interesting that we’re given two POVs of the sisters who underwent an unanswered bond, how proximity plays a huge role between them, and how the idea of choice was still integrated into their stories.

Feyre and Nesta still chose their mates because they align with the future they want, despite their initial choice of another male and a path they thought they wanted.

The only key difference with Elain is that she is aware of the bond, which is a double-edged sword. Elain can easily dismiss her draw towards Lucien as being related to the bond and, therefore, out of her control. Much like Feyre's POV shows, her mind wanders from Rhys from time to time. It wasn't until she was internally screaming for help that Rhys was the only person who not only heard her but came to her aid.

We knew that Feyre was not okay in ACOMAF, but no one else around her was aware of how bad her struggles were. Lucien helped Feyre as much as he could, but ultimately, it wasn't him who took Feyre out of her situation but her mate.

Are we to believe that Elain is "fine" when she's not included in any of the Inner Circle discussions? When Bryce arrived in Prythian, her show of solidarity for the Night Court by dressing in its colors was ill-suited. Despite wanting to do what it takes, her pleas to help were not only unanswered but flat-out discouraged by the same male others deemed her true equal.

Elain told Nesta that Nesta cannot resent her decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let her do anything greater.

Feyre, too, wanted the same thing when she was with Tamlin, and she found it in her mate.

Since SJM loves to remix her stories that all lead to the same conclusion because those are the stories she loves to write, is it a choice, is it fate, or is it both?

She's already answered this: it's both.

[nhlclover]

she's everything sparks fly au

✭ — summary: luca confronts rutger about sofia, learning about his true feelings for her.

✭ — warnings: swearing, luca lowkey bullying rutger but he deserves it

✭ — a/n: so i planned this completely forgetting that rutger would've gone to world juniors so pretend that he doesn't in this au...

✭ — word count: 1.06k

Bittersweet goodbyes had passed as Julia and Giuliano had dropped their two kids off at the airport for their flight headed to Michigan. Sofia had always been an easy flier, motion sickness or fear of turbulence not being something that affected her, but she couldn’t help but be filled with nausea and dread as they departed Toronto and landed in Ann Arbor.

Luca headed back to the sophomore house after dropping Sofia off at her dorm and having received direct instructions to not bring up anything they’d spoken about during New Year's Eve to Rutger. Luca agreed to his sister's orders but on his way over, decided he was by no means going to abide by his promise.

Luca dropped his bags in his room, heading down the hall to Rutger’s room, hoping he had beaten him to Michigan. Luca knocked on the slightly ajar door of Rutger's room, pushing it open as he heard a muffled "Come in."

"Hey man," Luca greeted, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Rutger was sprawled on his bed, staring at his phone with a frown. He looked up, his expression softening into a smile when he saw Luca.

"Luca, what’s up bud? How was your break?" Rutger asked, sitting up and setting his phone aside.

"It was good. Spent most of it with the family, you know how it is," Luca replied, taking a seat at the desk chair. "How about you? What did you get up to?"

Rutger shrugged. "Same old, same old. Just relaxed, saw some friends, hung out with the folks. Nothing too exciting."

Luca nodded, the conversation starting off innocent and casual. They chatted for a few more minutes, the usual back-and-forth about holiday meals, New Year's resolutions, and Luca updating Rutger on Adam and his time in Columbus. But Luca had a purpose for this visit, and he knew he couldn't dance around it forever.

When the conversation hit a lull, Luca took a deep breath and decided to cut to the chase. "So, I heard about what happened between you and Sofia."

Rutger's face instantly fell, a mixture of guilt and anxiety clouding his features. "She told you?"

“Yeah,” Luca nodded. “And don’t bother lying, she told me pretty much everything. I just want to hear your side of it.”

Rutger swallowed hard, looking down at his hands. "How is she?" he asked quietly.

"Pretty fucking terrible," Luca answered bluntly. "She was really hurt, man."

Rutger's shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't mean to hurt her. The thought of her being upset over me is killing me. I swear, Luca, I never wanted any of this."

“Then what the hell happened?" Luca pressed, his tone softening just a bit.

Rutger’s mouth opened then shut repeatedly as he tried to come up with his words. "I… I do have feelings for her, okay? I have for a while. But I couldn't admit it, not to her and not to myself. She's your sister, man. I mean if we did date and something happened then I would end up losing both Sof and you ‘n Adam in one fell swoop. So I figured it was better to lose one than lose all. So I pushed her away. But in doing that, I ended up hurting her even more. And I swear I never meant-”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Luca interrupted, processing Rutger’s confession. “Are you saying you have feelings for Sofia?”

Rutger nodded reluctantly. "Y-yeah, I do."

“Fucking Christ, why didn’t you just say so?” Luca asked, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

Rutger sighed, the weight of his emotions bearing down on him. "I don't know, Luca. I was scared. Scared of screwing things up, scared of what you'd think, scared of everything, I guess."

On one hand, Luca felt bad for his friend, who was clearly torn and vulnerable. On the other hand, the sight of his sister crying for days on end was etched in his mind. Luca couldn’t help but let the protective brother in him come out momentarily, giving Rutger a piece of his mind.

"You know, Sofia deserves better than this cowardly bullshit. She's been nothing but honest with you, and you repay her by pushing her away and leaving her in the dark?" Luca said.

"I know," Rutger admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know I messed up. But I didn’t mean to be a dick, Luca. I was just… I was confused and terrified. You and Adam are like brothers to me, and Sofia, she's… she's everything. I didn't want to risk losing all of you."

Luca let out a frustrated sigh, shaking his head. "Well, congratulations, Rutger. You managed to hurt her and piss me off all at the same time."

"I want to make it right," Rutger said, desperation creeping into his tone. "I don't know how, but I want to fix this. I can't stand the thought of her being hurt because of me."

Luca narrowed his eyes, a sigh slipping out. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Rutger’s head shot up, furrowing his brows at Luca. “W-what?”

“How are you gonna make this better?” Luca reiterated.

“Are you seriously okay with me asking Sofia out?” Rutger asked, confirming that he was hearing his friend correctly. “I mean what about your ‘don’t even look at Sofia’ rule?”

Luca couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “Yeah, I tell the guys not to look at her like that, 'cause she’s my baby sister. But dude, you’re one of my best friends, I trust you.”

Rutger's eyes widened in surprise. "You�� you do?"

"Yeah," Luca said firmly. "I trust you. And I think Sofia does too, or at least she did before all this mess."

Rutger looked down, realizing how badly he had messed up. "But she won't speak to me after everything that happened."

Luca stood up, walking to Rutger’s side. "I'll get her to talk to you. Just… don't screw it up this time, okay?"

Rutger nodded, gratitude and hope shining in his eyes. "I won't. I promise."

Luca clapped him on the shoulder, a small smile playing on his lips. "Good. Now, let's grab some dinner. We've got a plan to figure out." Luca said. “But you’re paying 'cause you were a dick to my baby sister.”

[mhsdatgo]

No, it's not Alicent's orders that Aegon pays mind to, in fact, I think Alicent's words have long since stopped mattering to him.

I say long since because it hasn't always been this way. Believe it or not, no matter how much rage and callousness grew in him from his young age to adulthood, he too was a boy once, with a need for an authority figure just like everyone else. Alicent took upon that role, in the only way she knew how.

See, Alicent's changed. She is turned cunning, politically savvy, extremely smart, albeit incredibly emotional and paranoid, no longer passive. She's aware she's the only one siding with her children in those dire times, she knows they are threats to Rhaenyra's rule, and as such, must be eliminated. She's aware, yes, but all along she feels like she's the only one who truly cares, at least cares enough to do something about it. She's already felt like she was the only one noticing the elephant in the room, but she's always bitten her tongue. Now those days are over.

Unfortunately when it comes to generational cycles, Alicent is a woman that is packing with those. She's the daughter of a politically savvy man himself who used her for the fulfillment of one of his ambitions, no regards for the way she felt, no resistance met in this girl who is only trying to please her father, to serve her King with kindness. In terms of scheming, Alicent and Otto perfectly mirror each other: they turn to the only ones they truly feel they can spur to their side (their children). The reaction they're met with, on the other hand, not so much: Alicent is compliant since the start, Aegon is extremely rebellious. He evades from her in every way he can.

From episode 6, at first, we see that Alicent does indeed hold influence on Aegon: since it was really necessary to HAVE TY'S ASS ON SCREEN before anything that shapes Aegon into something else other than a bully, there's a scene of him pleasuring himself on the edge of a window, literally for everyone to see. The moment he's apprehended by Alicent, however, he immediately tries to recompose himself in the best way possible, he practically throws himself away from the window, drapes a blanket over himself, tries to speak coherently the moment she questions him. It's clear he wouldn't have even tried if he didn't see some kind of authority in her.

Here is another parallel between Otto and Alicent: assuming their plans will always align with their childrens', not only are they convinced their plans will result in the greater good (although for personal reasons), they are bluntly honest about the consequences the neglect of these ambitions will bring. Otto downright tells Alicent that Rhaenyra will put her children to the sword the moment she wavers and shows to be siding with Rhaenyra, Alicent grabs her son's face and practically yells the same thing at him, saying that their family's survival depends on his compliance.

Both are enormous burdens thrust into these two's shoulders, but they register differently in their minds: for Alicent, it's about survival, to Aegon, it appears to be way more about compliance. Because Alicent has turned so paranoid, so overprotective, that she's perceived as domineering. And because Aegon had ways to run from his duties and responsibilities, Alicent has always been forced to make the best out of them. And this speech DOES affect young Aegon! He looks shocked and even distraught after his mother leaves him to his devices, meekly inviting him to get dressed.

Now how do we go from THIS Aegon, who is indeed fucked up and a bit of a little shit, to the absolute devil incarnate that is adult Aegon? The answer is very simple: Otto's arrival, AKA granddaddy issues arc.

Now there are NO scenes between Aegon and Otto, nor are there scenes in the timeskip between Driftmark and Lord of The Tides (thanks writers) so let's base stuff off of what we know of these two. What do we know about Otto? He's cunning, extremely manipulative, cold, imposing, ambitious, intolerant to any sign of rebellion. What do we know of Aegon? Mainly, I'd say he's extremely defensive and protective of what he believes to be his freedom, which he perceives as something to enjoy alone, or away from anyone who knows him. (mainly, his family) Quite a hellish mix if you ask me.

Otto sees the potential in Aegon, but not as a human being: as a tool, a path to greatness, with protection and survival as a plus. Aegon sees a tyrant in Otto, nothing but a tyrant, something who squashes him and his every defiance. It shows in episode 7 first and foremost: I'd assume it hasn't been long ever since Otto came back to court at this point, because Aegon wouldn't be so STUPID to drink himself stupid while none other than Otto was around. He learns it the hard way, getting kicked awake and dragged to bed while in hungover.

If Aegon in the next episode literally tells us anything, is that Otto's treatment of him had the opposite of his desired outcome: Aegon is even WORSE than before. A LOT WORSE, if Dyana and her telling is capable of telling us something.

Even with how he acts with Alicent, everything's changed: he isn't scared of her authority anymore, it doesn't matter to him. He doesn't wake up when she screams at him, he flinches only when his covers are pulled from him. (thanks for flashing us again HBO) He fights back: no more does he treat her as someone to respect, he disregards her, he tries to go back to sleep, he faces her with defiance,

"Why? What is it today?"

And when she tries to discipline him, using force again, (this time rightfully so, and she should've done more) he talks back: still, he doesn't relent. That's what he sees Alicent as, now: challenge. Obstacle. She isn't something he worries about anymore, but rather who she follows. We all know who that is.

Interestingly enough, Alicent still continues to act according to what her father has out in her mind, although to her own accord. But she doesn't fool Aegon: he knows where it all comes from, which idea spurs in both of their minds. I adore Alicent, but she isn't nearly as demanding, as imposing and as callous as Otto is. They are two halves of a whole in Aegon's eyes, with how similar their words and the reasonings are, but Otto has toughened him up, and has turned him into a man so full of rage that he WILL fight back against anything about him he has a chance to fight back against. And we know exactly who that "thing" is, don't we.

That's part of why he's so ecstatic when he becomes King. He had the chance to turn to the smallfolk the moment the crown was placed on his head, but he doesn't: he waits for everyone, everyone, to bow. He doesn't stop at his mother and siblings, but finally turns to Otto. Only when HE bows as well, is he satisfied. He has power over him too. That's all he needed to know to confirm that he's now unstoppable. He's above everyone, and he'll prove it.

[s1nn0hh]

so Fujii's post about Grovyle and Ribbons and their history gave me some motivation to do one but for my own girlie and her grovyle, so here's basically what I had in mind.

The Beginning:

During one of his outings to find food and anything to help him survive through the day, Grovyle comes across a long abandoned settlement far out in the dry midlands. Cautious but curious, he chooses to get close and scout the place. After getting inside one of the houses to see if there's at least *something* to help him get by, he hears something. Almost the faintest sounds of someone.. sniffling? The sound caught him off guard, to which he brandishes a Leaf Blade just in case it ends up being an attempt to trick him and attack him off guard. He cautiously makes his way towards the room where the sniffling came from, and he slowly opens the door; blade ready and all. But instead of finding a trap that would've just shown him that the maddening effects of the paralyzed future have truly strewn far enough no matter where he goes, he instead finds.. a human girl, crying and holding back tears. She immediately took notice to his presence and backed away in fear, not willing to risk it all against him. But.. Grovyle did not attack. For some weird reason, he felt.. compelled to help. He reached out his hand, asking for a name and if she would like to get out of this decript house before someone else less kinder would find her.

The girl stiffens her fears and introduces herself as Erida, and accepts his offer. Not like she really had anywhere to go, and anywhere was better than here.

During the time in which they were together, Erida was primarily silent. Only ever really saying a few words if the situation called it, or if she was spoken to. Grovyle sensed that something was bothering her (she made a bit too obvious, he says), but upon seeing her just say that it's fine and that it doesn't matter, something inside him stirs. Something inside is eating her out, piece by piece, and she would just let it fend and feed until some line is reached. Even long after Celebi joins the party, her behavioral issues still persist; and it doesn't help him that her self-sacrificial tendencies (that just remind him a bit too much of his own) only grew more, especially during fights where she would intentionally take hits for him and only hurt herself for the sake of shielding them both. It's safe to say that was the grand line he was willing to draw, and he almost instinctively stopped becoming just an adult that she's in company with to almost becoming a worried parent/responsible adult. He started encouraging her to eat more food, get better rest, and to please not act as a shield for him and Celebi. He understands the gesture and the intentions behind it, but if he has to see one more scar or blue spot on her body, he might just faint. Surprisingly enough, she listens to him for the most part. She doesn't understand where this all suddenly came from, but Grovyle just says that he cares about her, much more than he'd like to say. (Almost the same way a parent would care about their child, one might say..)

When the whole 'saving the paralyzed future' mission starts taking effects and Primal Dialga sending his ghastly goons to stop the three from altering history, Erida's self sacrificial tendencies return in full force. She was willing to take whatever the Sableye threw at her, and Dusknoir, for how she was terrified shitless of him, was just strong and resilient enough to take at least one of his hits. Grovyle could feel his heart drop when that happens, but that's a talk he will need to have with her in another time. After Celebi opens the passage of time to get back to the past and do what needs to be done, the passage becomes unstable. Erida tries to balance herself to stay afoot, but the nearing presence of Dusknoir on their tail, coupled with the constant shaking and motions, she manages to fall. Grovyle manages to hold onto her; just enough to pull her back. He's not gonna lose her here. Please, don't let go. But just as she struggles to hold onto his hand, she gives him one last smile, and says the following words.

"Although the parting hurts.. the rest is in your hands!"

And as a final act to ensure that he will live, she let go.

Unfortunate Reunion:

During his desperation and the ever-growing guilt on the time gear collectahon, Grovyle encounters a new obstacle in his path. A strange red Duskull and a Baltoy keep stopping him from trying to get the time gears. He knew he could very easily just push them aside and use force if needed, but something about how that duskull kept protecting and shielding her teammate almost instinctively back at Quicksand Cave, and it only brought him to a halt as it reminded him of someone who he had failed to protect, and her name also being 'Erida' felt like this was just a taunting reminder for how he failed, both as a friend and as a father. Of course, he still had a mission to accomplish. Crystal Cave wasn't as fun as he would like to recall. The attacks he dealt certainly had more impact on the two, and he managed to swipe them off their feet and ensure their meddling won't continue; only to be stopped by the wretched Dusknoir who showed up last minute to stop him from relentlessly beating up those two kids. Grovyle flees, head filled with thoughts.

When he's captured and brought back to the dark future and the two are now familiar with Dusknoir's true nature and how much he 'cared', Grovyle couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy; specifically for the duskull. Whereas her partner felt deceived and hurt and more vocal about those feelings, she just.. stood there. and took everything in. almost like.. no, no. He couldn't bring himself to say it. That wasn't her. It.. couldn't be.

After escaping once more, the three gather back at Sharpedo Bluff, Grovyle decides to open up more and tell the two who he really is and what his mission was for, and about the person that he is doing all this for. After he's done, he sees the little Baltoy look a bit confused, gesturing to the Duskull and telling him that this is Erida. Grovyle says that the Erida he knew was human, to which the Baltoy responds by saying she found her unconscious on the beach one day, with the memory of.. being a human.

Grovyle's eyes widen as he asks if that really is true, to which she nods with. Erida was alive, but.. he.. he hurt.. he was supposed to..

...

Erida recognized him. But the cost that came with that recognition was not worth the risk.

During the way to the Hidden Land on Lapras' back, it was silent. With only the waves to accommodate for noise, the situation was deafening and ridden with unwashed blood. Night fell, and just as the two fell asleep, Grovyle only stayed up and thought. He felt two small arms wrap around his hand, to which he looked down and saw.. Erida. He was not sure what to make of the gesture. Did she forgive him? Did he deserve her apology? He did not know. But somehow, he felt better. So long as she was safe, he felt better.

The fight against Dusknoir before the Rainbow Stoneship was unexpected, but it was nothing they could not handle. Dusknoir was strong, but so were they. As Gaia was instructed to wait at the top of the stoneship, Grovyle and Erida fought side by side against the gripper menace. But just as they were done, Dusknoir revealed a piece of information that Grovyle should've clawed him for revealing. When time will be restored, he, Grovyle and Erida will disappear. Erida only looked at him and asked him if it was true, to which he only nodded in shame. The piece of information he concealed from her for so long, and this is how she finally knew about it.

As a final act of remorse, Grovyle manages to slowly but surely push back Dusknoir to the passage he came from, but not long before Erida tries to tell him that he doesn't have to go. He wanted to stay. To help. To make up for everything. But this is a matter that she and Gaia had to fight on their own against.

The parting hurt, but the rest was in their hands. And with that, he and Dusknoir disappeared into the passage.

Current Day

By the time the future trio return to current day times, the first thing on his mind was to see Erida. To at least know she was still alive and well was the first in his priorities, and.. if she still remembers him. Safe to say, she absolutely does. The moment he comes visiting at the bluff, he is immediately pulled into an Ursaring hug by a blue dusknoir with two scars on her face, and he was happy to see her again just as she did with him.

But alas, she wasn't as welcoming to the presence of a certain ghost-type that tagged along, and her reaction to his presence was almost.. visceral. It didn't take him long enough to catch up with everything else that had transpired during the last 4 decades, and the one thing that truly broke his heart was seeing and hearing all the emotional travesties that Erida went through, to which he only blames himself for not returning closer, even when she tells him it wasn't his fault. But he supposes that this is what they are all here for, to make up for the time lost and fix what was left broken. There was no way in hell he was gonna leave again. His daughter needed him, and he was gonna do his best to be the foster father he previously failed to be.

[rosicheeks]

😓🤬

[queen-scribbles]

Music Tag Game

Stealing this from @vorchagirl bc it looks fun! (also y'all know I'm addicted to making my OCs playlists) 😁😁😁 Not tagging anyone since I stole it, but if you wanna steal it from me in turn feel free.

---

List 2 songs or a playlist that represent your OCs or characters who you love

Lisa Shepard (actual playlist) Romances: Kaidan Alenko Art by naarisz

Song 1: Blood on My Name//The Brothers Bright Song 2: Masquerade//Lindsey Stirling

Cam Ryder Romances: Liam Kosta  Art by starsandskies

Song 1: Down in Flames//Icon for Hire Song 2: Somebody to You//The Vamps

Trinne Amell (actual playlist) Romances: (lmao) Alistair Theirin and/or Harvey Cousland* depending on the canon /cough Art by emedeme(12 years old and it's still one of my faves)

Song 1: Name Storms After//Nate Smith Song 2: Dance In the Graveyards//Delta Rae

Vikkari Damson Romances: Arueshale or Etain Torren depending on the canon :3 Art by lupotterdraws/the-upper-shelf (I couldn't decided 😅)

Song 1: Orpheus//Sarah Bareilles Song 2: Dragonfly Keeper//PHILDEL

[guidingsbolt]

have not stopped thinking about the quinn conversation.

[pixiesndberries]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃, 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐄𝐍 —

a small series of Jujutsu Kaisen men as your husband !

☆ OUR STARS : Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, Choso Kamo, Aoi Todo, Toji Fushiguro, and more !

━ REQUESTED BY : none

━⁠ WARNINGS : none

ෆ PIXIE'S NOTE ! : were back again at daily posting 🙏🏻 to my pookies who supported me, y'all made me giggle and kickin' my feet in my bed last night 👉🏻👈🏻 love lots!

GOJO SATORU, as your husband !

• Gojo being your husband is no different from being your boyfriend — he still gotta be that same person you dated few years ago, though he became more serious about situations and decisions because you guys are married but his goofy, annoying, clingy side is still there — I mean when he met you and been with you for like two weeks your caller name is already set as 'wifey'.

Gojo who totally acts like a mom when you leave for work, he is like a freaking HOUSEWIFE —

"honey!" he sings as he walks into the living room seeing you brush your hair Infront of the mirror, getting ready for work. "hmm?" you responded and quickly turns your head at him — he's wearing a this is what an awesome husband looks like apron which made you too stunned to speak, "I created a bento for you." he smiles as he hands out a nicely wrapped bento box which was really new to you because it's always you who keep creating bentos for him, usually when he leaves for a mission.

"thank you, honey." you say softly with a warm smile as you accept his bento that he specially created for you, he can't help but to feel like a love sick teenager seeing you smile like that. He officially takes the position of being a housewife 🫡

Gojo who couldn't stop talking about the future he wants with you like nonstop — this man would talk about having three million carbon copy of him with you and would name them after megumi, yuji, nanami and basically all of his friends, students, and dead relatives 🏃🏻‍♀️💨 — I FEEL LIKE HE GOTTA BE THAT TYPE OF PERSON.

Gojo always flexes you everyday and YOU are his hyper fixation — argue with the wall, he gotta be the type of man to say "she's my wife." randomly when he's talking to an old friend he haven't seen for a long time. HE WILL BE THE HUSBAND WHO YOU WILL SEE WEARING "I LOVE MY WIFE" TYPE OF SHIRT WITH THE UGLIEST FONT AND PHOTO TEMPLATE EVER. Once a person mentions your name he ain't gonna shut the fuck up.

I just know this marriage go'n be like Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively's relationship 🙏🏻 ABSOLUTELY RANDOM TEXTS FROM HIM, UPDATING YOU TOO MUCH.

2:32 pm

gojo : shitting at the mall cuz i don't have anywhere to shit on.

gojo : [sent an attachment]

gojo : i miss you my wife, my beautiful wife.

gojo : [sent an attachment]

gojo : [sent an attachment]

gojo : your very handsome husband ❤️

2:40 pm

you : stop spamming me messages love, im at work 🙏🏻

gojo : why? is it turning you on 😏

you : that's a photo of your feet.

Gojo who became a seriously hands on person when you told him that you're pregnant — when he has missions with yuji, megumi, or maybe nobara and you told him that you're very tired to do anything today he will be like,"okay kids, I got to go I have important things to do." and dashed away before they could say something and mf arrived at yalls house within a second.

Gojo who cried when he carry his baby for the first time, he was sobbing like hell — girl dad? boy dad? BRO HE IS BOTH ‼️ "okay we'll name this one suguru and this one-" he is going to come up with the most ridiculous names, probably the worst one was his dead ancestor.

okay seriously, Gojo would be a full time dad after his children were born — he will always stay at home as much as he can, having twins isn't easy plus he's trying to help you with his full power and make sure you don't feel alone through this.

"gojo.." you grumble as you felt his presence disappearing next to you at bed, you open your eyes and sees he wasn't there which led you to stand up and start looking for him — you walk out of the bedroom and noticed that the twin's bedroom door was open so you check it out.

in your suprise, gojo was in the rocking chair with the twin's in his arms peacefully sleeping and he is snoring like hell. You can't help but smile seeing this moment, it warms you heart. You quickly grabbed your phone and took a quick photo, this is what you exactly wished for.

Gojo who couldn't stop posting you and his little angels and his fans are absolutely living for it, it's like his day wouldn't complete without posting cute photos of his angels and of course, you as well. Gojo is indeed a Facebook mom —

; gojosatoru

tagged : @y/n.instagram | fam time 🤍 !

liked by megumi.22 and 8,957 others

itaaa.yuji | I volunteer as a tribute to babysit them 🫡

nobaraaa | CUTIES.

shokoleiri.7 | adorbs

─ REBLOGS, LIKES, AND COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED FEEL FREE TO REQUEST!

[backwzzds]

ೃ⁀➷ love me, connie springer (nsfw)

thinking about babydaddy!connie fucking you nice and slow after finding out you got stood up by your date. having little constentina (his idea, but tina for short) for the weekend, your precious angel just couldn’t keep her mouth shut to her daddy when you’d told her you were going on a small ‘dinner’

“she said dinner but that really means date, daddy.”

connie isn’t surprised. no one knew how to handle you beside him. i mean, he’s had your ass in place successfully for nearly ten years; only he was man enough to handle you, your mind, and most of all your body.

you loved connie like no other, you wanted no one else to be the father of your children. but you knew the streets would eventually take him away from you, and you just didn’t wanna stick around for that. not when you had a five year old girl depending on the both of you. connie looked for other ways to make bread without selling or doing anything…illegal but it was hard to match the stacks he was bringing home every weekend.

your separation was a one sided agreement anyways it seems. to you? you two were broken up. to connie delulu ass? you were his wife and you’re ‘smoking dick if you think ion belong to you and you’on belong to me.’

you didn’t even have any words for the absence of your so called ‘date.’. after an hour of waiting, you figured you’d call in to check on tina. ringing connie, your babyfather answered on the first ring, of course with a wood in his mouth and multiple lights on his face, signaling he was watching tv.

“hey,” your voice is solemn and low. you really were tired and ashamed to say anything more.

“hey mama, you okay?” connie’s hazel brown eyes quickly flick over to yours through the screen.

you shrug though he can’t see it. “i’m okay.” you admit. “just callin’ to check on my baby.” the frame was only on your face, but from the small shake of your hand, connie had managed to get a glimpse of a pretty black dress you’d sported, breasts looking three times as big as it usually did because of your sitting position. he could tell you dressed up for the night.

“yeah? she good, just upstairs sleepin’ right now. how was your date, pretty?” you hear connie turn down the tv in the background and give you his full intention.

you furrow your brows. “what? boy, how’d you know about it?”

your baby father blows out a huff of smoke and chuckles, flashing his gold canines. he wasn’t gon snitch on his lil informant princess. “i got my ways. tell me bout it baby.”

with a roll of your eyes, you let out a tired sigh and felt your shoulders sag. “wouldn’t know. the nigga never showed.”

connie furrows his own thick eyebrows. “what you mean? he told you he couldn’t come?” he asked. from the shake of your head, you see his face soften on the screen. “come over n’ smoke with me. lemme make you feel better.”

you kiss your teeth and throw your head back, already knowing where the conversation was headed. embarrassment flooded your expression. “you eating my pussy is not gonna make me feel better, constance.”

connie kissed his teeth and waved you off dismissively. “you’on know that.”

a blush can’t help but creep its way onto your brown cheeks. “i’m supposed to be staying away from you, ya know.”

connie gives you a knowing grin, shamelessly flexing the two deep dimples in his cheeks that constentina inherrited from him. “yeah? how’s that going for you, mama?”

“obviously not good because i’m actually considering your offer of being a booty call tonight?” you laugh.

“come onnn mama, tina’s sleep, i got a wood rolled for you and i want you here.” your ex compromised with a kiss of his teeth. “lemme rub ya feet and all on ya butt i promise you’ll feel better.

“i’m tired and don’t feel like driving, con,” you whine in the same tone. you knew if he didn’t have your daughter he’d already be at your door, but you refused to risk waking her up in a car ride over here.

connie rolls his eyes and puts you on pause for the moment. a minute later he comes back on screen and takes a pull of his backwood. “your uber on the way baby.”

“ooh daddy,” you cried, trying your hardest to breathe straight. “you know i cum fast like this, oh shit,” connie had your legs spread wide open, forcing your huge tits up against the bottom of your face as he pumped in and out of you.

“you like that mama, like when i fuck you nice and slow? all romantic n’ shit?” connie teased. tears streamed down your face and he wasted no time in kissing them from your pretty face.

you’re too far in euphoria to even fully comprehend exactly what he’s saying. “yes, i love when you stroke this pussy so deep daddy.”

connie holds your breasts up damn near to your face and takes his time sucking on each of your nipples, making sure to stretch and pull it all the way back as far as it could go, grinning at the sound of it snapping back toward you. “you’on need no one else to love you like this but me, you heard?”

you can’t help but shake your head, the small responsible part of you left that hadn’t been fucked out by connie yet (though he was close) was slowly bringing you to reality. “no,” you respond.

“nah, nah, dead that shit or imma stop,” your ex threatened, straightening his back out so he stood tall, yet still very deep inside your gummy walls. you can’t help but stare down the tattoos that littered his body; many dedicated to you and your shared daughter. “you grippin’ me so tight baby, boutta make me cum, fuck,” connie throws his head back and whines. “tell me you’re mine n’ we gonna get back together.”

“no, con,” your words were saying one thing, but the cream ring of your arousal forming around connie’s tanned dick was betraying everything leaving your mouth. “w-we’re we’re toxic—oooh, yes, right there right there!”

suddenly, a large pair of hands come to wrap around your neck, gripping lightly. “tell me you’re mine or im not fuckin’ this pussy,” he orders. “you know i don’t be bluffing, mama. ‘specially when it come to your spoiled ass déjame oírte decirlo.”

more tears fall from your eyes as you feel your lower region bubble in evstasy. “con—“

“say it if you wanna cum.” connie’s grip around your neck tightens as he inevitably starts to babble. he was not gonna let up off you no matter what. “come on mama, say it n lemme give you another baby. gonna make you a mama all over again, want you so full of my babies, pretty—fuck,” he breathed out. “you know daddy sorry, you gonna forgive him?”

it wasn’t until connie started to add his thumb rubbing circles around your clit did you finally fold and give in. “oh fuck, yes! yes yes i forgive you con—please—“

“go head and cum mami, te quiero.” connie breathed out, feeling his own orgasm approach. “te amo joder joder por favor dame más hijos mami te estoy rogando déjame correrte dentro de ti,” the man curses into the atmosphere as he strokes himself in you a few more times.

“yes yes,” you nod in response to his pleads of cumming in you. a nanosecond later, connie’s cumming deep into you until he ends up shooting nothing but blanks. you’re full to the brim to the point where drops of his cum couldn’t help but ooze out between your puffy cunt.

“dio mio.”

[foldingfittedsheets]

Before my beloved and I moved in together they were living with roommates in a place that didn't have a bathtub. Now, a reasonable person might conclude from this that baths would be out of the equation in a home with only one standing shower and no tub.

But these people weren't quitters. Naturopathic doctors and acupuncturists they were dedicated to treating their bodies well and one of the ways they liked to do that was hydrotherapy. Most people are familiar with this through things like polar bear plunges. You sit in a hot tub then jump in freezing water.

It's supposedly good for you and they were way into it. But again, no tub. They'd do hydro showers but it just wasn't the same. These people were not quitters, though. (One of them is the boob soap person, so it really isn't a surprise that she goes hard on everything). So they got what looked like two big metal old timey tubs but which were actually animal food troughs and set them up in the garage. They set up a water heater and god knows how they emptied the tub after, I think there was hoses involved? A pump maybe? I honestly can't remember. Anyway! Voila, hydrotherapy on demand.

I was not aware of this. So when I came over after a long day and my beloved said we should take a bath I was extremely puzzled. I only knew about the one shower. They showed me the garage tubs. I did want a bath and I wasn't really sure about the setup, but honestly I'll try anything once if only for the story, so I agreed.

Fun fact about me though. I haaaate being cold. I've been 0% body fat most of my life with skin barely keeping my bones enclosed. I'm always cold. My favorite activity at the time was sitting directly in front of space heaters. My shower temperatures turn me lobster red and make my beloved cringe. Willingly dunking myself into cold water is the antipathy of my entire deal.

On the night in question I happily submerged into the warm tank, pleasantly surprised by the big silly improvised tub. Which again was meant for livestock. My knees bumped companionably against my beloved as we soaked in the hot water. After a while they rose to go into the cold water. "You don't have to," they told me.

But I was haunted. I wouldn't be doing hydro if I just stayed in the warm tub. Maybe hydro was amazing. It has all these health benefits. I desperately didn't want to but I stood up with them. We were having this nice intimate evening in the garage, just us, I felt safe. I was gonna do it.

They stepped easily into the cold tub, dunking matter of factly into the frigid water. I went to step. I did. I really really tried. My foot went in and I started shrieking, my progress arrested by the total state of shock I entered when my warm toasty foot hit that smug arctic water tension. My beloved started laughing as my pitch ascended the deeper my foot went into the cold water.

I started loudly narrating my discomfort as my foot touched the bottom and I willed my other foot up to join it. "THIS IS VERY COLD," I yelled, "IT'S SO COLD I THINK I MIGHT DIE HOW ARE YOU JUST CASUALLY SITTING IN THIS FREEZING COLD WATER?! I'M DYING- I THINK I'M DYING! I'M DYING BUT WE'RE HERE, TOGETHER! I CAN DO THIS! I CAN DO THESE EVEN THOUGH IT'S SO COLD ALL MY MOLECULES HAVE COMPRESSED INTO A SOLID STATE!"

I ended up with both feet planted in the cold tub, water up to my shins, bellowing and panting while my beloved laughed so hard they couldn't breathe. I hunkered over the cold water, squatting like a frozen gargoyle.

My beloved was trying to psyche me up while I willed my body to obey me. In a sudden jerky drop like a puppet whose strings have been cut I plummeted my body into the cold and let out a shriek that I’m sure could have shattered glass and then leapt up out of the water at a speed relative to a rocket achieving space flight. I didn’t like it.

When we got back inside my beloved's roommates were collapsed on the ground with tears in the their eyes from how hard they'd been laughing. They and probably every neighbor down the block had heard my pterodactyl screeching and narration because the garage was not remotely soundproof.

[capslocked]

PRAXIS

male reader x irene

23k words

"A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair," you remark, and Irene smiles up at that.

The sound of city traffic underneath your open window makes for an uncertain backdrop - though the browns of her eyes glimmer caramel in the dying light. Something sweet, the beginnings of an addiction if you’ll let her.

"A girl could walk in," Irene says, "but, she never does."

It was not a good idea, of course, to keep doing this where the whole world could see, where your shadows and silhouettes make lurid shapes against the blinds, but your office is small and the lighting is soft and Irene keeps pushing up onto her tiptoes, pressing you flat against your desk, trying to kiss you, and you won't be able to stop her - or want to, not when she's already leaning into you with her arms loose around your hips, her eyelashes heavy, her mouth a pink line of want against her smile.

It’s inevitable, maybe.

Here's what they might catch in the exact moment, in a not-so-distant memory:

Your heartbeat, quiet and slow and distant, like there's too much blood for it in your veins, your skin electric-pulsing underneath Irene's, the feel of her leg hitched up your waist, your hand wound tightly in her ponytail. The tiny sigh of a smile at the corner of Irene's lips, like you're tickling her somehow - you'll stop if she really wants you to, but - she doesn't. She never does.

Why wouldn't we want to be mistaken for something? is what you’re supposed to hear; she's too haughty, too proud. Someone could catch you. She’ll never come out and admit, just what would anyone do, if they did?

So yeah. It’s complicated.

You give a little, Irene pulls back. You do your damndest not to push. You hate how goddamn easy it is to convince yourself of anything, everything - whatever the lie. Irene isn’t ignoring you. She doesn't ignore the texts you send her. You don’t need to make plans more than two hours in advance. Mixed signals are such a misunderstood phenomenon: she can just be shy, sometimes. Maybe she doesn’t want to intrude. She was nervous, but she felt really fucking good on top of you - maybe next time, the guilt will be a bit less for both of you.

It’s just sex, she says once to you after; there’s no strings attached. How could it get ever more perfect than that?

-

(And she’s right. You know she’s right, or at least you very well should.

See, you’ve been talking for hours about how you shouldn’t be talking for hours on end. Kissing her after a conversation you’d had around the fact you’d both be better off as friends.

So how's that gonna sound, anyway? Here, go on, try saying it:

Bae Irene? Yeah, met her on the subway - that's the story, the reason you know her; you got on a train one day and she was the prettiest person there. You were both headed to the same place. You’re just not sure when that's gonna change.

And well, the way you see it: you’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

-

To be candid, you can't really pin down how any of this started. The logistical details, sure. However the suggestion, the sex, the seclusion - these things, not so much.

Somedays, if you squint, it plays out rather predictably. You’ll be going about your business, a particularly average day everything considered, or - well, mostly. Today, there are just the two minor caveats:

First off, your key grinds in the lock when you jam it in. That part is pretty normal, but to your surprise, the door is already very much open.

So, that's odd, you think. That's very odd. You slide inside, cautious, and as you call out an even more cautious "hello?" you realize all the lights are on - so either you've been robbed or are currently in the state of being robbed by someone with suboptimal visual acuity. A disability-washed-burglar. Not to minimize crime, of course, but that'd be interesting, you think, or representative perhaps? Maybe.

Alternatively,

Irene's let herself into your apartment again. It’s quite plausible.

She's not great at the whole 'asking permission' thing, though she swears every time it'll never happen again. You peek around your foyer: there’s her coat, her heels, her shirt, a handbag - all strewn about the hall like she’d been raptured and left a delicate trail of destruction, which does sound a lot like the Bae Irene you've known forever.

(Okay, six, seven months isn’t forever - but you get the gist; the general principle still applies.)

Now another, horrifying option is that both theories are true, simultaneously. A home invader has in fact gotten to Irene. In the middle of robbing the place. How terrible, how awful, how genuinely macabre, what a genuinely-

"Yeah, hey," you hear, followed by a heavy, sloshing thunk. "Welcome home or something."

Sure enough, as you enter the kitchen you spy your truly awful vision being confirmed. One of them, anyway. There is your incredibly hot (this is in reference to Irene), extremely fashionable (same boat as before, honestly), dangerously intelligent (yes) and notorious rulebreaker of an (it really bears emphasis on how hot and fashionable and stylish said rulebreaking often is) acquaintance as per her standard. Irene. A roguish and impossibly captivating conglomerate of trouble with a mild attitude and perfect posture; as a collection, she's a collection you want, a package you intend to keep, an accessory you'd die for. That, and a kettle on the stove apparently, so she can make you tea while you languish on the floor, and you could live like that forever, or so the dream goes.

Also right, the second caveat: there's the robbery. She's stolen a button-up out of your closet.

And look - she's actually so much prettier than she has any business being. Hair up in a messy bun, lips painted light. Nail polish starting to fade. She's still in her nylons and a tight little pencil skirt and you can't really complain. You'd need to be legally dead.

"Hi," Irene says, and the burner sputters to life. "Where'd you go?"

"The bank. And then I had to return books," you say, shucking off your jacket. "You know, I wasn't aware anyone else was living here."

"Excuse you," Irene replies. She turns, leans her forearms on the counter; the shirt buttons are misaligned, but she makes it look like a stylistic consideration - how the sleeves are pushed past her elbows and the neckline has already slipped down one of her dainty shoulders.

She has your clothes. She has an irritatingly winsome half-smirk. The clock above the stove says it’s barely even 9 PM.

"Do you get your mail forwarded here, too?" You shuck off your jacket. "To further clarify, why not call first? Maybe text? Hell, smoke signals could do."

"Because it's a hell of a lot easier to ask you for forgiveness," Irene tells you, knowing, "asking for permission gets me nowhere," and then grabs a mug from the cupboards. She seems to know where everything is already. "I don't know why you get so bothered about it, honestly, what should I do? Call you and say, wow, babe, I am planning on letting myself into your apartment, sorry, yeah, I was thinking we could - ah fuck - you know what, I am irreparably, incomprehensibly horny."

"Nice vocab."

"Thanks," Irene says, beaming, and even tips up her chin to show it.

You notice that you actually match right now, since it is, technically, your shirt. Sure, your collar’s a little stiff - and she’s barely able to keep the fabric from folding and spilling over her lithe frame, but that hardly matters. It's so ungodly hot. She could wear anything - or, probably, nothing, if you're being honest.

And you are, mostly.

So you pad into the space right behind her to tell her some truths, the things you think - but she spins on her heel before you get the chance to grab her, which is a pity; you'd love to do that, maybe just push her flat to the wall. You know, if she'd let you. She would. Probably. You'd ask, definitely, but you’re thinking you wouldn't even have to.

Irene crosses her arms. The collar keeps slipping. You see her collarbone, smooth. She is flawless, no fucking wonder. You are almost terrified of her at times.

"How do you know I’d have said no?" you ask, and it sounds a little sweet - then there’s you noticing an old bruise along her throat, where her shoulder dips down; that was probably your doing, probably from this week, last Saturday maybe? Her skin seems softer somehow, looks like her makeup was fresh at the beginning of the day and the end of the night, that kind of evening smudging. She's smiling with her nose crinkling up. 

She doesn’t react when you press in closer. 

"Really." You’re waiting for her. Probably waiting for her to kiss you, to reach up on her toes and latch her wrists behind your neck, to reach her mouth to yours - though, she doesn't. Her breathing picks up, so it's almost like she doesn't have to, she's smiling at you so sharply. It’s a rare win for restraint as far as your apartment is concerned.

"So then where lies the issue?" she asks, and then she simply waits on this smoldering sort of glance.

You can’t help the laugh that follows. "I mean it's the principle of the thing."

Irene hums at that. She glances to the side. Toward the windows, back to you, and then all over your face.

"Then, allow me a principle," she finally says, staring straight at your mouth, real subtle-like. "Yes, I'm going to keep coming here. Probably a lot. I mean, unless you have an actual issue you'd be hardly one to talk: Mr. Keeps Do Not Disturb Active At All Fucking Times. I bet you're the last person to go through their voicemails, too."

"Guilty, but look - I hit critical mass, like, a thousand unheard messages ago. It’s untenable and unreasonable. You should be offering me pity."

"You are ungovernable." Irene sinks back a bit against the countertop, slow, smooth and sinuous. "You're basically a hermit." She smiles at her own assessment, the grin growing with its truth. Her eyes sparkle in the low-light and her teeth bite at the bottom of her lip. The tea kettle starts to rattle.

"I think we’re supposed to be discussing the breaking and entering here," you correct, dryly, and step a bit closer, "also just for the record, hermits are implied loners. And yet."

"And yet," Irene echoes, letting her voice trail away.

There's an uptick in the corner of her mouth, and she glances at you, quick, momentarily mirthless. You wait for the punchline, the verbal parry, the expertly timed jab-

"What?" asks Irene, and her face instead is all soft edges, light pink lips, and clear, uncomplicated eyes. She grabs for the end of her sleeve and folds it one more time down the slender length of her forearm. The watch on her wrist catches the light. "It's a decent theory."

This almost feels normal, you think, like a routine, something domestic - Irene leaving her things all over your apartment, Irene occupying your bathroom cabinets and the space on your shower rack that used to belong to a singular bar of soap. This is a tale of a typical hookup arrangement gone absolutely off the rails: sex for a night here, a dinner together there, a break from the monotony. You shouldn’t even know Irene that well, you think, or nowhere near as well as you do - and somehow that didn't stop you from giving her a spare key to your apartment - or it didn't stop her from wanting the damn thing.

You try not to read too far into that last one, since you're probably the only idiot that hasn't noticed how smitten Irene has been from day fucking one. It’s your fault, it’s hers; there’s a case to be made for either.

"You can see how a girl might walk in and jump to the wrong conclusions," you remark.

Irene laughs at that, "Oh yeah?" and her eyebrows raise, her lips pursing in an immediate half-smile - this hot little line that’ll get kissed right off her mouth if she’s not careful. She doesn’t even pretend to react otherwise: that same brand of pleased, almost flirtatious - a bit unyielding. Pragmatic, maybe. Not fully on board, still keeping a distance, just an inch outside of what it could be. She never stops fucking with you. She's never anything but beautiful.

It's very unfair, if anyone’s keeping track.

"You mean like an affair?" She laughs out loud. The mark at her temple dots the expression like an exclamation point. "Like me, as your mistress. That’s fucking crazy." 

"Satisfy my ego. Pretend that wasn't, in any conceivable world, the worst possible phrasing, but yeah. More or less," you say, "one which would, mind you, seem very poorly planned on both our parts, all things considered."

There's a pause where she scrutinizes your face; you stare evenly back. It's kind of a bluff. You are sort of a self-centered prick, on occasion, but you are not lying to this woman; you have no reason to. Maybe it's a gamble: to hope she understands you better than she ought to, or to wish she'd accept you in spite of that. To want her, in your home, at your leisure, a friend or something more. 

Trying to materialize words for the immaterial is largely the dilemma.

"An affair, huh" Irene repeats slowly, tasting the word carefully, like she's trying it on for size - and she cants her hips towards yours. Her fingers had wrapped around the bottom of your tie at some point. "My goodness, that’s like, so, so romantic of us."

"Also jesus, please, ‘mistress’ is horribly gauche," you say, and Irene tugs a little too hard and you step forward. The smug look on her face suggests, not entirely unpretentiously: how else, then, shall we call it?

"But look at me. I am in your kitchen, I’m wearing your clothes," she reminds you, with another tiny pull, which draws you so much nearer. You can feel your neck prickle. "That makes us quite close, wouldn't you agree, darling?"

"Dial it back," you tell her, because Irene's the only person in the world that can put so much stress on a single fucking word and get away with it. 

But she's watching you, watching you still, intently. She looks good, smells somehow even better, You inhale her. There's this cloud of shampoo, fragrance, whatever she's decided to wear - citrus today, light. God, she's so fucking gorgeous.

"I'm still trying to scold you," you end up adding, because it won’t go without saying.

"And I'm waiting for you to." 

It's not the right answer, though your annoyance dissipates almost as quickly as it rises: Irene could probably charm her way out of anything if she really tried, maybe, and still make the entire world like her even better - so instead of responding, you just sigh, and sink further into her. She wraps your tie once around her knuckles, and tugs again, harder and pointedly, but it's not so hard that it hurts; you know she could manage that if she wanted. Irene just grins up at you, rosy in the face and pretty: no pain, just fun.

"Are you mad?" She tilts her head in and places her exhale right over yours. You could count her lashes if they’d stop fluttering. "Are you going to tell me you'll send me packing now? Just order me right the hell out of here and change the locks, do you mean it?"

"I would, definitely," you say, without so much as a beat missed. "If I weren't so busy being inconvenienced by the fact you're so goddamn pretty."

"Mhmm." Irene fits her lips to yours, murmuring, "exactly."

Her body presses and pushes up against you, and you're thinking again about Door A, Door B. Thinking about your future, her future: it doesn't mean anything. Who needs to dream, when Bae Irene's already such a walking daydream? Hypothetically - a wicked little fantasy if nothing else. She still can't fucking resist pulling away after just a second, just a touch too soon, and laughing right against your lips - even though, when you open your eyes again, her eyes are softly closed and she’s leaning in for more.

The reality is: the two of you, inextricably, are bound in each other's pull. A binary star of (1) extremely talented, (2) equally charming colleagues that only accidentally get lost inside the same room: (3) office, (4) storage closet, (5) bedroom, (6) living room, (7) kitchen, (8) the little-used laundry nook. Your list keeps growing. It is exhausting, but maybe not the worst: not, actually, so bad-

Your hands flatten against the cool material of her skirt.

"I could," you mutter, trying so hard, "you know, stop this. Maybe."

"I actually happen to believe you," Irene's saying. Her teeth graze your chin. "But maybe you can try," she offers, not so helpfully, "just this once?"

The hem of her shirt slips up the long stretch of her leg. It doesn’t move far before the bend of her knee has her pinned, skirt pressed flat to her thighs. You aren’t exactly a gentleman, so you pull it to her waist as you press even closer. The nylon feels wonderful against her legs.

So you let it boil down to the instinctual, the obvious. To physicality: her hip against your own, her soft sigh as the kiss grows in strength. You wrap an arm around her middle; her hands cradle the sides of your jaw - the tip of her tongue brushing yours - then her fingers find their home on the nape of your neck. When you touch the inside of her thigh, across the smooth fabric, ghosting over the center - where the tension is tightest - her lips part a little. She shivers. You try not to smile about it.

"Slow?" you ask her, and the amusement feels unfair to her, even if it is your best attempt to appear thoughtful. She sinks her nails into your skin and her eyelids open slightly. They gleam. "Told me to try," you point out.

You touch her, feel the heat as she says, a little strained, "I did." She swallows. "I'm allowed to change my mind later, though."

"Fine," you relent, "then so am I."

She considers this briefly. Her lashes lower and raise. She nods.

And the teasing has to go somewhere. "Well," you murmur, and kiss the hinge of her jaw. "Mistress it is. Guess there isn't much left to work with, huh." And in any other context, these are the things that earn you another patented-glare, a toss of a pillow over the bedspread, a hard swat on the chest, an indignant 'well fuck you, I can't believe we're having sex!', an abject departure, a million things all at once - at its most dramatic and emotional: a maelstrom of verbal riposte.

Here, though-

She hikes her leg even higher around your hip. Her fingernails clench even sharper. Your tie falls down a button, to the crook between her neck and shoulder, and her hair comes free of its messy ponytail. The line of it skims over her breast, just so.

Irene sighs louder, and does that thing, a deepening in the middle of the noise that lets you know exactly how badly she wants you - this, you're getting familiar with, or the start of it at least, that fine-tuned way Irene wants someone when she doesn't even hesitate to show it. It was odd, and at first almost embarrassing to see. That might've even been part of the charm, you think: Irene could want to devour you. You were you - slightly interesting, and in her eyes, probably the most intriguing fuck - but whatever her reasons, it all clicked for Irene. She had a system to evaluate and adjust and execute. There wasn't room for wasted effort.

"Hey," she hums, low in her throat.

"Yeah," you say, lifting her right up onto the counter. 

And see - there are these gestures, reminders, not always in good faith, where you make her feel small: Irene's wrists are suddenly so narrow, one right at the surface of the counter, fingertips cool at your collar, and her nail polish chipping a little at the edges. Your palm is larger, enveloping the high, broad arch of her hip, the sharp line of bone to muscle to sinew. She feels fragile, is what it is, a fine-boned little bird, a thin silhouette under her loose, borrowed shirt - it's almost poetic, a regular old fuckbuddy - a physical habit, and you know her, know how many inches, and you can find your favorite parts of her in the dark, but-

"Want your mouth," Irene's saying now. Her lips glistening, eyes liquid; you want to tell her that that's an indisputable victory, just objectively, even before the clothes fall.

"Tell me where to put it," you offer back, and watch the corner of her lips twitch up.

She runs her hand through the back of your hair, mussing it, the lazy drag of her nails, her heel right to your lower back. The light from the stove is doing her wonders, gold catching off the paleness of her skin. "Make yourself useful, I think, like on your knees."

You raise an eyebrow at her.

"Don't give me that look" - and Irene shrugs her shoulders back - the shirt falling more, the flat plane of her stomach - this jut of bone, the pretty contour of her ribcage, the stark outline of her body just under a few too many buttons.

"It just comes off a bit greedy," you say, letting the words twist, playing with the hem of her skirt between your fingers.

"Maybe because you reward that kind of behavior," Irene retorts immediately.

"You’re spoiled," you laugh. "That’s all. Just spoiled. Life must be great for you, do nothing and let someone else do everything."

It's another one of those, 'you fucking like it', and Irene smirks like the shape of her mouth here is foreplay enough alone. She might be onto something. Like the easy back-and-forth - how she's sharp as razor wire underneath you - a double-edged sword if the weapon knew the sheath.

You lean in. She places her palm flush to your heart, like she can measure exactly how long you’re drawing this out with its steady thud. You know she’ll repay it in turn: she thinks it's hot to jerk around with your emotions before she fucks you, like playing roulette with her orgasm, yours - a slow crawl, a nice burn. Her fingers curl.

"And here you said I was ungovernable."

Irene huffs, slightly. "You are still fucking talking."

"If I shut up, will you scream for me, sweetheart?"

You run a hand up her waist. There's this whiny intake of air. Then Irene says, soft and slow: "earn it."

(Maybe you shouldn’t keep enabling her. Therein lies the problem. Okay, so maybe you like this particular problem.)

But she's tugging your tie out of the way before the words leave her lips. The distance you have between is scant, which seems to be fine, with the way she leans in as the last syllable drops off her tongue, kissing the corner of your mouth, impatient.

It takes approximately zero convincing to drop to your knees; that much has not changed. You glance up at her. Your hands curve to her waist, sliding up. It's funny - how your fingertips just brush under the billowy fabric, how the taut skin over her ribcage fills the length of your palms, and then a touch further. Perfect proportions, as Irene usually is; you're on your knees and that's by design.

Your thumb rolls over the outline of her nipple and it peaks, draws into a quick, rosy point beneath the flimsy cotton, like an open invitation.

Irene smiles lazily, gorgeous - and sinks back again against the countertop. Her feet land on your shoulders. The nylon in the bend of her ankle slides soft at your throat, gentle. "Waiting." She sighs a little. "Still, waiting."

You press a kiss over the nylon, the fabric underneath, teeth barred and tongue pushing. "You said slow," and the rest of you might as well catch on fire, just for borrowing a moment’s composure. You can see yourself bringing her down to the floor, the kitchen tiles, spreading her legs and fucking her into the linoleum, scratching them up, making her cum as many times as she asked. But there's this heavy drag down your back, the nerves blooming. "So let me. I won't get distracted," you murmur - or don't, really - into the softness between her hip and waist, along her navel, the tight planes of her tummy. "I promise, I'll get there, baby."

She hesitates. The breath she holds back is a telltale pause.

And the first thing that really sinks into Irene's skin, besides yourself, is this: every last shred of hesitation she was waiting on, the self-control? Now gone. You've done nothing but serve its loss. She seems to sense her power; and in one blink, the act is apex. In a beat her nerves are recovered, and the nerves are fuel. A natural killer, an organic toxin, that same smile curving her lips, a pointed glint to her eyes.

"Baby, your mouth," Irene insists, her knees falling to the sides, "open. And yes," and a pause, or maybe an addendum, a double meaning in the downtime, "to be perfectly frank: free for me to use. To come and go as I please."

"Haven't left my fucking mind for a minute, sweetheart," you offer up right back, not bothering with restraint.

Irene clicks her tongue. "But yet, you don't ever do exactly as you're told-"

She hiccups, or something close to it - because you grab her ass, bring her hips closer, until you can sink your nails into the firm give of flesh.

Irene looks down at you, eyes just wide, and - ah.

She sighs. Sighs because she knows - you can find god in everything; that’s the goal, that’s the creed - and maybe Irene wasn’t your original way, maybe you were always meant for a different sort of holy figure, but the words you choose are doctrine in the end; that first prayer you got down on your knees and said to her was no less truthful for its betrayal. There are rules to it: this is faith, the religion. This is her. You belong to Irene, and she belongs to you.

"Um. Did you just tear my stockings?" she asks, like a sudden realization, her mouth still dropping.

You nod, because, well, yeah, and pull her panties to the side. "Permission, forgiveness, et cetera."

In lieu of a reprimand or a rebuke, she lets a shockingly pretty little moan when her pussy gets stretched by a finger, two - and they're wet, slippery, easier than the lace had ever expected, and she's already so plush, red and rosy. Irene has always gotten wet quickly, with your fingers, your cock, your mouth on her - and her head falls back in one languorous stretch. The tightness around your finger is dizzying. You'll never grow tired of watching her: a sudden shift, the spine so pretty when arched, the pulse of blood under her thighs, the fluttering of her cunt as it comes to the very precipice of letting you in.

"Do you understand me, baby?" she's asking you, and her breath seems to pick up and the muscle flutters again.

You waggle your eyebrows and lean in, and whisper against her skin, "better than anything."

Your mouth attaches to her clit and never lets go. You fuck her, all sweet, on two fingers. Down to the last knuckle. You curl your fingertips, and she's gasping. The scent of her drives you fucking crazy; this is what paradise has always tasted like, and heaven's the press of her thighs - your name spilling from Irene's mouth. She gets wetter, and wetter - you lap as it floods out of her, down her thighs. You lick it, taste the salt and her bitterness and her arousal, how her pussy grows slick in an instant, swollen under your touch, wanting, aching. Her heels press over your shoulders and dig in, tight.

When you look up over the tight spasms in her diaphragm, you realize she's got the shirt unbuttoned, finally. Fabric spilling down to the granite, skin and bra and sheen; you wrap your arms around the perfect curves of her thighs, the nylon shifting soft on your hands and bringing her closer, hitching up to your shoulders. This is only part one of what you owe Irene - the easy part, actually: you can see her clench in the same breath that she's straining - the need and want to fill her up a sin, the wet smack as her folds are pried apart by the flick of your tongue, the sounds of your hands, the desperation. She'll want, and you'll get, until she can barely handle it. Until the tremors overwhelm her, until it is too much and it never will be, ever enough - until she's left so gorgeous like that, shivering.

The kettle's got the pitch to its scream now, and the volume. The sound makes you grind your teeth. Lick harder, suck longer, kiss a bit deeper - her clit, the pink tip of your tongue pushing in past the folds, between the ring, deep and heavy. Fingers moving slow, almost absent-minded, flitting across her breasts, pinching a nipple - Irene groans. The metal rattles louder, louder.

The shirt's rumpled, tangled, bunched up between Irene's elbows. You lean your teeth to the crease of her hips. You lick, the smell filling your nostrils, her fingers threaded in your hair - holding you where she wants you to be:

"And fuck, ah, do you, oh god- fucking do you- have an," she sighs, trembling as the movement of your jaw sends her shuddering, as your mouth runs and your hands open her legs. She pants. "Oh, darling. Have an honest-" she laughs and the sound pitches too, "-idea, I mean-"

Irene has started grinding against you. Your heart is thundering.

"-of what I'm-"

A moan finally breaks from her lips, so disarmingly beautiful. Irene grabs for the edge of the granite counter; she can hardly seem to make out what she wants. Her orgasm is cresting higher, each flick of your tongue and soft sound of you bringing her there, near. You like that she needs you, like that the word 'insatiable' becomes an insufficient assessment. You push, you move - her hands tug you. You taste her: a warmth, the depth, the pulsing.

"-what you're" - a gulp, a gulping swallow - the fridge keeps beeping, the front door sticks, and it'd be so perfectly quiet if not for the fucking tea kettle. It keeps boiling and boiling and you are drinking your fill, drowning. Her skin smells fucking delicious. You can feel her heat pooling. "Fucking, o-oh, fuck- fucking doing-"

You smile into it. Against her messy, quivering cunt. You are: unashamedly smug.

And fuck. She's gone, swept away, carried off, the pressure of your lips sending her crashing back down with a moan - the kitchen still buzzing and the steam a bit of a haze, and you haven't even finished bringing her through the dying breaths of her orgasm before she's gasping, pulling you back up on your feet:

"I need you, I- right now. Up here-"

Irene tries to grab for your neck again. She doesn't seem to mind her own lack of strength, though. In any other circumstance you'd think she'd look a bit pathetic: her shoulders curved, chin resting in a hand, a absent, pleasantly confused grin, legs and hair a complete unmitigated mess - and here: her lipstick wiped, mostly smudged, her wet, glistening thighs-

"Tell me," you say, and a thousand possibilities are imagined. To get inside of her, feel her nails dragging across your chest, her teeth at your throat, her moan as you slide into the very heat of her - fuck, you cannot stop. She's got you spinning and you’ll gladly lose this particular battle; a typical Bae Irene ending. "Please, tell me."

The water boiling over has begun to crack; and the first tendrils of steam begin curling into the air.

"God," says Irene, shaking with her body so desperate, her hand still grasping you back. The look in her eyes seems so beautifully wrecked, but in no hurry to show it. She smiles, because she wants that over anything. "Don't you fucking listen?"

She grins.

"Ah." Irene shakes her head, pulls your head back, staring, but does not rise to a sit, just slides herself out. One leg kicks, one, then two, from the corner of your eyes: her nylons shredding down their long seams. You're on your feet; you're not really standing, but then you have no real bearings to start with. Your cock is throbbing.

She just scoots on out, and shuts off the stove, and sets the kettle a step back.

"Maybe," you say, pressing your thumb to the seam of your pants. You could probably die of lust right now and have no regrets. "Maybe not. I think I need more convincing."

It would probably also help if your thoughts could stop racing.

"Huh."

She turns - though not with the skirt. The hem has fallen to the floor. A puddle at her ankles. She's only slightly out of breath; the wet between her legs gleams. The slick, smooth fabric of her lingerie sticks to the swollen outline of her pussy. Her fingers dip down, playfully, so she's leaning over the counter. She tugs, and it presses and plays and sticks at her center. You're obsessed, half-crazy from it. Her expression twists; it's fucking bliss. She smiles, one breath, then two - the house settles. You cannot stop staring; you can't. Your mouth feels hot and dry and sticky, wet from her cum, and your pants, you can't quite breathe and the view's only getting better: Irene naked, against the counter, the jostle of her breasts as she strums herself, as her breathing catches and rises, and those nails digging deep into her clit as her eyes drift shut-

She's biting her lower lip - but she looks at you and - stops, her toes pressed to the linoleum.

The moment is suspended, and suddenly the words do not fit anywhere in your throat.

"Want it?"

"Fuck," you exhale, and maybe she isn't just asking that out loud, she's the embodiment of the fucking question: the need between her legs so vivid. She laughs again, licks the taste of herself off her fingertip, sucks at the curve of her nails - she touches the tip of her tongue to the very edge of her upper lip. Her smile, in its sharpness and precision, remains unswayed.

"Bend me over?"

And then, very quietly, and without so much as a scoff in disappointment-

"Fucking christ," you mutter, and nearly fall in a heap towards her.

-

It's borderline unhealthy, that this happens as often as it does: sex that leaves you breathless, sex that shivers across every inch of your fucking skin, sex that aches afterward, that drives your lungs to strain, a moan trapped forever just behind her teeth. Her hips were either made for your rough palms, or you’ve worn them down to your grip. Softened all the edges. Her thighs open to you like you own her. The ridge down the center of her back, your mouth trailing down every vertebrae - her pussy. The inside, the depth - and everything she doesn't mean to let out: all these little notes she's learning with each thrust of your cock into her, and you think you should just say yes, give in.

Let it go, and just trust.

Sex as routine? A repetition of desire. What is routine is that, with Irene:

There's always a new discovery. She has you when she's bent over and you're pounding her knees into the cabinets. She has you on the floor with her. She has you when she's bent over and you're eating her out again, then on top, and on your couch, and with her legs kicked high on the shower wall, and - you fuck her, you find room for her on the bathroom sink. You cum all over her stomach and she just smiles dreamily. You fuck her until she’s almost sobbing, and then you're saying her name like she has your life and your attention, for everything and nothing at all. And after an hour of letting her have your patience, and your dick, your face pressed against her throat, and her nails deep in your back - you tell her she needs to stay. 

It’s a hell of an admission, apropos of nothing.

"Oh? Say that one more time for me," and she's half-covered, the comforter pulled up over her the gentle slope of her breasts, the bedsheet tucked around her waist. "Again," and you have no real use left, you're certain. The most recent orgasms have nearly shattered you both in half: Irene can barely focus on your mouth, where your hips had slammed hers into the bed and - you are pretty certain - definitely did crack her skull right off the headboard.

"Yeah," you mutter face down into the duvet, "you should stay."

"Then it's decided," Irene says out loud, rather victorious, and drops a hand down the span of your back. She's there still, fingering her own cum from inside her pussy. The look in her eyes, sly. The message in them could not be any clearer: what an excellent suggestion, since you both know she'll have no shortage of reasons to keep coming back, anyway.

-

It all feels rather satisfying, pretending not to like the girl. It feels good not caring where she is at night.

As she had said, like an affirmation, a real statement: "this thing, between us, is so uncomplicated. It's so easy."

And she’s right: 

She fucks, and you cum. She looks pretty. That's what she wants to show off, she does and does it well, and as long as you don't pay attention and pretend like it doesn't matter to you, it's an absolute fucking win-win. That's it: that's exactly why, when she calls, when she comes around and asks about dinner, you ask how far you're expected to go for her. What'll earn you her gratitude? Her pleasure's a quick hit, and it's free - if she asks nicely, if you're up for it, if it isn't the same bullshit, same scene - and the night's never a big deal to waste. That's her script; there's your line:

"What's your endgame here," is a thing you're always asking.

She tips her head, her hair falling off her shoulder, that old cliché, those large brown eyes, batting and fluttering. Just curious, but also to draw attention; what a killer pair she has, they're gorgeous. Your eyebrows raise, and your mouth falls open as her fingers dance over your chest, playing with the collar of the button-up that you aren't entirely convinced doesn't belong to her.

"Who says I have to have my mind made up right this second?" is Irene's usual comeback - a favorite - followed by another favor, then an expectation. Then, as your hands fall to the small of her back: "for you, the point is probably the chase," she reminds you, a low little murmur.

Your heart thrums with the little spike of anger. Then again, your cock's feeling the yearn ahead of everything else already; it’s a bad habit, and not getting anything you need. Or, there's a tumble, a mutual surrender in this somewhere. 

"Sure, says you." 

You kiss her so easily. Run your fingers through her hair and drink down her sighs, pull away and pretend. Pretend to dislike how pretty she looks when you do things like this. Pretend like you haven't missed her, that there is no desire, not to run your touches down the back of her knees, or sink your hands into her perfect little ass.

"Didn't need me to," she points out, the lick into your mouth. And her finger curls right under your chin, nails a pretty, perfect oval shape, manicured and soft at your throat, that way she loves - the angle intimate. "And yet. Not stopping me, are you?"

Which you're not. Neither of you is fool enough. You don't hate yourself, she doesn't hate the truth. So, whatever, sometimes you give in to it - if you could call this a 'means to an end', you suppose that might just about cover the ground, because her plans, her reasons don't matter to you, and vice-fucking versa: just to find an answer, or to find a few dozen, and that's enough.

You're no good at love; she says she's not looking for it either, no heartfelt romantic shit to get a tear out of you, she'd tell you at the start:

"Let's just play it by ear, how about that? I could surprise you. You could surprise yourself."

-

(But fuck: Irene's surprisingly full of surprises.

Take when she texts a few days later.

Hey, a blip on the screen, an innocuous string of numbers you refuse to mark a contact. There's too much power, and leverage. She isn't asking. 

It's been too long.

A winky emoji.

I think you’re able to do me a big favor.

A period. It is imperative. She would tell you, with an authority she certainly isn't trying to front or to prove: she likes her punctuation.

I could really, really do with that same favor that you gave me back when we went to that housewarming party, you remember. It'd really be the best thing you've done with your evening if you could help me out. Call it the nice thing to do.

Is your vibrator out of batteries? you text back.

You are a genius.

Thanks.

Let’s go somewhere.

Just this once. But dinner's on you.

A selfie. Slippery fingers, glued to her pussy, running through the glisten-

Oh. Actually, it'll probably be twice.)

-

So. ‘Surprise yourself’ was, naturally, the key. 

It's difficult to have a notion as to how exactly you might surprise yourself - but here you are a little later; she's dressed and in heels, and that's a relief, or rather a delight: this woman looks devastating with her hair down. But still, like this: the hem to her slacks that draws her thighs down to an elegant peak, the nice blouse she's got her buttons done to the top, and one less: this cleavage isn't wholly visible but the shadow is still a tease, her thin jacket only pinning in how her waist is cut into such a deep arc. Irene had asked if this looked too formal, and the second response in your brain was to ask why: her normal wardrobe's worse - less clothing, more fucking exposed. Then again, you might not mind watching Irene work so hard if it meant your hands get full quicker-

"That is absolutely no way to put it," she admonishes.

"Come again, Mistress?"

"Ass," she mutters. It's not even a reprimand so much as an agreement, you can see where the smile is trying not to crack open. "No," she corrects, and smiles anyway. She pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, "I just mean- fuck you and your terrible metaphors. Anyway, we should go. You drive, my car is a total mess."

-

You take her out. There's dinner. There's drinks. It's something like a date, because that's what she wants. The hostess smiles politely. The waiter raises a suggestive eyebrow at your fingertips grazing Irene's leg underneath the table, and you both ignore the interest. You pass him her credit card without comment when you go to settle up. When you stroll about, the sun is going down and the dying light paints her skin orange, yellow, and red. She tells a story about work. You manage to get a few of your own. Your fingers loop through hers and the action makes her do this lovely smile.

So the gist of it is: you have a fling, her name is Irene, there’s some vague cohabitation occurring, and - oh, she's an absolutely fantastic lay.

It's the sort of thing that on the surface level sounds like a total and complete win, even for all its contradictions, flaws, and pitfalls. She fucks, and you're willing. She looks pretty. You keep her content. That's enough, as a friend-with-benefits; more of the benefits than anything else, she always reminds you. And every now and then, when Irene starts making demands of your time, of your availability - making plans, making reservations, making the expectation known that the two of you have a standing obligation, ‘benefits’ penciled into your schedules every Tuesday and every weekend (and Thursday, too, if neither of you is booked) - she suddenly becomes more complicated than she should have any rights or reason being. There's a kind of security you take away from it.

Irene's holding her clutch in the parking lot, posture perfect. The sky's on fire and the setting sun is burning down the horizon all around her.

"Can we do it in your car?" she's asking, totally nonchalant. 

"What?" "Sex," Irene repeats, like you didn’t understand the question. Her expression is bright, seamless. She holds her wrist behind her back, and twists a little on one heel. "I want to get you off."

This is a case study; you’re walking, breathing empirical data. You’ve gone from wondering to knowing about what they say in regards to women of a certain age. The appetite. The inexplicable desperation. It used to be a joke. Maybe it's because men in their 30s are unusually relaxed with their dating life, or all of their friends are talking about wedding rings, kids, a white picket fence - with life a non-event to handle with finesse and a delicate grip. Or: maybe Irene simply isn't complicated in the ways people seem to expect her to be. She’s needier for sex than usual, for starters. "Are you expecting some urgent business meeting, or an important call - any sort of personal news, maybe - like, in the next half hour?"

"Are you serious," you manage. Fuck her, actually.

"I don't know why, I just feel like you might appreciate the cramped quarters. We can make out while you cum and stuff."

You almost snort, but - her hips have that sway. The door’s unlocked. You stare. The purse settles on the passenger's seat. This girl is so stupidly pretty.

"You, uh, wanna get on top?" you ask, voice already slightly drying at the sound.

Irene reaches over and traces your jaw. Her thumb feels lovely pressed to the seam of your lips, rubbing over them slowly. Her mouth is this gorgeous color and you just can’t stop staring. "So cute. What’s your best guess, sherlock?" She pats the roof of the car, gently. "Get the fuck in."

-

Irene is, at her most shameless, a list of demands: give me your fingers, touch my clit, do it now; take my wrists, fuck me faster; don't you dare fucking cum - there's no rush here, so put in the effort. You have a basic idea of where you're both headed, and the situation demands you to, um, obey. The sound of her wet cunt fills the tight confines of the car.

"Fuck, Irene."

At her most elegant, she's pretty much the same, but she fucks like a total dream: 

"Slow, yes," she'll coo into your ear, in the early stages, before her head starts falling back and her chest rises, and all the sweet notes from the back of her tongue get driven to the fore, and there are moans instead of directions, groans and cries. "Feel me. Deeper. Fuck, babe, just like that."

Her nails drag deep, and that's not usually the plan - the start is fast and easy; her pussy drips like she's soaking a cloth, a fresh layer every second, and a clench that swallows every thrust; and somehow the friction's good enough that if you stick around and keep your focus, you get Irene begging for mercy by the end of it, just to savor and relish the sensation, the motion of your body into hers.

"There," and her eyes flutter, "yes. You are so fucking hard for me." She leans in, kisses the shell of your ear: "you’re fucking stretching out this little pussy, baby, you know that?"

"Jesus. Fuck, please-"

"Should we? Should I let you?" She clenches down, "fill me up, babe? You think you're worth the privilege?"

"If you'd let me - Irene, the things I could do," you don't breathe, "jesus fucking christ."

And she looks at you with wide, honey-smudged eyes. Pretty even when fucked; especially so. Her fingers get wrapped in your collar and she’s nodding her head in rhythm with her quick little bounce. The snapping of her hips. Up and down, and up and down like she’d be insulted if you didn’t drain your balls into her perfect little womb right then and there. She says don’t do this, don’t do that - and then she fucks you like you’re supposed to.

"Yeah, that’s right, be a good boy for me," her mouth whispers, even though there is no one else in her car, you're pretty sure. Her voice is like a vice, just you, with her hips, her hot little hands pushing you down so she's riding the top of your head. You can hear her dripping down into the space, a new leak.

"How're you gonna deal with it when I'm filling your tight cunt?" You thumb at her ass, squeeze. "This pretty, round ass? Want me to cum inside you every which way, huh? Marking up my territory?"

You hear her stutter on a reply, as her pussy gives a particularly strong flex, another contraction.

"All those wet loads, dripping out your cunt, down your thighs... on your lips... you gonna taste every last one, princess?"

She has a face like she wants to hurt you for that one, the moniker - you have a sneaking suspicion there's nobility in her blood, laid deep somewhere in her veins, another lifetime lived far from this one: she'll have a predilection for thrones, diamonds, queendoms to rule. And if that were true - well, you'd be downright lucky if she consented to an audience, even less entitled to her hand. She's out of your league regardless. Or maybe, she's the furthest thing from royalty and she just knows the script better than anybody. Kneel, she'll say, and you find yourself obliging; give me your mouth, your fingers, she'll ask, and you're compelled. It's all ingrained.

"What was that?" she asks, incredulous, riding your cock so hard the seat shakes instead.

"I said: this cunt, christ-"

You bring her closer to your face, have to feel that clasp of heat with every stroke - and when it is so fucking deep, her hips lock up, clamped, thighs quivering - you just hold her in place, give her a few breaths, let the satisfaction really sink in, even if she's already moaning.

"Well, I guess you got me there, huh." Her mouth gives her away, the lopsided-grin. "Yeah. So cum, give it." And then it twists. Her face looks so beautiful in distress, and you're certain you've had that thought many times since: if the situation demands it - maybe it would be just fine to push a little bit more? It's a neediness that doesn't go understated, even when Irene's more whining for it: like, the fuck are you waiting for, her tits out, panting, sweating, cursing and moaning at the slow drag through her slippery muscle, a grip like satin, like velvet.

You’re a total mess: 

"Breathtaking, the faces you make for me" - "you look so good, like that, so handsome" - "has anyone ever fucked you this good?"

It’s official. She'll have to scrape you off the leather.

And as if to add insult to injury, Irene’s hands come up to her hair, holding it up into a messy bundle above her head. There’s a tilt of her chin, a bite into her lip. She’s bouncing fast, taking your cock deeper on each twist, and it’s all very performative. Fucking Irene is as visual an experience as it is visceral, because chiseled into her figure, the lithe frame, are these model-esque proportions - like she’s not actually five foot nothing in her socks. 

(A beautiful little paradox. She’s showing off here. She’s showing off, simply because she can.)

"And you’re the one always calling me greedy," she breathes, like the punchline, as she takes the next inch, the wet slapping of skin. There's heat. So much fucking heat - she's got a pulse that pulls you forward and won't let go, your balls hitting her ass and thighs soaked, so red and plush and beautiful, a softness that takes a second and an elbow's reach and, fuck. Her thighs on the dashboard. "You've been-"

Your palms fit into the curve of her ass. How a small, fragile, dainty thing like her can have so much to grab onto remains a mystery and a fucking miracle.

"-a bit of a prick, honestly, for a minute-"

But she's so responsive - and you want to wring it out of her, really, a desire to destroy and savor, even when that sounds a little wrong and too close to sacrilege - you really ought to just call her the ultimate fantasy: she has the cutest tits, soft creamy thighs, tightly wound curves and a sexy-as-sin attitude; and when she sits heavy on your cock, wiggling her hips in a circle, you lose the plot and a little bit of your mind.

"-have to say, it's been getting to me."

"Here's hoping it doesn't give," you grumble as your arms tense and your back aches, your shoulders strain. Irene seems unconvinced, and she usually is, but the drive is relentless.

"Then you'll have to hurry up," the rake of her fingernails across your neck, "won't you?" and she is too slick and so eager, "because you’re gonna cum for me, sweetheart, just let it all out, baby." Her cunt and her heels in the upholstery and the stinging welts draw you deeper- 

Your hand braces around the center console. 

She has her lips on your temple, your hairline: "I’m imagining how my pussy will look, all creamy and used and pretty - all because you fucked it nice and hard and raw - no matter how many times I fuck myself with my fingers, I'll keep feeling the ghost of this fucking perfect cock."

The noise that leaves your lips is a full, throaty, ragged groan, your muscles shaking and skin burning. "Irene, god," you sputter out; it's not super attractive, you think.

Irene kisses the juncture of your shoulder and neck like it’s music to her ears, her jaw against your jaw:

"You've got to stop edging me, love, my little pussy was made to get stretched by your cock, show me-"

You thrust in deep. 

"Fuck."

"Oh," she whispers, eyes hooded and lashes sweeping low, an awe so thick to her voice. "Such a good boy for me - now. Make me cum, yes - make me cum all over you - mhm-"

You jerk your hips again - your pants hanging around your thighs, her blouse pushed up around her waist. You've twisted and knotted the fabric over and over into something you can pull or hold onto - it's not clear to you yet which idea's more pressing.

Because there's no breathing room. You need to twist your hips just to fuck into her - her lips are parted with this insatiable moaning, and it's sweet and pretty and filthy. She wraps one knee higher. There's the lock to your ankle, but she's grabbing the lever and trying to pull your seat down, the rest of it; you absolutely let her. All this in heels that would be impressive without a tight wet pussy pressing down on the length of your cock, begging for what seems like an endless number of thrusts into that delicious heat, the perfect clutch. She rides you rough: the leather beneath your knees shifting with the constant scuffle. Her elbows bent, a thumb grazing her tits, pushing up the silk and the lace.

Her soft, pale skin is spilling all over you, her limbs finding purchase as her mouth slides against yours on a new rhythm of need and want: "that's the thing, right? You're such a delight when you put your mind to it." She's pressing a kiss against your temple - her tone, this intimacy, a hotness between her thighs that leaves you breathless, dumb - it's the only sort of inescapable validation that might suit.

You had the perfect view as she shrugged the jacket, unbuttoned the blouse, sat the bra over it, just undid her slacks: this perfection, laid bare, exposed in your passenger seat with her tits squeezed in both palms. Then it was her hand tugging at the zipper to your pants.

So - you're fucking her harder than you have any business doing. Her nails are digging trenches in the skin of your forearms and you have the slightest sense of everything she has, wants, demands; you've had her under you, bent her in half, folded at the corner of your bed. You’ve fucked her with your cock so far into the slick-dripping hole of her cunt until she can't stop cumming - or begging - or the Irene-equivalent.

"There you go," she says into your throat, like it's nothing, and sags a little further into your chest. "There we go," she repeats. Her brow is glistening with sweat, and you kiss it: hot, and a little bitter. You can't help it. 

You're fucking her harder than she can handle. You're filling her. She's stuffed to the fucking brim with your cock, bulging at the folds of her insides.

And, christ, her fucking waist. She is so small, so fragile-looking. You wrap both hands around her middle, and as her hips grind forward, meeting the roll, she grabs your wrists, holds your hands up her ribs and gets, and gets - oh, just where you fucking left her. Your knuckles are left digging to the silky skin, bruises dotting purple across her back, her neck, her tummy and her thighs, every surface - you're grasping and claiming what she has to give you, just a hint. There's a million and one ways to love, to give back, to please a partner - but you have one goal: you're not an artist, you're not a philosopher, or a poet - so you’ll leave physical marks, reminders, of everything you've done and will do. You’ll make her cum. Just hold her still and make her cum again and again and again. The weight, the lift. If she asked, you would. Fuck. You would. She rides your cock and rocks you into the upholstery of the passenger-side chair. She sinks down and presses her mouth to the edge of yours, just shy, her own teeth pulling at her bottom lip-

"Your cock feels," and here Irene takes the moment for a heavy, contented sigh. "-ah, fucking unbelievable. Your fucking cock, jesus."

Her voice is… it's really so dreamy. The praise does strange things: you reach down and pull her thighs so they tighten at your waist. There are no illusions here, she's found something worth chasing. The bare-boned desperation drives her insides wild, you can feel it. The clench, the pulse, the absolute slutty-slick dripping, a real, honest, aching cunt, warm and clamped at the hilt of your cock - it's obscene, and your patience is stretching paper-thin. You aren't asking any questions; she's not taking them.

It’s just you and this petite, absolutely stunning, heartbreakingly gorgeous girl sitting in your lap and working herself on you like a doll, and- oh. She really does look great. It's impossible to look away.

The windows are fogged, and her cunt feels divine as she runs you further into your car seat. Her hips snap up, back down - the soft drag and then the cinching flutter. The inside of her, a total fucking delicacy. One of your hands slides across her back, counting the rise-and-falls of her spine. One, two, three, and so on. Her lips are flush at your throat. You feel her whimper.

It’s the most perfect noise you've ever heard.

"Baby," she mouths at your collarbone, her movements becoming more spastic, more erratic. "I can feel you throbbing."

The encroaching dark keeps threatening the corner of your vision, so much tighter each time.

"You're going to make me," you're gritting through your teeth - this feels a little insane, a little irrational. "Irene you- you’re going to make me fucking cum."

"Oh?" Irene’s reply is immediate. She slams herself down on your cock, hard. "Then cum."

Your patience is truly nothing at this point. There is not a single breath left inside her either: the heavy swell of her chest is proof enough, those eyes fluttering shut, the angle shifting as her ass meets your thighs. "Seriously, I'm going to fucking fill you, and it is gonna slip all down the back of your legs - Irene - sweetheart, I’m going-"

Her fingers curl behind your head. "Cum," and she groans, "I know- I'm here. Take it. Use this perfect little pussy, I want to feel you cum." and you pull the pace up into a frantic tempo. The metal beneath your back creaks with the strain; the bounce of her ass against your groin. The moan, it pitches: a need, a lust, and she is rolling, rutting her body in circles on top of you, a wild gasp and then a beautiful cry, almost in pure unbridled ecstasy.

The angle shifts and - fuck. You’re able to fuck up into her so easily. Her cunt is hot and soft in all the right places, wrapped around your cock, tight and snug like she was made for you. Every drag of slicked skin and clenched muscle sends you both reeling.

"Irene," you barely say, and you're cumming, you’re fucking filling her up with cum - the only possible endgame. You can’t stop fucking into her even though she's just been fucked senseless, stuffed with your cock: little helpless noises, squeals and yelps like they're being tugged out of her. She goes limp on you, and then she collapses, shivering and whimpering with every deep-bore pulse: you're going to mark every inch of her body, claim every part of her soul.

"Oh my god." A groan. Another. It's coming off her like a wave - like a river, really, you're drowning. "It is so, so fucking hot. Your cum, in my pussy..." She trails off.

Her tight cunt twitches: pulsing with every motion. She squeezes down - hard. It takes a great effort for you not to let out a loud, embarrassing whimper. Your fingers dig into her ass, her hips, steadying her grind.

But you're looking right into her eyes when she falls apart, too, that long, tensing shudder, the gasping groan - fuck - because she feels exactly like everything that you've done, you know: Irene's tight cunt has kept your cock perfectly in place. She was just waiting for the spill of it before the final, hardest crest. The smell's in the air and the haze is all through her expression and, god, you want her, you could just sink a million words into that, every possible adoration and every bit of yourself and you still wouldn't be getting the entire story; just fuck - you can never not be fucking her, never not want to have her riding your lap, moaning out and falling and dragging every part of your body deeper-

"Mmmmm," Irene lets out, soft and satisfied, a tiny whimper in the way that she goes all soft around your cock and comes down and presses a wet, tired kiss at the base of your throat.

"Mmmm-m?"

"Thanks, I think." Her blouse is falling off one shoulder, the material crumpled. There are creases all across it. She's biting on her lip, flushed. "Thanks for that."

-

It has to be said, here - because you know, because the sun is setting on your open window and your arm is snug at Irene’s waist and neither of you even have to mutter a word to acknowledge the fact that it will inevitably rise across your living room carpet again. 

Irene is everything you might have been running from, everything you’ve ever chased - and you’d never ever stand a chance.

-

Greedy, however, just isn't the right word for it. Not really. 

It's the way she leans in when you kiss. The way she fidgets. The way her tongue brushes across her bottom lip. So no - greedy isn't quite the right way to say it. It's more: instinctual.

She's this not-so-subtle tincture of want and desire, in its most basic form - and that makes this all so dangerous, isn't that right, miss? Because want isn't something to toy with; want is, by design, something measured in its inability to be indulged.

(And for the record, your car hasn’t even moved from the lot. You were supposed to get frozen yogurt but that's looking less likely, judging by the way Irene's fingers are tapping lightly across your shoulder, your own clamping down on her chin.)

It’s just so indulgent. Irene hasn’t left your lap, blithely warming your cock for you. Stealing kisses while the day’s last light bleeds low over the buildings. Soft sighs. Whimpers, mewls, muffled little keens of, "oh, oh, please." You trace the edges of her, where your body becomes hers, and her movements are fluid - supple and knowing and just this side of eager.

The car feels now even more cramped and narrow than advertised, the sweat in your skin starting to bloom. The musk of sex, a creeping heat: "go ahead," you rasp out. 

She nods, a helpless dip, and that comes with a sigh, "yes, fuck, right there," her cunt squeezing, a hot, slick little velvety clench; there's something about being buried inside her and seeing her fall apart. This slow rock and build-up. All the hard edges worn to a perfect point. Her dark eyes are glowing, her clever little tongue darting to her lip.

You hold her, slumping together in the front seat. The leather squeaks with the gentle shifts, the slides. The color rising in her cheeks. She likes when your breath catches; her smile goes sharp, a hint of teeth: it's very obvious that she is very very drunk - on control, on cock, it doesn't seem to matter.

A beat passes before the architecture returns to her muscles. She's sitting up, and with your hand firmly cupping her ass, and your teeth pressed to the flat of her breasts. "You," she gasps, the most unironic and unexpected reply. The corner of her eyes is still glistening, still dazed, still blissful. "Don't play dumb. Fuck - no, don't stop."

"Sorry, say that one more time for me, miss."

"You- ah." She grins, and her hip shoves your cock out with a filthy wet sound in accompaniment.

The air of the car is sticky, and her slick is still covering your waist, so the discomfort makes the little groan extra appreciative, anyway.

"Fucking god-" she grumbles, and the whine that escapes is an order for attention.

You take her jaw with both hands. Pull her, and look her right in her eyes and kiss her. Not slow. Not gentle. Thoroughly, so the tip of her tongue reaches the very roof of her mouth. She ends up with her back shoved roughly into the dash, and your fingers tangled through her hair and tugging. And her laugh turns to a whimper, her eyes a half-closed - you fingerfuck her cunt open. Thumb pressed tight to the clit. Two, and the palm of your hand smacks between her thighs, resonating all throughout the car. It's your own hot cum coating your knuckles and drip-dropping off your wrist, so she's melting and needy. The evening's passing, her hands go to her bra, so she's twisting and slipping, the orgasms strung together like the pearls on her bracelet.

Her fingers squeeze yours, then let go.

She licks into your mouth. "Jesus, you're way too good at that," is what Irene murmurs, when you're both just left breathless, half-shivering, merely recycling the same torrid air.

"Let’s get you home, princess," you kiss into her skin, joking. "Before curfew."

She sits up. "Shut the fuck up."

"Sorry," you lie, smug - not sorry at all. "Can't help it. You're too pretty when you get like that."

"What, when I'm cumming for you? When your cock is inside me? When you're fucking my brain to mush?"

Her heels clack to the ground.

"You’re gross," she adds, and shoves your arm.

"You like it," you say to her, "don't lie."

"Because I’m just this sweet innocent thing, right? I can't be held accountable for anything. Look at you, fucking me like this - corrupting me." A flutter of eyelash, and she leans forward to meet your eyes. She's adjusting the straps of her bra. She's a picture-perfect pinup girl. "Is that really what gets you off?"

"It's not bad." You let yourself soak in it, for a second, just staring at her. "The whole naive, helpless schoolgirl act. It's a classic for a reason."

Irene snickers. It's sweet-bitter, and that's fitting. You like how her blush is red and stubborn.

"Goodness," she says, like you can't see the dust of a smile, of a smirk, take shape on her swollen mouth. "Okay sure, let’s get into that; say my dad is sitting up with worry." Her head cocks, playful. "My family probably sent a search party out for me," and her laugh's lighter than air, warm, a few shades shy of ridiculous - if you thought that the sound could make you as much of a fool as she does - then yeah, that’s pretty accurate.

"What - like in a rocking chair, with his shotgun and everything?"

"Yeah, you’re so fucking dead. He's so going to shoot you on sight when he sees the absolute state you're returning me in. His precious little girl, " Irene picks at her bra, tucks herself back in, adjusts her hair. The last of her hairpins drops, falls to the dash. It rolls back, between your legs. "Pull the trigger and turn you into swiss cheese. Last rites, eulogy, the full nine yards." Her makeup's smudged - red lipstick, the tip of her nose - and you just don't feel like pointing it out yet.

"Cremation, most likely?"

"Eh, who knows," she smiles, and now, more than ever, there's not a sign of hesitation in her face, her voice, the light and effortless way she drapes across the interior, stretches. "You’re so cute though. Maybe he'll give you a chance and let you run."

-

It hadn't really occurred to you until you arrived onto the front steps of Irene’s apartment and watched her sink back against the door, exhaling softly in the fluorescent light, her eyes heavy, but you have a sneaking suspicion that you're doing everything completely out of order. 

You aren't in some trope-addled tv drama, and Irene isn't your childhood-friend or your slowburn-material, someone with a sentimental backstory.

Maybe in a parallel universe, some twisted alternate ending, where she's in this long, silky wedding gown, both sides of the aisle are watching you commit sins the way people can't resist doing in those fuck-it stories, all heat and sex and dopamine without remorse - but not now, not yet.

(Probably - probably not ever, and if that's a cop-out you can't help it. Because isn’t it silly, the things the people will do. Pretending to not be in love, all for the sake of the chase - getting themselves hung up in this world of digital advances and missed connections.)

You'll regret it later, you think. That's an unforeseen variable you should've predicted, though, isn't it?

Because you've both loved before, both been hurt, the excuses are all in the chamber: all the mixed signals and stereotypes. How she looks at you - or doesn't, some days. Your past, hers, the differences. You've never known exactly how this should go, if there even is a best version of this love to pursue, the idyllic happily-ever-after, that perfect white dress. Fuck, that is not the daydream you're supposed to be having.

The story instead, is like this: you drive her home. She sings along to the music on the radio. She kisses you over the console at a red light. Someone honks. You walk her to the door, because you're old-fashioned when you think it’s useful. You're a charmer, she's yours. You grab her by the chin and probably end up making out for far too long.

Just imagine if it had all been by the book:

A first date, then text messages. A second, where you're supposed to invite her to dinner, drinks. You’re supposed to call her, on the phone, with your voice and everything - low, a little assertive - not bossy or controlling, no: that's what the third date's for. There's a checklist for what to do, what to say; how you're supposed to kiss her, and why she's supposed to act all shy, the picture of demure - like she's innocent, though she'll be anything but. At the end of it, you're supposed to pay. She won’t let you. You're supposed to walk her home. She's supposed to linger, put the keys in the door and ask you what you're doing next - she's supposed to look over her shoulder as she walks inside and say goodnight, be coy, let it dangle on the edge. And that's supposed to be that. All of it: quintessential.

Nowhere in that manual does it say anything about pinning her up against the door and slipping your hand into her slacks either - underneath the soft, dark lace of her panties and placing your other palm over her mouth so the neighbors don't hear what a little slut she can be when she wants to.

Just this side of coquettish. A total delight.

Irene practically sobs into the side of your hand. Her mouth drops open, and you haven't even really touched her; she's wet already, soaked - well. She's always wet for you.

"I'll catch you later," you breathe into her neck, letting your fingertips skirt the puffy lips of her cunt on the drag back up because you’re actually not old-fashioned, like at all.

She tosses her hair, lets a sigh run through her smile, the blush, the creased eyes - and disappears through the door. It's the simplest way you two will ever say good night.

-

Ignoring all the rules of engagement, you and Irene never actually tiptoe around each other.

There's never even been a third date because the lines between hanging out and fucking and hanging-out-fucking blur with astounding ease. It's no real shocker: it's the little details in the way you find her sitting next to you at work, hips shifting minutely from side to side on the stool as she sifts through sheet music, sipping her latte, just barely making a sound.

It's the little details in the way she shows up, dresses to all the events, hands brushing yours to call attention to the ends of her fingertips; it's how every camera in the room seems to favor her.

If any of the 14th-century courtship philosophers could ever weigh in, now would probably be ideal. You’d be grateful, sure - because Irene is the epitome of entanglement. And that's your excuse. If anything's going to kill you, let it be her.

-

The texts do dry up for whatever reason. 

Three hours between replies just to conceal a bit of earnest emotion or whatever. You wonder what that's called, wonder when it gets so boring - why all these steps had to be so dull, and why you can't do without them. The modern era has, after all, rendered the ancient rituals pretty fucking pointless - you could both use a time machine to the medieval ages, then you could get the fireworks. The gallant. Some declaration or betrothal - maybe a show of sword, a fistful of your bride's maidenhead. Or whatever the fuck they were calling it in those days, it all sounds a bit crude-

When it really comes down to it, this is less about the charm, the proposal, or the lack thereof. Less about the dear Irene, will you be mine, and more about the want. Want that's palpable, messy: about shedding decorum together and feeling filthy and rough, taking, receiving, biting into the sweet skin of her inner thighs and spanking her so hard she can't walk the next day.

That's all it is, you're pretty sure.

And look - she still attends a majority of your work functions even though, strictly speaking, she has no reason to. Everything is relatively normal, or maybe you don't know how normal is supposed to look, and that's alright because you're trying - and all you really care about is Irene smiling at you with that one knowing tilt of her mouth - and - and she does. 

Hey, you're not entirely hopeless.

-

(The toxicity, the slammed doors, ignored voicemails and belted taillights zooming off into the night - look, not everyone is built for all the drama, not everyone feels the thrill at the tip of their fingers when they cut their losses and move on to the next. Floating through the memories thinking, wow, what a waste of time.

That's not you, you're aware. And Irene’s seen it before, probably, had a story just like it in her own life, maybe been there, maybe not, but isn't it fascinating how all of it always sounds the same no matter how the story gets told.

So, keep it simple stupid. It's easy that way. Don't confuse her, or yourself, don’t fuck it up by demanding more. 

Afterall, it feels good, pretending not to care where she is at night.)

-

So - take some credit, you do something right for once. You call her.

It’s a Saturday and she’s working late because she’s a singer. She's between hair, makeup and costume. Bored. Or, pretending she is, and if you were a lesser person, the type to lie to yourself, you'd let the pretension sit as-is. It's not even difficult: no effort required to sit back, close your eyes, and listen.

"The way he was just staring at me was so embarrassing," Irene is going on about this production assistant, and her voice is always light, playful - it doesn't matter who, it doesn't even matter what, it's the cadence to her speech that lulls. "Like I could read his mind."

"Can't you?" you ask, indulgently.

"Okay, don't try being cheeky, mister," Irene scolds into the phone, but it's hardly stern; her tone's the softest kind of sultry, like caramel, dripping. "He wanted to bend me over the table. Get some nice little marks in."

Hey, who could blame him? She exhales, almost sounds annoyed - the pout on her face is practically audible.

You are not a good person by the longest stretch of the imagination. "Then what stopped him, princess?" you question, not a hint of chivalry left in you. "Fooled me - isn't that your kink? Fucking men you've barely just met."

She laughs - once, breathless and abruptly; something sharp. You're not actually joking and she can't pretend otherwise. "Fuck." The word is a sigh, the suggestion is all over the air. You aren't blind. "You would, wouldn't you? Probably love to see me bent over, too - and split in half on some stranger's cock. Worshiping it like you've taught me, or whatever the fuck."

You hum in amusement, putting the pieces together from what she hasn't said. "Aw," you coo. "Missing me already I see."

"Don’t flatter yourself," she shoots back, all quippy, fast: quick reflexes, the stuff of her brand. "What am I meant to be doing while I'm waiting for the crew, huh?"

And well, that’s the thing - you end up on the phone for far too long, far too late: she leaves you to wait a minute when someone knocks on the door, and you'll have her later, probably, but what's wrong with dreaming of fucking her in one of those dressing rooms, pulling that corset down her curves and kissing her silent in case someone walks by - leaving teeth and nail marks across the tops of her breasts. You expect her to bring the conversation to something a little more in the moment, but her voice carries back into the room and she's asking you, casually, what's for dinner, how was your day. You laugh, tell her a funny story that happens, talk about everything that's mundane, everything she should know and would know about you if you actually spoke all the words in your head.

"Hey," she says, at some point, quiet and suddenly gentle, and you're already wrapped around her finger and you've yet to tell her. "I like talking to you. Keep calling."

This isn’t like you, really. Or it hasn’t been - not in a while.

"As if that's up to you," you shoot back, your voice so dry you know she can see straight through it, but maybe you're doing alright, making leeway - because at least, it's a placeholder. Irene seems to understand what you can't explain.

"Ha." Another laugh, airy this time: easy-breezy. A vocal shrug. "My hair is way too cute right now to deal with your smart mouth, anyways - they're waiting for me." She hesitates, but the gap isn't uncomfortable, a space to breathe. "Let's just say you'll get tired of me before I get sick of you."

"Do you want me to see?"

"Later," says Irene, almost hurriedly, like an excuse, but in a pretty way, and the click on her end of the line is still warm.

(You hang up, stare at the wall and take deep, shaking breaths: in, out, hold - when you don't, you can taste her. But still, you wait for the feeling to subside.)

-

At first, she had seemed entirely untouchable. It’s funny. At first, you were convinced she'd look right past you.

-

She sends you a video, no commentary: the pretty, delicate sweep of her mouth brushing her shoulder. Her arm casts a shadow down the rise of her hips and your eyes trail that shadow south, across the soft planes of her stomach.

There are no questions after it, no words or emojis. Just her. In lingerie and no fucking context. The sound of her inhales.

(She says things with her face like that - or rather she says nothing at all. There isn't a hand-written translation key, though she leaves clues. She's playing it up, knows how you like her when she gets mouthy, lips glossy, knows how you like her panting. It wouldn't take much if she put her hand between her legs for you: you'd suck on her fingers, clean them off. You'd do anything.

The sound she does make eventually is low, frustrated. It's filthy - just thinking about her, all alone and barely touching herself: waiting for your reply.)

-

And yeah, it'd feel good not having to think about the bullshit anymore - you’d do your best to convince everyone that it's casual: the looks, the touches, all of it - the two of you together. It'd be a total lie, and you'd know it: everyone would know it, but that doesn't really matter. Because keeping things careless works. Never had it been about the feelings, and it's a cop-out, sure, that old cliché, but look - there's a really good chance you'll muck this up if you're given the power to put a name to the way her pupils dilate a half second before she grabs at you. Or the way you always fall a little more for her.

You think about that, about the worst of it: that she could ask you the most invasive question on her mind and instead, you'd answer, honestly and willingly, just like that: "hey, do you want to stay the night?" 

-

But here’s the thing: she's a singer and she's got all these friends. Colleagues and acquaintances from work who are, in her words, also 'friends' (code for: people I am required to tolerate by contract.)

Hey, you're no marriage counselor - you won't try to figure out the etiquette. And her labelmates aren't a total disaster.

It's only fair to make an appearance, meet all these alleged Bae Joohyuns. And - she likes it, in that way Irene likes a lot of things you do to her. She’s texting you a new address every few minutes, texting nonstop by the time you've matched a tie to a shirt and are actually considering heading out. It's this afterparty, or wait, sorry, we're actually at a bar now - no, scratch that, it's a friend of a friend's place, you'll love it, I think? - and you can't really picture her stumbling through the city at midnight like she is, but there's a blurry photo of her and Seulgi and Wendy crowded around a mess of champagne flutes on a counter. An outdoor patio, a rooftop garden somewhere downtown. Her dress is breathtakingly gorgeous. There's an arm snaked around her waist and that's - hmm.

Wendy wants u here lol, the next text reads, and okay, you can't actually be bothered to give her shit for that right now. She can't be helped.

Someone's having fun, you type out instead.

Maybe I'm bored, comes the reply, just as fast, and then a few seconds later: i don't think anyone knows me here.

You roll your eyes. You'd love her despite, or maybe because of, a personality like that. "Never took you for anything like a celebrity."

Fine. I'll have to think of something to do, then, Irene responds, almost lazily, the following text-delete cycle appearing under your thumb like some new and innovative high-speed braille. Maybe.

But you could also come over and get me off, you think she should add. That could be fun, too.

No dice.

Meet me soon, she texts, and maybe a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, but she doesn’t even know what it does to your stomach when she follows it with, I miss you.

You wonder, a little, how you got here. You wonder if things like that ever just become normal.

-

Kang Seulgi is standing out front when you spill out of an uber and onto the sidewalk, all stooped over under the yellow haze of the streetlight on the corner, smoke coming up off a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

The chill night wind picks up and the edge of a leather jacket flaps behind her. It's almost eerie in how mundane the sight should be - and you think it's funny: Seulgi can make herself at home, anywhere.

"Hey," the brunette calls, stepping up. She's tall in her heels, the crescents under her eyes deep. The stars in the sky are shining against all the bright signs and street lamps, and it's hard to spot them. "Haven’t I seen you before?"

"Around the office, probably-"

Seulgi's eyes light up - she's not as drunk as the photo suggested, you think - and she gives a bright smile. Her eyebrows jump in recognition: a blur, the glimmering pulse of neon over glossed eyes and a lip caught by a canine. "You're Irene's-"

"-work friend," you answer quickly, before she has the chance to finish. It makes her laugh, which you weren't really counting on, and pocket her hands. You have enough bad ideas; you don't need hers as well.

"Oh. So you’ve got an arrangement," she suggests.

"It's an occupation," is as much as you'll tell her. "We all have one."

"Mhmm," she agrees, the wince on her face passing as a thoughtful hum. She shrugs.

"Did you-?" You clear your throat, don't know why it's hard to get out. "Is, uh, Irene in there?"

She takes a slow pull, long eyelashes sweeping over her cheekbones. Smoke spills out over her top lip. "Of course," says the girl, with all the attitude. "Just, not so alone."

"So," you start, cautious. "Do I even want to..."

Seulgi waves her hand, drops ash off the cigarette. "Nothing to worry your little heart over, friend," she mumbles, shrugging. Her fingers are delicate as she blows smoke between parted lips, eyes angling up at the city lights. "She said she was meeting someone cute. And I’m left wondering, if that someone could be you."

"Um," you respond. "Could be."

"Hm." The word is loaded, considering, and when she takes another step forward there's a smirk painted to her mouth, the deep red cut in the center of her lips almost reflective. She tosses her cigarette aside: a clean arc into a storm drain. "Interesting."

Seulgi's fingertips brush your collar as she ducks into the door in front of you.

"Later, pal," she tosses over her shoulder, and doesn't look back to see what happens next.

-

(You’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

-

A crowd's scattered around the rooftop, now spread a bit thin - most of the people you recognize from tv screens and billboard ads, and everyone else seems a mix of other media. They're talking to each other in hushed tones about some shoot-down, this piece of gossip. They're comparing agent fees, checking the pockets of their jackets, flicking gold-plated pens in their designer hands. The whine of a power drill going a mile a second comes from over the railing: a few shots left to take. A skeleton crew works behind a camera, behind the glass, but no one seems to mind the business of film in the midst of celebration. They really are a different breed, aren't they?

You pick her out of the crowd instantly - in a white silk cocktail dress that costs more than a college tuition and no sense to act the part, Irene is seated among all of them like she fits. It's never a surprise, her at the center of things.

The seam at her hip rides up when she turns to reach for her drink, her leg extended long: overstretched, one toe pointed elegantly as if she could place her full weight onto a thin little stiletto heel and not snap both ankles. Her bottom lip is coated with bright gloss, pink smearing as it pulls at the straw.

There's a pause where everything slows down: she licks the crease of her mouth, sucks something golden and sparkling down, swallows, blinks - slow, pretty, perfect. Her hair is dark, cute, spilling onto her shoulders, and it brushes a collarbone, slips a little into the slit between her breasts. She's looking for someone, gaze traveling across the patio, swimming through the party - searching - and then, suddenly, those deep-water brown eyes catch yours.

They shine just a little bit brighter.

And then, the only logical thing: Irene smiles, before her feet carry you right in your direction.

-

Inside, things aren’t so loud. The night had gotten its worst out of the way early, the only source of music low and reverberating through the walls, the ceilings - all dark and liminal spaces; you and Irene find one to spare and fall into each other there, slow and searching and full of everything. It would be enough to get lost in her completely, this sweetness. You, and the kiss, and nothing else.

It's almost private enough to call it quiet; you're both out of sight and hidden, but there's voices, drowned noise all around. The bass can be felt through the floorboards, underfoot, but you can only focus on the rhythm that thrums from inside of her chest.

There's a disarm, here, too:

"I kissed someone tonight," Irene confesses, and then there's this break, a fragment where neither of you knows who you are to the other, what any of this means - if she'll bite down, be that sore reminder of a few unspoken words.

"Did you."

"Yeah," she says, exhale tickling your jaw. Her lips drag on skin, trace bone - and maybe it should bother you, but either way you can't help it: a thought finds purchase. Irene in someone else's grip, just enough a squeeze. Someone she'd like, or someone she could put herself back in a relationship with, or whatever they're calling this - and all at once, she's trembling.

The revelation is a bit like getting shot through the heart. A simple, awful: fuck. You think you might be bleeding.

Irene pulls the strap of her dress back up her shoulder and explains how it happened, out in that patio garden: a closed-mouth thing, some fleeting nothing, really, a bold dare on his behalf and her lack of inhibition. No, she assures you - he tasted like vodka and it was boring. She kept his hands off her ass, just in case you wanted to know. But still, the blood pumps harder in your veins knowing what she has and hasn't done - and what's wrong is how you only hear her confession in the middle of feeling something envious, a sudden, strong, profound desire to mark your claim: you'd leave this bruise, something ugly at the hollow of her throat. It makes you a possessive, possessive kind of person, and the sentiment, you figure, can only end in trouble.

"Sorry," she sighs, tipping her face forward to brush her forehead against yours, her eyes scrunching as she apologizes. "I don't think you wanted to know, but-"

You're trying to distract yourself; she's pressed between you and the wall, arms circling your neck as her spine bows under a bit of pressure.

"Yeah?" you question though. You can't not. There's this telltale roughness, the need to breathe: you'll hold on too long, take her mouth the way she deserves, keep her quiet, and let your tongue flick across hers until her lips are numb. "What then - should I care? Am I meant to?"

She swallows. It's all reflex.

"He kissed me," is all she says, and then her palm is stroking against the shell of your ear, soft, quiet. "Then he kissed me again." 

She shivers, eyes wide, wet and round and wanting: you could say you understand how he could only dream of being the one to turn her head and bring out her charm, the easy way she smiles, but-

"All I could think of was you."

There was never a chance to compete; this star whose shine eclipses. Your binary system was never quite fair, was it?

Your hands are on her wrists then, trapping them at her sides; her eyes smoky and dark and looking straight up at you. She can't breathe like that, mouth agape as your nose brushes hers, your words blowing straight against the heat of her lips:

"Are you still thinking of me now?"

It's only that - though you can hear a sound building up from her lungs. You kiss the line of her jaw and whisper things into her skin: you have me, you can have me, you've always had me. The truth.

And her eyes are slipping shut: mouth curling into the kind of smile that drives you crazy; half the reason why you're all over her in the first place. You don't care where she's been so long as this is where she ends up, your face brushing hers, the kiss held just out of reach - you press into her forehead, her nose, her cheeks; she tilts her chin towards you, begging you to just - but your mouth is on her, feather-light, not near enough: she chases the pressure, gasps your name as your lips find hers, tongue sliding right past, and oh-

It's fast. It's heavy: you take, you push; her whole body shifts and shudders when she finds a grip, one hand braced on your shoulder as the other swung upwards, pulling you closer by the jaw. Your hand runs up her thigh and you hear her inhale, deep.

Irene kisses you like she was made to. She makes sounds with her tongue against yours, ones that twist in you, wind, undo. Like this, it'd be so easy to just let it go - take, take, take. There's not an inch to hide as your hand climbs her bare skin, feeling a shiver rise as her breath rushes hot against your cheek, over and over and-

"Breathe, baby," you mutter, and Irene huffs like it's a game, one of her soft shuddering hiccups, like there's something you should've known - the gasp when you kiss her mouth open, how it was getting easier to drown. She's not drunk, but she's getting there - and she doesn't ask to take it back when you both tip and crash into the wall beside. The reverberation of her back hitting the surface is nothing like the rest.

You take her arm, press her further against the space.

"Bedroom," she barely manages to request. Breathes, the sound shaking and short, almost - almost a plea, or a prayer. A beg. "Somewhere quiet, please. Anywhere. Please."

There's nothing Irene doesn't do without grace - but how she needs you: her limbs give, and she sags, falls against the line of your torso. There's this full, bordering helpless sound as you find her waist, holding her up, pulling her closer. You're kissing in this empty corridor, knocking on doors, jiggling locked door knobs and wasting time, barely, maybe, forever until you can step back into some stranger's guest room: some hallway hideaway; the unoccupied kind of paradise.

"I want you," she mutters when your hand traces the slope of her neck, and then her face is burying against the space below your ear, her open mouth skirting across the sensitive skin there. "So bad, so much. Out of these clothes."

Her neck tilts and you lick. You find a place beneath her ear, kiss - hard. Irene says please. You leave a mark. You know you’ll leave more. 

An unlocked door, and she shoves you into a bathroom instead, fucks you in there with her underwear tugged to the side and her skirt rucked up her thighs: the mirror reflecting back every whine, the squeal you draw out of her when your teeth dig too deeply, the shock, the undiluted want in her eyes when she leans up against it. You have her half on the sink, your arms a cage around her lithe waist, your grip white-knuckled in the silk outline of her dress; she cums around your fingers, cunt slick and slippery, gasping your name so loudly that you have to shush her; and even after that, when her gaze locks into yours, the pretty round of her cheeks all red and her lashes stuck with her tears: when she tugs your zipper down, fits you between her legs and pleads for you to fill her with your cock until the tightness around it is unbearable, fucking her just as you're pulling apart her clothes, the clasp of her bra snapped so hard she curses - even that doesn't stop. She doesn't ask you to stop - she's incorrigible, needy, practically begging.

"Please." Again. Again, as she touches her cheek, fingertips on the skin that's already turning a deep crimson, all shades and blooms; and then she touches the lipstick-smudged prints at the top of her breast, and all the ones on her jaw. Your teeth, where it was light, and your tongue where it was hard. You took, and you marked, and the way she is, her thighs quivering like an aftershock; her body pliable, barely-breathing: that was almost all of what she asked for.

Your hips snap, and the impact jolts through her: ripples sent into the curves of her body from the pleasure, the pain. You try not to listen, not to look - not the obscenities leaving her mouth in a steady stream as you press her down against the counter: every hiss and moan, your name, jesus fuck-

Irene cums a second time with a wail, like someone's hurt her, like she's been set free, like she'll never again breathe so well as she does when your lips catch the scream and hold down the sobs, fingerprints at the faint, fragile curve of her nape.

"God," she whimpers into your mouth; and the sound, that voice, as she moans it to you: "your cock - is gonna kill me, baby."

Her cunt is tighter around your cock than it's ever been, this total vice grip, her hips lean and arched upwards where she lies, slick-dripping onto the bathroom counter; the edge of her heel catches on the marble-topped basin, and her ankle knocks over the handsoap - the whole of it hitting the floor and shattering. 

She doesn't care. She can’t. She's a fucked-out mess: her black hair in knots, sticking to her hairline, her face flushed with need.

"Darling," the sweetest, her soft voice cracking with a laugh, the tipsy tilt of a joke; she's begging with it, some lazy, pretty curl of a request, some pretty plea that turns around into a bite, the heat, the feral - you kiss her harder. Take her harder. Leave a few more marks: just so you know she'll still feel it later, bruised and sore and sorry, and it might be too much, but oh, the way Irene grabs and pulls and fights and tries to cling when it crosses the line; she'll be feeling this tomorrow, a sharp tugging at the inside of her chest as she rubs circles into the scrapes and imprints on her hip bones. This reminder; of what's right there, if only-

Mine, you bite against her skin, and the voice in her head might scream with it.

You can see the fantasy in her eyes: her standing here in the mirror after you've filled her pussy, fucked your cum back into her cunt and had your fingers inside her for so, so long that she'd been soaking, dripping with it - your palm pressing firmly on her swollen, desperate clit, two fingers hooking deep, right on the spot that makes her twitch, tremble. Her jaw goes slack, eyes fluttering and back arching as you watch her drip with the mess you've made of her.

"It was always, I think-" and she hiccups, a small pained sound, "it was always gonna be you." She says it like an apology, voice quieter, more uncertain, a little shaky. "I just can't get you out of my head."

Your hips are reckless, a little mean - but your mouth moves slowly across hers. It's tender. It’s everything. 

"Baby," you plead back: and it's something soft and small when you sigh it into her mouth. Your fingers tracing her ribs and feeling how she breathes with your every motion; how you're filling her so deep she almost can't. Choking, with a whimper, like it's hard - and then her jaw goes slack, eyes snapping shut - her knees bend - like she'll give up on the control. Her body slackens and gives under you; her legs widen to fit your hips, all her weight sinking backwards on the marble-top-

She keens when you bottom out, a high, delicate noise. Whimpers at how full she is of you; she must've felt your rhythm slipping and letting it run too rough-

And even then. She asks, totally breathless, panting: "Right there," and fuck, god, please. "I love this," she whispers, the sweetest, the most gorgeous, lips moving as slow as a prayer - "and you fuck so good. And-"

Irene swallows; her chest expanding and then halting, shallow and deliberate. Her chin turns; her mouth opening in some expression of yearning before the word comes; a gasp, and she can't - she can't quite-

"Keep- baby, please." Her throat makes a noise and all the words taper. "Please, right fucking there."

She makes another sound, strung out and desperate - and she keeps gasping the faster you thrust your hips. Each drag through her hot, wet cunt has you both clambering closer.

"This," Irene's panting, this terrible, wonderful realization in her mouth. "This feels like-"

A stutter. A strangled sound: you don't even catch a full breath before she's trying again.

"-like us."

Oh, Irene, her heart murmuring. Like something soft, like something hard - this burn, this hurt; Irene, in her prettiest, highest pitch - the way she speaks, the way she breathes, her voice dropping a decibel like some clandestine secret. Like sin, a honey-coated whisper in the space between you two.

"Irene," you say, and she melts like you’re inscribing it into her skin. DNA-deep, carved into her bones. She takes it like a baptism, something in it an invitation, a promise to hold her dear - and all at once, that smile grows, blooms. 

It's intimate. It's affectionate. Fuck, it's true.

You break open her world with her own name, spoken like a sigh and sounding like sin.

There's this hollow, raspy sound she makes. Beneath the shallow of her clavicle. When your fingers push down, her nipples pressing back into your palm - there, as her breath hitches, as she quivers - right there; her cunt trembles around you, eyes wide-open, and you're just watching each other lose yourselves until Irene has to beg for another kiss, and the next, her fingers grasping at the collar of your shirt as she slips her tongue into the corner of your mouth. You wonder why she bothers with perfume; when all she is is vanilla and cinnamon, a saccharine so sweet with a touch of spice; she murmurs the words into your ear: I want your cum. Fill me up. Use me.

You think:

God, her body; god, the feeling. The sound.

Think, still:

Look, your hand. At her waist. At her pussy. Right here. The place where you're connected. Flesh, bone, a stretch of skin - the raw, obscene mess you make; when all it takes is a rock of your hips, a thrust upwards and in to dismantle everything that is her, everything that is Irene, until her entire world is centered around you-

It could be a chorus, a refrain:

Let go. Let me see. Drown me out. Kill the lights. You’ll take three hours over three weeks where you pretend she doesn’t exist. It's simple. It’s, it’s-

It’s this: the press of her to your skin. The nails to your scalp, down your neck. The splay of her legs across your thighs. The sweat - hers, yours - all of it together; your mouths meeting and meeting and meeting. Again and again.

God. It’s the entirety of you which you were hoping to avoid. You love this woman. You fucking worship her, all of her, every piece and the whole - that she's making that noise in the back of her throat, soft; that her breathing is rising, ragged; that you do this to her, just this.

It happens in a blink. You tell her to turn. Tell her to bend. 

She ends up over the counter, gripping the sink, and you lift the fabric up to bare her ass and keep fucking her, deep, deeper. This sound is all you need, this whine that Irene makes, like you're reaching even her furthest, hottest spots - and then the push through her sopping cunt, how she spills around you and the slickness smears at the insides of her thighs; she clings and squeezes and fucks back against you so wildly, she doesn't even recognize her own name. It's the moment when she loses all sight: that's when you bury inside her, pull back her hair, wrap your hand around her throat, and she's under you, on you, body angling upwards like a flower to the sun. She cums so easily, shuddering into the pull of the climax; her pussy tight around the throbbing swell of your cock - the deep and penetrating pain of that desperate pleasure, like a flash-flood, an earthquake, oh, the grip, the warmth-

The moment stretches, just like that. 

Her heels kicked off and toes arching to scuff at the cool, tiled floors; she's sensitive; she wants to play dirty. Your grip loosens, that same tender thing when her throat bobs, a little movement, swallowing for you. She knows exactly what she's asking for, exactly what this all means - Irene begs so prettily: "put it inside me."

There's a few seconds in which you feel nothing but the heat and the way she flinches, like a reaction that's programmed straight into all her nerve endings; the raw instinct; the shudder from deep within her core when your hot cum finally starts to spill thick and heavy inside her - it's been too long since your last proper fuck, and her moaning in the mirror is, how do you say: an incredible inspiration.

"Your pussy," you can hear yourself say, throat gravel-dry. "Is so fucking tight, baby, shit-"

And she's nodding, voice ripped to ribbons. All the words liturgical, a prayer. She's begging with them; yes, please, fuck, god yes, give me-

Her thighs press together, but her eyelids have begun to fall.

"Use me," she mutters. Her breathing begins to even out - the very real sign she's spent, near unconscious. "Want this, want you - so fucking bad."

And the evidence is there. Irene is falling apart beneath you, hands fisting and legs spreading even further as she's braced against the sink, bent, and presented. All of it makes a beautiful sight: the spread of her toned, ivory thighs; her ass pale and her folds so pink; how she's bent, waiting. Everything about her is an artistic consideration, designed, purposeful.

"Christ," is all you manage. The strain is evident in how your tone rasps.

Because your hips are still pumping Irene’s cunt with cum. Fingers wrapped around her tiny waist and pulling her ass flush against your hips for good measure. Again and again and again; no room for doubt: you've missed the warmth, the fullness. Soaked to the hilt as your length curves within her; she coos, and she loves it. She says it’s ruinous. She says it feels incredible. She says it around the shape of your name and with no hint that you should ever stop fucking her apart.

"Feels so fucking amazing." She's panting and she can't say another word for a while; it's a fact and the other is simple. "It's - so good."

She can't stop moaning. 

You’re both breathless, watching her reflection in the glass, a study in motion: the soft bounce of her breasts in the mirror, the cords of muscle tensing in her abdomen, the small, pinkish mark blooming below her left ear. There's her lower lip, pinched between her teeth, her eyes flickering shut as her hair drapes across her naked shoulder and her skirt rolls higher on her waist. She doesn't try and muffle herself: you could hold her down, or even give her your fingers to bite down on - let her go a little wild as she wrestles against the instinct to stay silent, keep quiet. You plant an open-mouthed kiss against the side of her neck and look up, see her watching the movements, her dark eyes lidded, dazed, fucked-out-of-her-mind content as she smiles - lidded and lovely and impossibly knowing and rocking her hips into the moment.

"You are unbelievable, you know that?" you're murmuring, your palm on her shoulder. Pushing her flat. "Absolutely breathtaking."

You rub a thumb against her cunt, pull at the outer, exposed, sensitive parts as Irene's smile falters. You just keep pushing.

"Oh, baby," she whines, pleading for more. For one more press, another, anything: she begs you. "Your cum feels" - she swallows hard - "so fucking warm inside of me."

A shush, the palm soothingly pressing between her legs, and she bites her lips hard. Still trying.

So - you push it all deep into her cunt. 

There’s this beat, this moment, this quiet - where her eyes pinch tight, voiceless, speechless.

And right after, Irene is whimpering: her body seizing and shaking and arching away from the viscous slickness that just keeps building with each and every drag; the cum left on your cock when you pull it out, leaving Irene on the verge of sobbing, collapsing on her stomach, trembling. Your fingers are covered in her cum. And this is how she likes it, stretched and sloppy. The shudder through her body is proof: all over her nerves, electrified. Irene’s shoulders go limp when she feels the push - then your knuckles, curling. The gentle touch, the pressure, the fingers spreading her slit.

She asks what else, anything, please, and hints at wanting more; so much more.

“Irene,” you say, smiling into the ends of her hair. Maybe, you consider. Maybe later, maybe when you're fucking her flat on your bed; your cock up her tight ass or your palm coming down heavy on the supple roundness. You let her fantasize a minute, imagining it's the roughness she wants to receive; maybe the hot, slow grind of you still inside her or the whisper at her neck and her toes digging into the sheets. The offer has her breath stuttering in the mirror.

Irene tells you it's unfair.

"Sorry," you say, and don't mean a word.

Another breath in, the lungs expanding against your palm, ribs slipping. In and out, a reminder.

"Don't be," Irene manages, exhaling a laugh.

She offers you her lips, you know she doesn't mind - and she kisses you. You sink down to the bathroom floor and she sits so easily in your lap, your mouths meeting over and over again. She strokes your spent cock. Your hands squeeze her thighs and you take her chest in your mouth. Wiping your own smear of wetness off her tummy, bringing them to her face, letting her nose knock into your palm and lick at the tips. 

"Can you taste how sweet your cunt is? Baby," and your mouth is on hers, kissing all traces off her tongue-

There's so many things you could do, it's enough to keep you sated for ages. Her back is pressed against your chest, and you gently draw another spill of cum leaking out from her pussy; she shoves your digits into her mouth, sucks until her jaw clenches, your thumb rolling around the roof, tongue pressed right between.

"If someone sees us," she whispers, licks her lips, your fingers, moans, tilts her hips and grinds down a bit. "We'd be so screwed."

"Don't worry, I'd say," and you can't help the tease in it; your voice low and all grit, the heat and your heart rushing through every vein. "It'd all be my fault."

It's filthy: her sitting in the puddle of your cum, making it soak the thin material of her dress; your heavy spill leaking from her cunt and soaking your slacks as the mess seeps further and further down your pants and her ass-

"We are such a disaster." She says it wistfully. "You and me, like this. A total fucking disaster."

(With your clothes torn open, hair a disaster, the imprints of your lips and fingertips all over her, she means. If it was anybody but the two of you: oh, how ridiculous it would seem. But the sheer audacity of the possibility has her looking at the cum glistening on her thighs. Then looking back to you, her dark-brown eyes, brighter than stars, searching the depth of the hold in yours, your arms wrapped around her.

Maybe she just wants to have this. For as long as you're giving it to her.)

-

You can feel yourself falling so deeply into her, the pull. The draw. It feels a lot like being lost. Like, there's something about loving her. The night's long and she's pressed so closely, fitting like something just perfect, and the way her hands find your ribs is the nicest, fondest ache. You only break out of the haze once the footfalls of her heels begin to echo behind you. The bass fades as you both make a run for the exit. It gets harder not to laugh - your giggling voices slipping between you. You have her nose pressed to the dip of your collarbone, kisses dropping in her hair, her lips curved into a smile every time your thumb does another circle - that place right below her hip, or right there behind her ear.

"Take me somewhere," she sighs. Her body pressed against yours, her cheek snuggling against you.

"Any suggestions?"

She shrugs, and the elevator chimes. "I wanna sit with you."

When she leans forward, just the faintest movement, her mouth upturning in the smallest smile. Her eyes flit away, and her brow wrinkles and lifts, like this: here. You could swear, to god, or the devil: there isn’t an ounce of light inside you that doesn't live at her mercy.

The clock is ticking down into the small hours. The night at its calmest, darkest, most wicked stillness.  You ask her again, this time, just for clarity, a bit of guidance. "Somewhere we can go? If you have nowhere in mind, we could head back if-"

"No." Irene shakes her head. "Take me anywhere but home."

-

You're drunk. Irene's a little worse off. Her heel snaps. The usual grace, the poise, her ease, that’s all but vanished. It's just her: Irene. Hair windswept and the edge of her nose nipped by the chill, the moonlight.

She’s so fucking beautiful.

The night can hear her laughter in the air; you have her hands clasped around your middle, legs hoisted over your elbows. You’re carrying all fifty kilos of her across the pavement; the streets are quiet and the city's yours. Her dress bunches, and her voice is in your ear, a kiss peppered to the back of your hair. The both of you collapse and - ow, it's the crash onto concrete, a scrape and a bruise and a story to piece together tomorrow. Is this from the tumble? the sex? I don't know, Irene will say, sealing a band-aid over the red, the swell. Maybe this, maybe that. It all happened. The physical marks, the chemical thrill - the proof of life, a permanence, tethered.

"Let me, Irene," you're insisting, half-joking, pulling at the broken heel and tossing it a mile behind you. And like it's instinct, you just can't - can't help yourself. "Your legs are gorgeous, but, y'know. I’d hate to see you get hurt."

You run your palm down her calf and steal the other shoe. It gets tossed in the same direction, over her whine. "Babe."

Irene pouts, still too lovely, still too fucking sweet. 

She doesn't laugh, or blush, or try to argue. Instead, she sweeps your hair back, curls her fist at the nape of your neck, and suddenly you're staring, eyes locked and wanting. Irene leans in, her weight settling against your forearms, and gives you a look; just long enough and tender and dreamy and calm enough to have the ache of your heart match its rhythm with her own.

"What the fuck," and her smile cracks open as the words struggle in her chest; her hand goes down your arm and strokes a featherlight finger to the edge of your jaw. "Please don't throw away a woman's shoes without permission."

She hiccups. Sways.

You kiss her. And kiss her, and kiss her. Irene smiles right against your mouth.

"Stay right here," she says. "Go get my fucking shoes, but stay right here with me."

-

Look, it feels so good, not worrying where she is at night.

-

"I thought," she's whispering as you cross into a twenty four-hour minimart, Irene on one arm and both her heels in the other - a pack of wet wipes in your hand - and then her pausing, stopping; this brief flutter of something - she says, "I used to think about how this would all eventually fall apart."

Irene leans forward and gives her weight onto you, hand playing around with the sleeves at your elbow.

"I used to wonder which one of us it would be," and the cashier is ringing up your purchases: a bottle of water, a cold compress, baby wipes and neosporin. The ice cream Irene's insisted you treat her for. She runs a hand up the back of your hair and smiles when you meet her eyes again, "which of us would drop the other, you know, first."

"The thought still come up?" you say, sliding a bill onto the counter and offering a quiet "keep the change."

"Yeah, sometimes. Or I mean I'd be watching you, sometimes, I guess." She smiles at your reaction, bumping your shoulder. "That’s the look."

You're walking out to the parking lot and you're pressing a soft kiss against her brow, waiting, patiently; because you always do, waiting. "Do I need to ask?"

Her grin, close-mouthed and gentle, a tinge of fondness, of humor: "you're going to ask either way."

"Hm," you say, popping the lid off the ice cream, breaking off the flimsy paper seal of the container. She's in the pocket of your blazer, Irene's fingers weaving in between yours, her hand reaching for a bite and grinning all the while.

It's four-thirty AM and the early hours will catch up to you, but. It's this: the yellow-orange streetlight above the two of you and her bare feet dangling off a concrete half-wall. In a white cocktail dress and sitting, you and her, atop a parking barrier. You're here, together, watching the skies lighten in the east - there, where the road will split to lead towards her place. Towards your own.

"There's no way," she says, wiping the corner of her lips with her pinky and then making a face. "For us to be together and not mess this up, eventually, somehow." She steals the carton and balances it between her knees. "There's no way to save this."

"Probably not."

Her mouth curls. There, and gone; there again.

"Doesn't that scare you?"

Your stomach is a riot of twists and nerves and the base of your throat is tight, like a swelling.

"It does." You lick your lips, can't think. "A bit, sometimes." You look at her - her profile, her silhouette, the messy, knotted ponytail, the wisping hairs beneath her temple. The press of her lips, how the gloss rubs off onto her knuckles, staining. "But then I see you - and I can't imagine how I'd even pull a 'it's not you, it's me,' convincingly."

Her throat clicks, and she leans her head against yours, and you're forgetting everything else.

You both stop. Sharing a bite. Sharing the silence.

There, and gone.

"Hey," she breathes out - and you can't explain her expression, how her brows knit together; she squeezes your hand, a tremor, and the corner of her lips pulls upwards, almost apologetic; sad, or thoughtful.  "This ice cream is so fucking freezer-burnt."

"It’s not great."

You watch her nose twitch like she's holding back a sneeze, or a sniffle. She laughs instead and leans against the warmth of you; the smell of her, your bodies touching.

"I love it," you hear her say, and she doesn't give the container back.

-

Irene falls asleep in the backseat of a cab as the sun rises, your blazer draped over her chest; she murmurs your name and pulls closer, seeking warmth. The traffic thins as the roads lead to where she'll disappear, and you find yourself dreading it already.

In a day, maybe two. It’s funny. You could end up hating each other. You might have to force a pause, or take a break, or even step back from her entirely. That’s how it goes. It's the hardship, it’s living - it’s the knowing that she has a lease on life that will end, will expire, a loan where all her days are slowly counting down; a timer you recognize the injustice that it might someday read zero.

Not to get too far ahead of yourself, or to project some awful ending where one isn’t likely: but when Irene and you are like this, soft, sleepy, curled into each other; her hand at the small of your back, resting; this close, and closer. Your heart aches with an ambiguous type of feeling, indescribable-

Irene shivers a breath and presses her face into your shirt; and like a revelation: you fall further.

"Where do I take her, sir," the cab driver asks, and your eyes turn, watching her chest rise and fall, steady, easy; as her grip grows looser and her cheek presses onto the leather seats.

She's too gorgeous, too pretty in slumber, in sleep, the innocence the most dangerous thing; you fix these wispy tendrils of hair back behind her ear and press a hand to her temple, stroke the line of her jaw, the bow of her lip. How soft, she's always the sweetest sight - with her head resting, her mouth falling slack, eyelashes fanned out over the fullness of her cheeks, and all of her like this, all her darkness tucked away: you think about all those times you've traced her from across a room, across a city; if there was anyone else you'd rather wake up beside, in your bed and beside the pillow; someone who doesn't pick your fights and your silences and loves them in spite of, despite everything. Who lets the fights burn white hot until it leaves you both splayed raw and exhausted, in her, on you-

Someone who fits so, so perfectly with the grooves and the curves, who completes you.

"Just drive," you murmur, looking away, blinking away. "I'm not gonna remember."

You're thinking about a book you'd once read, an idea. The world of difference, the fact in its finer detail; all the myriad iterations of 'loving' and 'missing' and 'want': the imperceptible shifts between being the absence of something and feeling it, tasting it, taking it, drowning it and holding it in your palms, seeing it every time you turn, breathing, living: wanting to never let her go-

"You alright back there, bud?" the driver asks. The tone: the slow and steady understanding, his age, how he watches you, the soft shake in your voice, the gentleness with which you hold your gaze - he knows. A blind man could read what your heart’s written on your sleeve. "Late nights are a killer," he says, a chuckle, before shaking his head, muttering, "but mornings even more."

There are a few more hours left. Maybe more, maybe less, of not worrying, and not caring. The thing about loving Irene is this: her touch, the press and the tugging and pulling; her body and her heart; she can be anyone, the best friend, the boss, the mistress, the princess. The pet. And you would be remiss, she says, not to remember: you, too, can be just anybody. So long as it’s you, I always come running.

-

It's the last time you kiss her, and that's an okay thing; you pull off the side of the street to brush your hand up to her temple, and when Irene opens her eyes to you, her lashes fluttering against the swell of your cheeks; her hair in soft strands over her forehead and framing her face like this. This vision of her is for you, all yours, all the little things.

"I’ll see you soon," Irene says, sleepily, and you know that you will.

-

The nook she occupies in your head by now, is so well-established.

You can't remember when it began. Not like there was a sign, a hint, or a clue. Just, her. And her lips and her tongue and her touch, all this reckless abandon - like everything else, there had to be a leap.

Even with all the lights burning out and the moon hidden in clouds and the nights and days unraveling around you - in those early days, the press of her shoulders or the palms of her hands would always send the worst kind of butterflies through you, like everything else - just her, the sway and the tipsy, the turn and the look she'd have before she would touch the pad of her thumb to your cheek and drag her nail down the curve of your smile.

(It had felt - and you're no longer in it - but it had felt so frighteningly fast.

Weeks, she had told you once. I fell for you in weeks. Months? Years? Fuck, no time at all.)

-

"Hey," Irene says in the not-so-distant present. She's sitting across the kitchenette - knees under her, bare feet pointed to the window, and the steam rises from her tea.

"Mornin'," you mutter sleepily. Stretching, craning your neck and arching your shoulders and ignoring the pop in your lower back, the strain at your ankles. Irene tilts her chin up and blows through the steam. There's an air of self-sufficiency, a state of mind she seems to always have, as if, the ability to ignore her vulnerability is a muscle she could constantly flex, expand, train herself to avoid - and all you're noticing is how that small movement has her shifting and curling over the cup, trying to keep warm. Her hair is pulled high in a knot and held up by an elastic, her baggy sweats loose and rolled twice over, the camisole low, a thin strap sliding off her shoulder.

"When'd you-"

"Had to wake up earlier today." She blinks, her legs slipping open, bending.

"Any chance-"

"No." And Irene snorts. The teasing pull of her lips has your stomach twisting a little more: "you know me."

That you do; the lazy Sunday, the slight pull in the center of her lower lip as she purses it. Irene, with her hair messy-perfect and that stupid fucking smile, so careless, and the joke-flirt she's doing; she knows just what she's doing and, yeah, god. You still have a weak-spot for her and it's so big; the twist in the base of your throat. Your morning wood rising. You’re familiar with this: the deep ache.

"You know," you say instead, blinking through the heaviness of your lashes and scratching a thumb against the line of your jaw. "A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair."

"Girls love me." She turns the cup around in her grip and grins again, makes sure that the image stays locked. "Or," and Irene holds up the fingers, counts on two. "I've had two affairs in my life. One is basically a distant memory-"

"The other?"

Her teeth press down on her lip again. "How am I doing so far?"

"Honesty and self-disclosure in the kitchen, at eight in the morning? Irene, you're really outdoing yourself."

She lifts a brow, then brings the mug to her mouth - like a second-rate cigarette and a scalding-hot burn. "If you did bring a girl here," she says after a while. And, smiling: "she'd see me sitting here, incriminatingly pretty. I mean, she'd probably cry. Screaming fits, a fist fight. Then the waterworks - oh, he was my first! I loved him! He took my flower - ow, don't touch me, I think I might faint-"

"I doubt it."

"Ooo," Irene sing-songs, turning and crossing the space to sit on the armrest beside you. The sway of her body's so obvious. You've got enough room to pull her onto your lap, but you keep your hands to yourself. She runs the tips of her nails over your shirt, just above the buttons and across the sleeves. "Hun, I bet she'd kill you. It'd be very bloody, but romantic. Sad, but inspiring in a mundane sort of way - something you've only heard in mystery novels. Riveting, sordid stuff. Could fill your entire inbox. I mean, as they say in Chicago: he had it coming."

"Nah," you decide, after a yawn. "Too dramatic."

"Not at all," she scoffs, peering at you over the tops of her glasses. "The man she loved was a heartless betrayer."

"Can I ask why my imaginary girlfriend always comes across like some cliché young ingénue? You seem to have a lot of opinions about this girl."

"What, the girl next door, a little smart, but neglects her intuition?" She flips the bun at the back of her hair. "All wide-eyes, a ribbon in her hair, a flower-child who's seen too many Wes Anderson movies." She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Never once stops thinking about the bad boy."

"If you want to get technical, all my girlfriends have been older than me."

"Whoops," she says flatly, hand falling to her collarbone, "spoke too soon. Got you wrong. No need to panic. I'm sure you, a man, are not drawn to some young thing, easily swept up in a passion. Simply, if nothing else, for the sweet naivete. Those hushed little moans and then, the screams. She would tell you it hurts - and on the same note, she’d be begging you for more - the little slut. God, she'd still be so, so nice and soft and quiet. Ready to be anything for-"

"And if you're the girl?" You stand up and grab her wrist. "What then?"

She pauses, considering this new development.

"You do not treat me very well." Irene pushes the bridge of her glasses back up the curve of her nose. "No candle-lit dinners or grand, public gestures." She twists a curl of black hair around her finger. "Definitely not a confession on bended knee - oh, no, never, never - you'll not have to stoop to that. Because you are, in fact, quite terrible at it. I don't think I'd have a single opportunity to pine pathetically, waiting. And maybe you're a bad kisser, actually," she concludes.

You tsk, scandalized. "You are really not cut out to be the ingénue at all."

Irene laughs, softly, reaching out to tug gently at a tuft of your hair. She smiles up at you - and it's so easy for her, somehow. So graceful. "Shall I fix that for you?"

"Do not fall for me, sweetheart."

"I will try to resist the urge." She tilts her chin and presses a finger to her lips. "Kiss, first."

You lean forward, let your nose bump her temple, her hairline. "Glasses, first."

"Whiner," she murmurs. She yanks, gently. Tugs and pulls, and presses the pad of her finger at the sharp cut of your jaw - her gaze half-lidded and slow as she holds yours. Like she's reminding herself, something she can't forget - what it feels like, exactly. A reminder. You can only keep your eyes on the slide of her jaw. "Gonna keep you like this forever."

"Love," you find yourself whispering. Sometimes you wait just so you can relive that first kiss. Irene swallows. "What a beautiful temptation."

-

You imagine, again, if it had all really been by the book:

Three dates and a letter of recommendation. Making her pay for half, instead of making her feel guilty about paying at all, which for the life of you, you can't fucking figure out: how to treat a woman. Chivalry in modern times: a fucking travesty, truly. She'd lure you to her apartment, or you'd do the same to her - just after the first, you know, the obligatory. The getting to know her, except you'd end up skipping the post-dinner steps of being a gentleman, which would leave the night open-ended, and you wouldn't give it much thought until the kiss against her door is so fucking filthy it makes you reconsider everything and everyone, you know, the morality of fucking someone more than once in a day.

You'd have hit all the milestones, she'd have to lead you to bed, and you'd play all her favorite movies as she lays across your chest and shows you what she likes to do best: finger herself, or something. And you'd talk about it, afterward, you'd acknowledge it - because this should be what dating is, right? This should’ve been the next few months of your life. Running that same exact pattern, knowing each other so well you can tell what sex will be like before it even happens, anticipating exactly what kind of text you'll get the next day - the call the following night, the feel of her hands on you in all the right places. The lazy moans, her lipstick imprints on your skin, the smile at the corner of her mouth. Nothing like putting your own fucking hand in her pants and rubbing a few hasty circles until her slick gathers around her knees and she can't walk for a whole day.

Things fall into place, they fill gaps, the idea must be mutual at some point - mutual attraction, mutual enjoyment-

How it is Irene got to spending five, six nights a week at your place is beyond you. Not because you're worried about what people will say. You're not. It's just - weird, to not know what you've done to make this last so long.

Are there rules to loving someone? Is there a checklist, a script - what praxis will keep things in place: comfortable. Last you checked, you have no fucking idea how to treat someone like she deserves. To treasure and cherish, hold her tight but never cage - what qualifies, huh?

"Irene," you say, one day - as you're both brushing your teeth. Because really, what does.

She looks at you like she's bored.

"Forget it," you reply, laughing to yourself and leaning down to rinse your mouth. "Idiot."

"Wait, no," she says, stopping mid-brush, her toothbrush bouncing obscenely in her mouth. "What?"

"I said forget it," you tease, and of course, the glint in her eyes is a warning if you ever saw one - but who would you be, then, if you didn't lean in close and tell her, ever so gentle. The three words could be: not a clue, or, you're so petty, or, simply, I adore you and she’d let that one lay to rest.

You choose them a little differently, and Irene's face lights up like she hasn't known all this time. 

A foamy spill of toothpaste leaks down her chin. "Th'a m'eh?" She's a mess, wide eyed and dripping and already reaching to swat you on the shoulder, disbelieving. "You can't just-" and her face scrunches, this exaggerated - ugh! - before she hides it in her hands.

Oh, you love her, and it feels so good, not pretending.

"Again. Say it again. I didn’t even hear you." She knocks her knee against yours, grinning behind her palms, wide and genuinely - happy. "Like, have some decorum."

Laughing - so hard you can't breathe - you shake your head and curl your fingers tenderly around her wrists, pull her hands from her face. "You are so greedy," you attempt between breaths, letting yourself press against the softness of her palms, her wrists, the pads of her fingertips - wanting to be a poet, she is a masterpiece - and tell her properly.

-

a/n: thanks for reading, it's always unbelievable to me anyone ever finishes these fics. This one's a very belated 'thank you' present for @yieldtotemptation. I'm like way late, but thanks for everything.