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PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

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

Irene’s is remarkably not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

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

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

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

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

And so it goes, and so it goes.

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

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

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

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

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

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

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

A real celebrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And wouldn’t you know."

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

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

"Hm, I’m thinking."

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

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

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

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tough to say.

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

And - she would, really.

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

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

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

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not for long, the question lingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is sorta how you've always known her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ha."

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

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

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

You both do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She breathes, "god. Irene."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Karina wants you to look.

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

She laughs at the premise.

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

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

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

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

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

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath.

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

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

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ends it so charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking, please, god-."

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

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

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

One.

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

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

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

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

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

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

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

And she wants you to-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely get it.

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

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

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

Who stands any chance to resist?

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

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

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

"You can cum for me too, baby."

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

“Just cum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

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

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

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

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

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

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

She simply shudders apart.

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

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

“Irene, look-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It steps out into pure necessity.

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

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

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

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

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

In and in and in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in case you missed the point:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So,

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

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

A bit of color.

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

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

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

Well. She's got you on that count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I'm not the type.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not married,” you correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s probably right.

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

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

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

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t really care.

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

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

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

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

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

She’s totally caught you staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop fucking her, halfway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sight alone.

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

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

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

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

You’ll make your vows like any other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think you might be projecting."

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

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

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

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

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

"That's the fantasy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her pout, right there, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

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

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

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

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

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

"No," you say. “God, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

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

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

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

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

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

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

"How, what - babe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm."

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

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

"You'll be good right?"

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

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

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

"And give her an extra hello from me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

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

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

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

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

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

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

She must see the confliction you're in-

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

"I- don't really-"

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

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

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

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

This isn't quite how you pictured-

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

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

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

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

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

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

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

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

(You know, god help you.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always traveling for this reason or that.

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

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

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

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

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

The long and short of it is:

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

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

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

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

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

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

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

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

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

“That’s fucked up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elaborate.”

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

"Are you really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy fuck, you're-"

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

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

But instead,

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

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

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

You cum just like that:

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

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

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

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

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

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

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:

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

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

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

#karina smut #irene smut #aespa smut #red velvet smut #male reader smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

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thetriumphantpanda · 4 months

Text

baby, it's cold outside | joel miller

Summary | Patrolling with Joel is always easy, he's your friend after all, but when a snow storm forces you to stop halfway, you're both faced with feelings that you'd both rather ignore, but with nothing but time, talking about them is your only option.

Word Count | 4.2k

Pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings | Explicit 18+. A snow storm and a cabin with a nice, warm fireplace. Unspecified age gap. Explicit smut - unprotected PiV (don't do this, pls be smart), oral sex (F), size kink if you squint, dirty talk, two idiots who love each other, some negative feelings towards the holidays but nothing else I can think of!

Authors Note | A huge thank you to the wonderful @hellishjoel for setting the 12 days of Pedro up and asking me to take part - this was so much fun to put together and I hope you all love it as much as I do!

12 Days of Pedro Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Thank you to the wonderful @saradika for the divider!

Despite having lived in Wyoming for years now, the winters were still a surprise to you. Icy cold winds, frosted windows every morning, thick downfalls of snow almost daily and a struggle to get warm no matter how many layers you wore. Some would call it picturesque, and you suppose you could see it, everywhere you turned in Jackson at this time of year, even though it was against the backdrop of the end of the world, it looked like it could adorn the cover of any Christmas card or be the setting for any Christmas movie. It didn’t matter, because you hated it either way.

When the tree went up in the centre of town, and the lights got switched on, it only served to remind you how solitary you were. How you existed mainly entirely on your own. No family, barely any friends, always the talk of the gaggle of girls who would whisper to each other whenever you passed and start laughing to each other, or the boys who always wondered why instead of hanging around with people your own age, you opted to spend it alone, or with someone who was pushing sixty.

Because if there was a single person in this Godforsaken town that you could class as a friend, it was Joel Miller. Quiet, closed off, unapproachable until you chipped away at his hard exterior, just like you in so many ways, it was actually sickening really. You liked Joel, ever since Tommy had put you two together for patrols when Maria had given birth, it was like you’d found someone who finally understood your need to be alone.

Patrolling outside the walls gave you peace, let you leave your loneliness behind for a while, just you and the ground beneath your boots, the feeling that you were doing something wrong, were less of a person because of your lack of friends and relationships left behind at the gate. You’d proven yourself capable more than enough times for Tommy to realise you were an asset. You’d saved more than enough people with your good aim and quick trigger finger, been ruthless in getting rid of raiders who strayed too close to your safe haven, and he knew your need for solitude, which is why he trusted you on these longer routes, on the more complicated patrol rotations, the ones that would get you out of Jackson for a week.

You surmise that’s probably why he chose to pair you up with Joel. In the two years you’d patrolled together, you’d come to realise that he needed that solitude just as much as you did. A way to leave behind being a father at the gate and remind himself of exactly who he was before. Out here, walking side-by-side next to you, he wasn’t Ellie’s dad, he wasn’t the man who still woke up in cold sweats remembering the heavy weight of his dead daughter in his arms, or that man who had lost almost everyone he’d ever cared for along the way, he was just Joel. Joel, who was more comfortable cradling a rifle in his arms than he was his infant nephew. Joel, who preferred comfortable silence instead of filling the quiet with talk. Joel, who, even when you suspected he hated you at the start, would have protected you to the death no matter what.

You were similar, far more than you’d like to admit, and as the weeks and months had drawn on, and you’d moved into being more comfortable with each other, he really was one of those things you’d wanted for so long. A friend. Someone to rely on, someone to drink with at the end of a hard patrol route, someone who made sure you ate when it was the last thing on your mind, someone who fixed the hole in your roof and put new planks of wood on your porch when you almost fell through it one day, someone who confided in you about how hard he found being a parent again, someone who opened up to you when things started to sour with Ellie. A friend.

He was also someone, in the last six months, that you suspected wanted to be more than your friend. It had started small, with things any good friend would do. He would offer you his arm when you walked during the winter so you wouldn’t slip, started packing double lunch so he knew you’d eat when you’d go out together, but then it was the hand on the small of your back through town, or the way he’d sit close to you in the bar, knees knocking against yours just so he could put a hand on your knee to apologise for getting too close.

And it’s not like you didn’t see that in him either. For a man who was almost sixty, he was incredibly handsome, able to do unspeakable things on patrol that neither of you would talk about to anyone else, strong in a way you didn’t think you’d ever seen before. Sure, his hearing was shot in one ear, his middle soft with age, and his hair and beard peppered with grey hair, but Joel Miller was a sight.

But, what if you’d read his signals wrong? What if his kindness and that warm hand on your knee was just him being a Southern gentleman? You throw yourself at him and he doesn’t feel the same, what happens then? You lose one of the very few friends you’ve ever had, and that’s somehow worse than knowing you’ll never know what the feel of his skin is like under your touch or what it sounds like when he moans your name for you.

The patrol route is brutal this day, wind and snow making it hard to see anything in front of you. You and Joel had to shout loudly to each other in order to hear anything, so when you stumble across the cabin, halfway through the route, you both decide that it’s best to head inside, get warm and wait out the worst of the storm before carrying on. Safer that way, is what Joel said, but you think it’s got more to do with the cold on his joints than the safety. Even at your younger age, your bones were certainly aching.

The wind whips a flurry of snow into the abandoned cabin when Joel pushes the door open, ushering you inside quickly, shutting the door quickly behind the two of you before more snow can follow you in. He sets his rifle down near the door and his backpack on the worn, moth-eaten couch, kneeling in front of the fireplace.

This particular cabin is a regular stop on this patrol route, an agreement between the residents of Jackson who frequent it to keep it stocked with firewood during the cold season. You silently note to thank whoever had patrolled before you for stacking the fireplace so all Joel really needs to do is set fire to the scrunched paper dotted through the wood to get the warmth of the fire flooding the small front room.

“Reckon we’re here for the long run,” Joel grumbles, holding flat palms up to the flames to warm his hands, “Ain’t no way we’re walking anywhere in that.”

And he’s right, the light of the day is fading fast and even in daylight, the blizzard had been a nightmare to traverse. It’s not like you’re wanting to rush back though, you sometimes wish you could pack everything up and come out here for good, live in your solitude until the end of your days, but for now, just a few more nights away from the place that reminds you just how alone you are will do.

You settle down on the couch, trying to burrow further into the coat around your body, not bothering to take your gloves or your hat off until the flames of the fire are stronger.

“Come sit closer,” Joel murmurs, motioning with his hand for you to sit on the floor next to him, “Warm up a little.”

You slip down from the couch and scoot along the floor until you’re sat next to him. Joel reaches over and takes hold of your wrist, gently pulling off your glove, “They’re damp,” He states, reaching for your other hand to do the same, “Take your coat off too, you’ll get a chill otherwise.”

Working to unzip the front to pull it off, whilst Joel throws an extra few pieces of wood on the fire, you settle a little bit closer to the flames, feeling the warmth start to seep through your other layers. He stands, taking your coat and his, hanging them on either end of the fireplace to dry out a little, then he sits back down next to you, although a little closer than he had been before, so close that you can feel the heat of his body next to you.

You take a moment to steal a look up at him, his body larger than yours, towering a little next to you, but in the glow of the flames he’s fucking breathtaking. You get lost in tracing his jaw and the hook of his nose with your eyes that he’s turning his head to face you before you can turn away from him. He catches you with that small smile that is saved only for his family normally, Ellie, Tommy, sometimes Maria, and now, more often, you. So you smile back at him, let the warmth lick through your body, and before you realise it, he’s leaning his, broad shoulders bumping yours as his face gets closer, and God, it would be so easy to let him do it, move your face towards him, press your lips to his and burn it all to hell, but as he inches closer, that pit is opening in your stomach, bubbling anxiety and dread, so as he inches closer, you have to stop him.

You bring one of your fingers up to press against his lips gently, watching as he purses them against your touch a little, but then his eyes open when you speak, so softly, so quietly that he almost missed your plea, “Please don’t.”

It’s like you’ve burnt him with the way he not only drags his face from you, but his whole body, putting so much distance between the two of you that you almost cry. He clears his throat, running his hand over his face, “Right,” He mumbles, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” You insist, not meeting his eyes though, “You don’t need to be sorry.”

“Stupid of me,” He shakes his head, “Just thought-” He sucks in a breath and pushes it out on a sigh, “Thought maybe you’d feel the same, but it was stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid, Joel,” You sigh, finally turning to him, “It’s okay.”

“Makes sense,” He shrugs, eyes boring holes into the flames in front of you, “I’m old, too old for you to want me.”

“It has nothing to do with you being too old for me Joel, I couldn’t give less of a fuck about that.”

You expect him to drop it, like he often does with these kinds of conversation, the ones that involve feelings, but he doesn’t.

“Then what is it?”

“Well, it has nothing to do with your grey hairs or your creaky fucking knees, that’s for sure.”

He’s looking at you with a look that says to get fucked, hurry up, tell him the real reason for all this.

“I could be shit in bed for all you know.”

“Well that’s easy to rectify, just need a little practice.”

It makes you snort, “Can we be fucking serious for a minute, Miller?”

“You’re the one who said it first.”

“What happens when it goes tits up?” You ask, “When you get bored of me, or realise I’m not what you thought I was, what happens then?” He opens his mouth to respond to you, but you beat him to it, “I lose my best friend, that’s what happens, the only person in this Godforsaken world that I have, and I don’t want that, I don’t want a world where I’m without you.”

“Who says it’s going to go tits up?” He counters, “Baby, I’m old, I ain’t gonna go running off, I just want somethin’ good, somethin’ happy, and I want that with you,” Just like you had done before, he starts talking again before you can add something, “Put your faith in somethin’, darlin’,” He’s moving back towards you now, shifting closer, “Put your faith in, me.”

It sounds so easy when he says it like that, because you had once before, without even realising. Let him in, let him get close, to know everything you’d been through, share everything he’d been through. You let him sit with you late at night in the summer, strumming his guitar on your porch, he lets you share his whiskey when you need it.

“I’m still gonna be your best friend,” He urges, that warm palm resting on your knee, “That ain’t gonna change, we’re just gonna add to it.”

And for some reason, it snaps, all of your good judgement and everything that was holding you back. His face is cradled in your palms before you know it, your body straddling his lap as your mouth slants over his, a surprised gasp swallowed by your mouth as his lips open against yours, his hands coming to rest on the globes of your ass through your jeans, pulling you closer, chest flush to chest as you soak this in.

Hands dropping to the collar of his shirt, you start to slowly unbutton it, mouth still against his, tongue tasting him as your fingers push button after button through their holes until you can push it from his shoulders, drag his arms from it, drag his undershirt from it’s place tucked into his jeans.

Joel gasps when your hands make contact with the skin under it, fingers still slightly icy from the cold, but that too is swallowed by your mouth, as is the moan that drags from your throat when he bucks his hips into yours.

He pulls away from your lips, forehead pressed to yours as you both breathe deeply, “Don’t seem shit in bed so far.” He chuckles.

“I was fucking with you Joel,” You smile, punctuating it with a roll of your hips into his, “I’m a delight in bed.”

“Prove it.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“This is the floor Joel,” Which earns you a squeeze to your ass, “I’ve never fucked someone on the floor before.”

Before you know what’s happening, he’s flipped you over, your back pressed to the dusty wooden floor, his body looming over yours, fingers picking the button of your jeans apart, pulling the zipper down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans, pulling them down your legs, underwear along with them too, before they’re thrown behind him somewhere, forgotten as he parts your knees, legs spread, exposed to him, and you think you might die from the way he looks at you. You bury your head into your shoulder, trying to escape his gaze as he drags his thumb along your folds, growling when he feels how wet you are just from his mouth on yours.

You’re vaguely aware of the sounds of his feet hitting one of the armchairs behind him as he lowers his chest to the floor, hands pulling at your hips, your back dragging across the wooden floor as his mouth presses a single, feather-light kiss to your clit. The smallest of touches to your body has your back arching into him.

How long has it been? Not since you fucked someone, because in the grand scheme of things that hasn’t been too long. No, how long has it been since someone actually made you feel good? Years, you think. Too long. Too long since sex was anything more than just stress relief, pressed against the brick wall by the Tipsy Bison, letting someone fuck you so you could feel something, giving them the bragging rights of fucking the town outcast in return.

This is different. So different. Joel is slow with it, parting you in front of his face with his thumbs, tongue swirling through the slick you’re not even embarrassed about now, tasting you, drinking you in, before he drags his perfect mouth up, lapping gently at your clit with the tip of his tongue.

“Taste so fuckin’ good for me, baby.” He coos against your skin, his praise making you preen, hips chasing the feeling of his mouth on you, he chuckles at your desperation, “How long’s it been since someone made you feel good, huh?”

Your fingers tangle in the curls on his head, dragging him back down to your cunt to silence him, “Too long.” Is all you offer as he feasts on you.

Tongue swirling, lips suckling, fingers digging into the skin of your hips, dragging you slowly but surely to the edge, the fire in your blood no match for the fire against your skin. He’s fucking good at this, knows exactly how to listen to your moans, the way you pull at his hair when he does something you like, collecting the little gasps and hip movements until he’s working a pattern on your pussy that makes you feeling like you’re going to explode, combust, maybe even die a little.

“Don’t stop,” You urge, breathless, sheen of sweat settling across what skin of yours is exposed to the flames near to you, “Gonna - fuck Joel - gonna cum.”

That’s when he pushes two of his fingers into you. Hooking them up inside of your cunt, your legs dropping open further than you thought possible as he works you and works you. You’ve gone quiet, letting out only short breathes when holding them in makes your head light, fingers so tight in his hair that you think it’s probably hurting.

Then, you think you find God, right there on the dirty, dusty floor, when the coil snaps inside of you. Your back arches off the floor, thighs clenched around Joel’s head as his tongue continues the flicks against your clit, ignoring the high-pitches whines of too much, Joel listening instead to the movement of your legs, the way your entire body convulses until you truly are spent for him.

Joel pushes himself up onto his knees, dragging his undershirt over his head, pulling his belt through its loops as you’re sitting up, dragging the upper portion of your clothes off, naked on the floor for him, the flames from the fire keeping you warm, even if your nipples do pebble and peak against the cold.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Joel breathes out as your hand settles on your pussy, fingers dragging through the slick to lazily move over your clit, “I wish you could see yourself right now, baby,” He crones, pushing down his jeans, cock springing free, immediately clasped in his fist, movements slow as he watches you touch yourself, “Pretty as a fuckin’ picture.”

His body falls forward, coverings yours, but this isn’t what you want. Hand on his chest, you’re pushing him back, “Wanna ride you, Joel.” You whine.

Like a kid on Christmas, he’s on his back in seconds, jeans and underwear pooled around his ankles because if you’re not sinking down on him in the next few seconds, he’s going to scream. You settle your thighs on either side of his hips, his cock, heavy and throbbing against his stomach. He’s watching you, as you take the base of him in your hand, line him up with that aching core of yours, head notching into you, where you just keep him for a moment, let him stretch you as you ground yourself with palms on his chest, sinking down, inch by inch until he’s fully buried inside you, warmth wrapping around him, just like the warmth from the fire against his skin.

You start moving your hips, his cock so deep in you he swears if he put a palm on your lower belly, he’d feel himself through your skin with the way you’re grinding against him, head thrown back, mouth dropped open. He wishes he could take a photo of this. He doesn’t think he’s seen a nicer sight in his life.

“It’s a lot, ain’t it baby?” He coos, hands on your hips, guiding your movements, he knows he’s big, been told enough times through his life, but the way you’re slow, getting used to him inside him, has him on the verge of spilling inside you already.

“So big, Joel.” You whine, leaning back now, hands on his knees which have moved up, his feet planted on the floor now, and God alive, if he thought you were a sight before, you’re a fucking masterpiece now as you start bouncing on his cock.

He can’t help himself, he is only a man after all, his hands trailing up the curves of your side, taking hold of your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers, listening to the way you sing for him. Somehow, he finds core strength from somewhere, pushes himself up, one hand behind him to prop him where he is, as his mouth sucks a nipple into his mouth, rolling that pebbled peak with his tongue, your arm wrapping around his shoulders to steady yourself against him, hips still working against his, finger tangling in the curls near his neck, keeping his mouth anchored right where it is.

Joel pulls off you, a wet smack from his lips as he looks up at you with those beautiful brown orbs, “Feel so fuckin’ good, baby,” He praises, “So tight around me, like you were made for me.”

“Wanna feel you,” You moan, head dropping against his shoulder, “Wanna feel you come for me.”

He’s wrapping his arms around your back, dragging you down with him as he rests himself back on the floor, your chest pressed to his as he finally takes control. Feet planted on the floor with your teeth digging into his shoulders, he fucks up into you, the cabin filled with nothing but breathy moans and a lewd smack of skin as he pounds himself into you. In an ideal world he’d focus on making you come again, feeling you clench around his cock as you fall apart would be incredible, but he thinks there will be time for that later.

He’s so fucking close, you can feel it, the way his fingers are gripping t every inch of skin they can reach, the way his hips are faltering and how your name is more of a feature on his lips. You let out a surprise squeal as he flips you both, your back now to the ground as his cock slips out of you, his fist replacing the wet heat of your cunt as the warmth of his cum splashes across your lower belly, a howl, not unlike an animal, falling from his mouth as he paints you, claims you as his own with those ropes of cum across your skin.

When all is said and done, and he’s taken in the sight of your skin splashed with his spend, the two of you lying in front of the fire, one blanket dragged from the bed on the floor to soften the harsh wood, another pooled around both your hips, this feels like home. Both you and Joel, led on your side, watching each other, and the flickering light of the fire bathes you both in orange, in warmth.

His hand traces your face, thumb dragging across your bottom lip as he leans in to kiss you. Hours later, with harsh wind and snow still swirling outside, he brushes a thumb across your nipple, your hand reaching down between you to find him hard again. He puts you on your back this time, creaky knees be damned, slides his cock into your aching cunt once more, fucks you slowly, the entirety of his weight pressed against you. That orange glow almost convincing you that this was before, when things were normal, romantic even, as his lips leaves tiny bruises across your skin.

When he’s marked you once more as his, cum splashed from your pussy to your tits, he lies back down, the broad expanse of his back to the dying embers of the fire, your back pressed to his front, his arm snaked under your neck, urging you to sleep, and as you drift off, Joel’s hot breath against the skin of your ear, his other arm draped loosely over your waist, you pray that the snow is just as bad in the morning, because if it were possible, you want to return even less now, want to remain huddled next to Joel, on the floor, for the rest of your life.

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seawitchkaraoke · 1 year

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I’m so angry, if politicians and talk show hosts and comedians and fucking everyone keeps being more upset about some stupid soup on painting (protected by glass) protest, than about the absolutely real climate catastrophe we’re in, I’m gonna throw soup at something (or someone) too

Gonna be hot soup too.

#literally it was like over twenty degrees yesterday #i was sitting outside in a tshirt #three days before halloween #that is NOT NORMAL #it's supposed to be cold in late october #it's supposed to snow in october #not a lot not enough to even stay on the ground #but it's supposed to get cold enough that there is a day where whoa it's snowing! wild!#instead it's twenty degrees plus and the plants don't know whether they're supposed to be going to sleep or flowering #and the bugs are out and awake still #it's wrong it's all wrong #but oh no! the climate activists protested in a way i didn't like!#I DON'T CARE #i don't care whether the protest was good or bad or stupid or whatever i don't give a shit #y'all don't fucking do anything #you talk and talk and talk and you make goals and then fail those goals and you don't do anything #so yeah. maybe i'll take the train over to berlin and throw some soup too #not at a painting though #climate change #there's more floods and more dry periods and simply more extreme weather every year #and oh hey we're in europe we're super civilized we're fine we are rich! nothing can ever touch us!#first off fuck you fuck you fuck you how do i explain to you that you should care about other people?#but second WE ARE NOT SAFE #people are dying in floods in germany too #you think that's just not gonna get worse? sure babe

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imdumbhi · 5 months

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𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴,

summary: You save her life and from there, it went all down hill.

pairings: Mizu x reader

warnings: angst, fluff, no nsfw

a/n: hellooo, this is long. i hope you enjoy!

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Red splatters upwards from your lips as you laid on your back on the snow. You can feel your back drench and cold. It’s not comfortable but who cares when you have a sword sticking out of your stomach.

“What did you do?!” It’s Mizu, she hovers above you, her hands shaking slightly at the sight of blood everywhere. You take notice, as you gaze up at her weakly, her orange lenses are no longer sitting on the bridge of her nose and you think, how beautiful her eyes are even as she’s crying.

Wait, why is she crying?

A pair of hands grab at your barley conscious face, forcing your body upwards into her arms and you feel yourself become limp. You hum softly in content knowing you will die in someone’s arms but Mizu isn’t just someone — you love her.

It’s a secret you kept from the samurai and you vowed to yourself to never reveal it once you realized. It was when you first spotted her walking the streets of your village and thinking to yourself, how odd. You remember watching her closely, her tall figure mysteriously hidden and guarded. What caught your eye was the sword hanging by her hip.

Taking the risk, you decided that it would be a great idea to approach her. Even if it meant putting yourself in danger. When you did, you can’t forget how her face looked baffled and confused.

She disliked you at first, it sucked because Mizu didn’t give you a chance of day. She kept her distance and made no sign of interest getting to know you. But you on the other hand did wonder about who she was. Who is Mizu? Where did she come from? Did she still have a father? Mother? Question after question, you almost got your hopes up. Then that completely changed when you first looked into those blue eyes and saw her naked body at the waterfall that one time.

You begin to see Mizu slowly lowering her guard around you, the woman even engaged in conversations between you and Ringo. Mizu could be mean, could be sarcastic, and a complete jerk but that sacred smile of hers always made up for it. Your favorite thing about her though, was when her blue eyes shined when she laughed at your stupid jokes.

Oh, how pretty she is.

Your tried eyes gaze up at her face again, you see those sad teary blue eyes staring right back at you, your fingers itch to smooth away the line between her brows.

You want to tell her not to be sad, to tell her this isn’t over and that all will be fine.

“…please, don’t you dare die on me…” Her voice sounds far away now.

Is this the end?

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

The smell of tea wakes you up.

Eyes shoot open, quick to take in your surroundings and you see a dark sky. The crackling and popping comes from somewhere near you. You go to sit up but a loud groan escapes your lips instead, intense pain striking from your stomach.

“Don’t move,” the voice demanded coldly and you turn your head to look, finding Mizu cross legged on the ground beside you, her back facing towards you. “You’ll end up messing up your stitches.”

The fire in front of her dances quietly with the occasional popping.

You open your mouth to speak but your throat is dry and the taste of metal is on your tongue. Distracted by the pain from your stomach and a dry throat, a cup of hot steaming tea is presented in front of you. You don’t look Mizu’s way as it nears your lips helping you take small sips.

When you’ve had enough, feeling satisfied, you ask, “What happened?” Mizu scoffs, your confuse eyes move over to her when she does. You see that her back is facing towards you again. “Mizu?” Your tone is scratchy.

Mizu doesn’t answer. You huff in annoyance at her behavior and lay there silently. If she wants to play the quiet game then you’ll play the quiet game. Mizu did this anytime she was not in the mood but you spotted a difference. It was way too quiet and Mizu wasn’t moving an inch.

“Mizu.” You try again, concern lingering in your tone now. “What is it?” You should’ve known that was a stupid question to ask when Mizu stood up abruptly and turn around to face you.

“Are you stupid?” You flinch when she asks you. Her tone is harsh and she’s glaring daggers at you. You haven’t been in this position since you almost injured yourself by approaching a wild horse when you tried to impress Mizu. Not one of your proudest moments.

“Master.” Another voice cuts in, catching Mizu attention. Ringo appears from the right holding a bag of sorts and you watch as he sends his master a look that you can’t seem to understand. They stare at each other, almost like a staring contest. Eventually, Mizu huffs in defeat and excuses herself leaving off into the trees without another word.

“She’s upset with me.” You stated after a couple of minutes, staring at where Mizu has disappeared off to.

“Yes.” Ringo answered simply. He sets his bag down by his legs, his big hands fishing inside his bag. “You almost died.” Your breath hitch, what did he say?

That’s when everything came back. From jumping in front of Mizu to getting stabbed and ending it with you drifting off into the darkness. Your eyes stay on him, watching him move around the fire, prepping and humming softly to himself.

You still don’t understand. Still confused, you inform him, “Ringo, I saved her life. I really don’t understand-”

“You almost died.” Ringo repeats again like it means something. Like it’s supposed to mean something. Like its the most obvious thing in the world but when he looks up at you and catches you staring at him like an idiot, his lips curl up and he goes back to humming.

You groan at his antics and lay your head back down, staring up at the dark sky with a pout. You decide to shut your eyes and collect your thoughts. Even as the pain in your stomach is already distracting enough, you see a pair of sad blue eyes full of tears flash in your mind and you feel a different type of pain that didn’t come from your stomach injury.

It takes an hour for Mizu to come back.

“Master! Welcome back. The food is ready.”

Reopening your eyes, you pick up your head and see Mizu approaching Ringo who is already handing a bowl of noodles over to her. She accepts it and completely ignores you as she retakes her seat by the fire.

You feel hurt but you are distracted when Ringo approaches you with two bowls of noodles. He sets them aside and helps you sit up carefully so you are leaning back against a wall. You grunt quietly in pain and he then offers you a bowl with a pity smile.

You accept it with a quiet, ‘thank you.’

In silence, did you all eat.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

It takes one to two months for you to completely heal. That’s what Ringo tells you anyway. You try not to be too bothered by it and act like everything is fine, even if the pain can be unbearable sometimes. You don’t want anyone to assume you can’t continue on. But did it really matter when Mizu still continues to ignore you?

Yeah, she still upset. Two whole weeks of no words exchanged. Two whole weeks of Mizu being the biggest asshole. Two whole weeks of Mizu pretending you don’t exist. Two whole weeks and you feel yourself doubting that you ever had a chance to be with her to begin with.

You feel like you are waiting for something that’s not there. Everything you worked hard for to get a glimpse of Mizu has been thrown down a drain. You miss gazing into those blue eyes, it brought comfort in ways that you couldn’t explain. You miss the small touches and lingering looks, it felt like you lost her. There’s no hand offering you a chance anymore, it’s non existent.

Then Taigen comes back.

You don’t like him. You don’t like his personality or his attitude, or his appearance. There is nothing to like about him. Unfortunately, Mizu thinks otherwise. When he comes back you catch how Mizu lips form into a small smile, standing to her feet and greeting him in a soft tone. You have to force yourself to look away whenever his hand lingers in hers.

You and Taigen exchange a few greetings but nothing more. You figure Taigen knows about your feelings towards him whenever he tries to spike up a conversation and you leave him hanging. You won’t waste any time getting to know someone like him. Mizu might be okay with him being around but you aren’t.

“Are you hungry?” Ringo is offering you a rice ball as you both walk side by side while Taigen and Mizu walk ahead. You hear him yet your eyes are train on their hands, watching how they almost brush against each other’s and every time they might bump into one another, it leaves you grumbling underneath your breath.

“What are you saying?” You feel Ringo lean closer to you, his hand cupping his ear.

“Nothing.” You murmur, your lips formed in a frown. Ringo shrugs his shoulders and starts humming again, his feet waddling off ahead. You are left behind and you don’t mind.

You take the time to scan your surroundings, snow covered the ground like a blanket, animals hidden in hibernation and tall trees standing with a little sparkle of snow sprinkled on top. You think back when you were a little kid and how your uncle took you outside just to sit to admire what’s around you.

Speaking of your uncle, you thought back to how those summer nights ended with him drinking his sorrows away. You were young to see pass his harsh words and violent acts, you laid in bed at night wondering what could possibly turn him into that. What was it? Then you found out later as you grew, your uncle was in love but betrayed.

Would you end up drinking away your sorrows too? Get harsh and get violent because the one person you want is avoiding you like the plague? No, of course not. Your uncle took his last breath not knowing that true love came with a price.

“How’s that stab wound looking?” Taigen snaps you out of your day dreaming and you narrow your brows at him, irritated by him. “Mizu told me what happened,” He thinks to include which makes it worse because she can talk about you but won’t talk to you.

“It’s fine.” You give him little.

“Hm, you don’t look fine.” He points out.

You sigh again, turning your head away from him hoping he would leave you alone.

“Look, I know you don’t like me,” He starts making you groan. “I get if it’s because you care about Mizu feelings but she can handle herself.” You want to punch him. “Besides, she doesn’t need anyone by her side trying to defend her all the time. Like how you jump in front of-”

You don’t give him a chance to finish his sentence because you’re already excusing yourself to use the bathroom somewhere deep within the trees.

The snow beneath you crunches every step you take, you think angrily how he could so easily bring up something that meant everything to you. Even if Mizu did not see the incident as nothing, it still mattered to you. You risked your life for her. You would gladly do it again.

As you stop your feet, you glance around the forest and the color white is all that anyone could see standing here. Your hand comes down to the hem of your shirt, raising it and studying the healing wound. Your shaking fingers trace the outline, feeling its tender skin.

You don’t regret it. You remind yourself that you don’t care what anyone has to say about it. Yes, you were nearly killed but you’re alive, still breathing. Although, the pain in your stomach hurts terribly and the sight of it leaving you insecure, you can’t stop the tears from falling.

Are you crying about the injury or are you crying because you can’t stop seeing that flash of sad blue eyes peering down at you that day? You aren’t sure anymore.

You thought back to your uncle, is this how he felt? Did his mind flood with his lover? Did they fill up his mind until he couldn’t breathe anymore? It still hurts. Everything about this whole situation hurts and you aren’t sure if you can accept what’s happen, happened.

Then the sound of a branch snapping somewhere near by makes you jump and look around. You search around for the cause of the noise but find no one around. You take another long moment to collect yourself and made sure you aren’t red in the face when you arrive back with the others.

Unaware, a blue figure in the distant hides behind a tree, having watched everything unfold.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

A familiar grunt behind you makes you look over your shoulder away from the horses behind the gate and see Mizu standing there. She isn’t wearing her wide hat, her orange lenses or her cloak. Her sword however is still in its hilt wrapped around her hips.

“You should be resting.” Is the first thing that comes from her mouth. Internally, you are screaming because how dare she approach you after three and half weeks of not speaking to you.

You turn your body around, leaning your back comfortably against the gate and giving Mizu a dry look. You want to be the one to avoid her now and treat her how she’s been treating you but you aren’t childish. You won’t allow Mizu to make you fear from expressing how you feel. At least not about your love for her. Not yet.

“Now you talk to me.” Mizu makes a face, her eyes dangerously narrowing at you. You ignore it. “I mean, you really had me in a choke hold,” You laugh and it’s not a happy one. “You had me spinning around in circles trying to figure out why you were avoiding me and up onto now, I still have no fucking idea.” You sound harsh now. Your emotions are on sky rocket and you feel deep within yourself that you should probably keep quiet before your other feelings accidentally come out.

“What did I do?” Your voice broke when you ask and you didn’t intent to sound like that but you are tired and done. You need to know. You need to fix this. You need to keep Mizu by your side even if she doesn’t return your feelings. Having her as a friend is better than not having her at all. “Please, what did I do?”

The sounds of horses huffing and stomping behind the gate is all you can hear from behind you. Mizu seems to be choosing her words carefully, her eyes drawn to the ground and her fists at her sides, clenching and unclenching. You want to reach over and take her hand, squeeze it to reassure her that whatever it is, she can tell you. You can take it.

“You should go back home.” Her cold demeanor comes back and you are lost for words. “I don’t need you anymore. In fact, I don’t need you at all.” Mizu tells you, her eyes never meeting yours and looking right past you. “Go home, Y/N.” It’s the last thing Mizu says as she takes a step back, never once meeting your hurt expression.

Can you take it after all?

No. No, you can’t.

“You’re a fucking coward!” You spit out, hot tears streaming down your cheeks.

Mizu freezes in her steps.

“If you’re upset about what happened to me and you think it’s your fault, you’re even dumber than you look.” You continue on, your hands are shaking and your stomach hurts from trying to breathe through your tears. “I knew what I was getting into when I first met you. I knew,” You sniff, wiping at your eyes. “What I didn’t know was how you would treat me after saving your life-”

“I didn’t need you to do that!” Mizu cuts you off, spinning around and angrily walking up to you. You lean further back into the gate when Mizu is close enough that you can spot the tears forming in the corner of her eyes. “You nearly died in my arms! Can’t you get that?” You stare wide eyed, no thoughts in your head, only the feeling of shock. “I almost lost you and I can’t live with that. I can’t live in a world where there’s no you in it.”

It’s a confession without saying so much.

Your heart races fast inside your rib cage at her choice of words. Mizu was scared. Of course, you thought. How stupid can you be? She was only upset because you couldn’t see that. You were too preoccupied by your own feelings, you never thought that once Mizu could feel the same way. You think you might cry some more because you can feel it building in your throat.

“So, go home. I’ll feel better knowing you are safe home.” Mizu says dryly, turning around and going to leave you again. Except, this time, you aren’t going to let her. You had to do something and fast. So, your hand reaches out grabbing Mizu by her wrist, stopping her.

Mizu breath hitches, you can see how her shoulders tense up at your touch. When she looks down at your hand wrapped around her wrist, Mizu takes a second and at that instant, her blue eyes look up to meet yours. No words are needed exchanged between the two of you as you tug on her wrist towards you.

Mizu lets herself be brought closer, her body brushing against your own. Swallowing roughly at how close she is, your hand on her wrist slides up her arm, to her shoulder and to the back of her neck. Not once does Mizu shrug you off or look the other way — her blue eyes are watching your every move carefully. And when you risk taking a step closer, your chest fully pressing against her own, you struggle to maintain eye contact.

What should you do next?

“Y/N?” Mizu questions you, her eyes flickering between your eyes and down at your mouth, her tone below a whisper.

“Please don’t make me go.” It’s a plead.

Mizu wordlessly leans down, her nose pressing against yours. You freeze completely, the outside world around you becoming still. Mizu eyes flutter closed as she pushes against your nose some more, almost like she’s silently asking permission to kiss you.

Wait, what?

Her hands are tightly at your hips, squeezing and tugging gently. You think you may faint. You know she’s even more impatient when she moves her hands from your hips and up to cradle your face. Your face flushes deeply feeling her rough skin holding your face, gently guiding your lips near her desperate ones.

“Please.” Mizu finally breaks the tension.

You run your tongue over your dry lips and leaned forward connecting your lips with Mizu’s. Soft at first, two mouths slowly moving together, hesitant but sort of needy. You can’t help the small noises you make when her mouth opens a little wider, her tongue meeting yours. The kiss intensifies when Mizu starts moaning and drops her hands to your hips, pulling you tightly against her.

Unfortunately, you pull back with a hiss breaking the kiss. You don’t see Mizu chasing after your lips until she realizes why you pulled away, her eyes growing worry. “I’m sorry. I forgot that you’re still hurt.” Mizu apologizes, going to take a step back from you but you don’t let her.

“It’s okay, really.” You reassure Mizu, your arms tightening around her neck, not wanting to ever let her go. The dark haired girl huffs, mumbling something under her breath and you chuckle at her.

“What?” She says sounding half annoyed. Her pupils are blown and her hooded blue eyes are no longer light but dark.

“Nothing,” You smile brightly, leaning close to kiss the corner of her mouth.

Mizu blinks, her cheeks turning pink.

“Whoa.” Another voice cuts in.

Both heads snap to their right and see Ringo beside Taigen, standing only a few feet away. The two men stand there with their mouths hung open in disbelief.

Mizu, annoyed by their interruption, scolds at them with a sneer. She takes a step back from you, her hands lingering at your waist, when the two turn around and run off.

“Fools.”

#mizu x you #blue eye samurai mizu #mizu #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu x female reader #mizu x reader #mizu x taigen #mizu x akemi #ringo #my fanfic #wlw #lesbian #fanfiction #blue eye samurai x reader #bes #bes x reader

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perlelune · 2 months

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Sippy Cup | Coriolanus Snow

The war never left you, so you find a way to cope. One where you never lost your childhood. One where the world is still pure and safe. And Coriolanus can't resist that innocence.

Warnings: NON-CON, Dd/lg, Little!Reader, Innocence Kink, Mentions of war, PTSD, Manipulation, Age Regression, Capitol!Reader

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

The first time Coriolanus catches you and Tigris playing Tea Party, you expect to find disdain in his eyes, mockery perhaps. Instead, another emotion blooms in the blond’s cerulean gaze. Curiosity.

It happens on a sweltering Tuesday afternoon, the sizzling summer rays spilling through the half-drawn lace curtains of your bedroom. As usual, you and Tigris are sitting across from each other with Teddy occupying the third seat between the two of you. He is being his sassy self, of course, complaining about the sitting arrangement and wanting more tea cakes on his plate. You scold him, reminding him what happened the last time he went on a sugar high. Teddy’s eyes are much bigger than his stomach.

Nervousness slithered through you when you confessed your secret to Tigris. You didn’t want to, initially. You missed several days of class at the Capitol University in a row and your best friend grew concerned enough to show up at your house unannounced. She found you right here, playing with your dolls and chatting with your bear.

You explained to her that the pressure to be big is too much sometimes, that instead of shaking and crying on the floor of the girls’ bathroom, you come here. Once you enter your bedroom, every single woe vanishes. Your head is empty and your heart is full. You’re a carefree, happy little girl once more.

To your surprise, there isn’t a shred of judgment in Tigris’ eyes when you tell her. She never utters a single bad word about the neat rows of dolls and plushies adorning your shelves, your soft pink walls, your frilly dresses or the ribbons in your hair. When you reveal your little secret to her, what you did to ward off the nightmares, she simply listens, hands on her chest as her blue eyes fill with tears. You tell her the pink helps erase the red. The same red that splattered across the pavement when your parents and brother’s bodies hit the ground during the First Rebellion. You were still holding your brother’s hand when he fell. You held it even as his palm grew cold and stiff against yours. If it weren’t for the Snow cousins prying your weeping form off his that day, you might have stayed there and met the same fate.

Tigris gave you the warmest hug. Then she asked if she could play with you, if that’d cheer you up. You were ecstatic. Since that day, Tigris would play dolls with you, attend your tea parties and even fill out your coloring books with you sometimes. You never have to pretend with Tigris. Don’t have to pretend to be a big girl. Or speak long, complicated words. Or care about big, important things. You can just be a princess in her pink castle.

It’s why ice scatters in your veins when Coriolanus watches you and Tigris from the ajar door.

“You weren’t coming home, so I came to check on you,” he mumbles as he takes in the scene before him. Your face heats beneath Coriolanus’ wide-eyed stare.

Alarm flickers over Tigris’ face.

“You need to learn to knock, Coryo,” she chides. She whispers a gentle apology to you before getting to her feet. She nudges Coriolanus outside of your bedroom and they head to the bottom of the stairs.

Eavesdropping is bad; you know it. Good little girls don’t peep or listen through the door. But you can’t help it. Heart in your throat, you try to hear the whispered conversation between Tigris and her cousin. You only catch snippets. Your best friend’s voice is a little harsher than you’re used to, like she’s a bit upset.

Don’t you dare make fun of her.

She needs this, Coryo.

Stark blue eyes lock with yours from afar. Your heart slams against your ribcage. You hastily shove the door closed, rushing back to your pink wooden chair.

You pick up Teddy and cradle him against your chest. “Coryo is our friend,” you remind him. “He wouldn’t make fun of us.” Teddy is uncharacteristically quiet. You feel tears rush to your eyes, your bear’s doubts starting to creep into you.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

The deep voice rolling over you yanks you from your thoughts. Your head whips up. Coriolanus’ hunkering at your side, his head tilted in inquiry. You glance past his shoulder. Tigris is standing behind her cousin with her arms folded, her wary gaze glued to his form.

“Join us?” you repeat, dazed by his question.

The corners of the blond’s lips lift.

“Yes, it’s a tea party, isn’t it?”

Your gaze bulges. You never expected to hear such words spilling from Coryo’s mouth. He’s always so serious, so very serious, having no time for games. He’s been like that for as long as you can remember.

You wipe your tears and sniffle.

A little defensive, you clutch fistfuls of your pink dress.

“Tea parties aren’t for boys. They’re for princesses,” you state curtly.

Coriolanus’ expression softens as he considers you.

“Then I could be a knight, from a visiting kingdom.” You purse your lips, brows knitting. The blond’s warm breath caresses your ear as he bends over you, “Knights protect princesses.”

You mull it over. It’d be nice to have someone watch over you and Teddy, make sure no rebels storm your castle walls, paint your heart-covered walls red. You pluck your teddy bear from his stool and question him.

“What do you think, Teddy?” A very serious conversation silently occurs between you and your plushie. After a few minutes, you hum and nod, agreeing with him. Your eyes rise to meet Coryo’s. “Teddy says he’s okay with it.”

A bright smile unfurls on Coriolanus’ handsome face.

“That’s wonderful, princess.”

Over time, Coriolanus’ visits grow more frequent. He even gets into the habit of bringing you gifts, like new plushies and sugary treats. Despite your reluctance to include him because he’s a boy and boys can be mean and smelly, the time you spend with him is always a highlight in your day. Coryo is never smelly; he smells like the flowers in the Grandma’am’s garden and fresh pine. And he’s not mean. He never fails to be sweet to you, bowing to you and kissing your hand like a knight would, and always embracing every one of your games.

He becomes a fixture in your weekly tea parties, often accompanying Tigris or showing up when she’s too busy at the workshop to make it.

Somehow he always finds time for you, even if you know he’s so busy with important, grown-up things. You’re delighted. While playing alone is fun, your imagination knowing no bounds, it’s always better with a friend.

Today is one of these days. It’s just you and Coryo hanging out in your bedroom. He spends most of the evening handing you crayons while you color in the new picture book he got you, a comfortable silence swaddling the both of you. Coryo appears content just observing you, a peaceful smile hovering on his lips. The book is full of beautiful drawings of birds and landscapes. You never had one this nice so you were beyond thrilled to start coloring it.

When the sky gets darker outside your window, you sit up. You turn to Coryo.

“It’s getting late. I guess it’s time for the tea party to end. It was lovely of you to visit us, Sir Coriolanus and we hope-”

“Tigris said you were having nightmares,” he interrupts.

You go still, the crayons between your fingers clattering to the floor.

“That was a secret,” you mutter, your chest clenching. Why would Tigris tell him that? She’s your best friend. She should keep all your secrets forever. As you simmer in disappointment, Coryo places his fingers under your chin and lifts it. Your tearful gaze meets his.

“You can trust me too, princess,” he assures softly.

As you drown in his gaze, you get lost in a memory. Suddenly all the pink in your room is gone. Unmoving bodies. Gaping mouths. Hollow eyes.

Bright red ribbons flowing from their mouths. Crimson confetti popping from their bellies.

Everything in your vision becomes red.

You curl against the edge of the bed and close your eyes.

Hands on the side of your head, you take a deep breath. You slowly open your eyes again. You focus on the plushies sitting on your shelves until the somber clouds over your thoughts turn into cotton candy again.

You coax a shaky smile onto your lips.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Can we just play?”

He chuckles.

“It’s too late for games, princess. Isn’t it your bedtime by now?”

“Then I guess you should go, Coryo,” you say, resting your chin against your knees.

Coriolanus pauses, studying you for a while.

His next words are barely above a whisper.

“Or I could stay.” His large hand drapes over yours, covering your knees. “I could sleep in your bed with you.”

Shocked that he’d even suggest such a thing, you gasp.

“Boys and girls don’t sleep in the same bed,” you mumble.

He cocks his head, amusement swimming in his blue eyes.

“But I’m not a boy. I’m your knight, remember?”

Happiness flows through you with this reminder.

“Yes, you are,” you chime.

His fingers slowly drag over your joined knees.

“Actually…I could be more than your knight, princess.” His gaze locks with yours. “I could be your daddy.”

Your forehead creases, confusion mounting inside you.

“My daddy?”

His lips twist in an uneven smile.

“Yes…daddies protect their little girls. Just like knights.” His fingers drift down to your ankle, the warmth of his touch seeping through your thigh high socks. “They don’t let anyone hurt their pretty princesses. And they keep the nightmares and monsters away at night.”

Amazement colors your tone with this knowledge.

“Really?”

“Of course.” He cups your cheek. “I could sleep in the bed with you and keep my little girl safe that way.”

“I could even tell you a bedtime story.”

Your eyes light up. “A bedtime story?”

He fondles your cheek, his expression softening.

“Of course, anything for my sweet little girl.”

You climb into bed, your entire body shaking in anticipation. Coryo removes his shoes. He picks a book from your shelf and joins you on the bed. He gets under the covers with you and tucks your head against his chest. He opens the book to the first page, his tone patient and clear as he begins to read the tale to you. Your lids sag as you relax against Coryo, his fingers absently stroking the top of your head. You get engrossed in the story of a princess who gets lost on her way home. Lulled by his deep voice, you sink into sleep before the story’s even done.

For the first time in a while, a dreamless slumber welcomes you that night.

When Coryo’s tall frame slips through your door that day, hope twitches inside your chest.

Tigris promised she’ll come today. She’s canceled on you so much lately and expressed how awful she feels about it, so you have been looking forward to seeing her again.

For some reason, work has been exceptionally busy these last few weeks. And while you understand how important work is to your best friend, you’ve missed her so much.

However as he clicks the door shut and you realize no one’s trailing behind Coriolanus, your shoulders slump.

The faint hope you harbored withers away.

“I thought Tigris was coming today.”

Coriolanus sighs as he inches towards you.

“I know princess…” He plucks your hands from your lap. “But there was an emergency at the dress shop. It’s gonna keep her the whole night.” His lips graze the back of your hand. “I’m sorry, she said it was more important than being here.”

Your mouth flies open.

More important than being here? Coryo’s words drive a dagger through your chest, his sympathetic expression twisting it even more.

You lower your head. Tigris has had a lot of emergencies lately. You hardly spend any time together anymore. Part of you even wonders if maybe she’s sick of playing with you. After all, Tigris is a big girl with many things to do. You know she dreams of becoming a stylist and that’s likely more important than silly little girl games. You swallow the tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

Coryo cradles your face.

“But daddy’s here to play with you.”

Your voice trembles as you quell a sob. You look at him, warmth flowing through your chest. Your daddy’s right. You have no reason to be sad. After all, he’s with you. Just like he’s held you against him so many times in the last few weeks, reading you stories to help you fall asleep, and cheering you up whenever you felt sad, you can always count on your daddy.

“That’s amazing, daddy.”

His eyes seem to flare with an idea.

“Actually I thought we could play a new game today.”

Curiosity widens your gaze. “A new game?”

Coryo pulls you closer, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“Yes.” He pauses before revealing slowly, “It’s called ‘Mommy and Daddy’, princess.”

“Mommy and daddy?” Your brows squeeze together in confusion. “Tigris and I have never played that before.”

Coryo licks his lips, his gaze running over you.

“It’s a special game between daddies and their little girls,” he explains, his tone lower than before.

“I don’t know it.”

A deep chuckle parts from his lips. You frown, not understanding what’s so funny.

“I know you don’t, sweet girl,” he says. fondling your cheek. A tilted smile blooms on his lips. “It’s okay because Daddy can teach you all about it.”

You feel nothing but complete trust as Coriolanus nudges you backwards until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You look up at him, a mix of confusion and curiosity written on your features. He smiles at you, sinking to his knees to remove your shoes.

You watch him do it, wondering why they need to be off for the game. Your daddy’s palm lingers on the sole of your socked feet, his finger traveling upward, dragging over your ankle.

His eyes look a little weird now, though you can’t explain in what way. You frown, the air around you growing colder.

Did you forget to close the window?

He crawls over you, pushing you down on the mattress. Coriolanus’ smell surrounds you and your nose twitches. You’re not used to being so close to him. You can make out every detail of his handsome face, trace every one of his long lashes, and distinguish every line on his face.

He scrutinizes your form beneath him, one hand beside our head while the other sweeps under your thigh.

“What’s going on, daddy?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“It’s a game that’s easier played on a bed, princess.”

You give a nod of understanding. He strokes the side of your face, pride lacing his tone.

“Such a good girl.”

He bends his head against your shoulder. You hold your breath, a little uncomfortable for a reason you can’t place. Daddy drops a kiss at the base of your neck. Goosebumps spark on your skin. His kisses go lower and lower, his large hands following the same path.

When his fingers land between your legs, your eyes go wide with confusion.

“D-Daddy, what are you doing?”

A soft gasp leaves you as he begins to rub your cotton panties.

“There’s a special place where daddies touch mommies,” he whispers. He clutches at your center and the breath dies your throat. Your body gets hotter, your belly tightening as he pinches you in a particular spot. Coriolanus’ fingers go up and down. It both hurts and doesn’t hurt. Twisting and pulsing in a foreign way the more he touches you. Overwhelmed by the feeling spreading all the way to your toes, you cling to his arms for support.

His blue eyes are glued to your squirming frame as he traces circles around that little spot that leaves you feeling strange.

The hand besides your head moves, drifting to unbutton his pants. Your heart skips a beat as a part of your daddy you never saw is revealed to you. It’s big and red at the tip. You tense, heat rushing through you as you look away.

“Look at me, princess,” he instructs, drawing your quivering chin back to him. He presses himself against your little girl parts. Whimpers spill from your mouth as he humps you through your clothes, pinning you underneath his frame.

His hot breath rolls over your face.

“How does it feel?”

“A little weird.” You shake your head, a surge of tears threatening to break free beneath your lashes. “I don’t know if I like this game…”

He frames your chin, squeezing more tightly than usual. “Do you want to make daddy happy, princess?”

“Y-Yes,” you stammer.

His thumb skims over your shuddering mouth.

“This is daddy’s favorite game to play with his princess.”

“Okay…”

Your mood sinks. You’re liking the game less and less the longer it goes on, but you don’t want to disappoint your daddy who held you almost every night to chase away the bad dreams. His daddy thing gets heavier and bigger against your belly while he moves. He grunts, his throat rippling. The sensation is almost too much to bear, your vision swaying as he stimulates your little girl parts.

Daddy’s game is a little strange, you’re starting to think, and it’s making you feel weird things. Weird, tingly things. And it makes the room spin like a carousel.

You try to close your legs, stop the wave of strange, uncomfortable feelings…But Coriolanus wedges himself between your thighs, forcing your knees apart.

“Daddy…”

His brow twitches. “Shh, let daddy take care of you, princess.” His lips cover yours, smothering all your doubts. You feel bruises form on your mouth and cheek as he kisses you harshly. Lips trailing down to your neck, he pulls your panties down your legs.

There’s barely time for you to register the cool air hitting your bare center before he’s starting to push himself in. The pain strikes you mute at first. Just the tip of him is so much. Too much. It feels like you will break any second. Coriolanus pants above you, straining to fit as you squeeze around him, fear and pain throbbing through you.

“It’s okay, princess. Daddy’s got you,” he mutters.

When he sinks even further, a broken sob leaves you. A fire burns you from inside, amplifying every time your daddy moves ever-so-slightly.

Tears fill your eyes to the brim.

“I don’t like this game, daddy. Can we stop playing, please?”

He wipes your tears with soft kisses. The words pouring into your ear, while uttered sweetly, are firm. “The game’s not over until daddy says it is, princess.”

Your breath falters as he goes all the way inside. He hums deep in his throat, draping himself over your shaking frame. Your head lolls to the side, your eyes wandering to your dolls and stuffed animals. The abrupt urge to poke their eyes out so they don’t have to see any of this blooms inside you. Tears stream down your cheeks as Coriolanus thrusts inside you. His throaty moans mingle with the slapping of skin against skin. The noises your daddy makes get louder every time he slams into you. He spreads your thighs more, pushing deeper. When you tighten around him, your daddy moans, his eyes rolling back.

“You’re squeezing daddy’s cock so well, princess,” he lauds, knuckles dragging over your temple.

He goes faster, hitting sensitive parts that draw sharp noises of agony from you. Every part of your body is wide awake with pain and discomfort. Numb with a plethora of confusing, terrifying emotions, you don’t move as his hips snap into yours relentlessly.

The game lasts for hours, it seems. You’re thankful when daddy appears done, his movements getting sloppier as his pace slows.

As his hips stutter, his hand wraps around your jaw.

“Daddy’s going to come inside you, so you have to say ‘thank you’”

A hoarse sigh leaves him, his lashes fluttering as he empties himself inside you. You shudder.

“Thank you for coming inside me, daddy,” you mechanically repeat. Bile rises in your throat as the excess gathers around your folds, pooling over your once pristine white sheets.

His sweaty form folds over yours. Another tear slides down your cheek.

“Such a good girl for me.” He buries his head in the crook of your neck and coos, “We’re going to play so many fun games together, princess.”

Your stomach curls with dread at that promise.

#dark!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games #tbosas fanfiction #dark!coriolanus snow x reader

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lizthewriter · 5 months

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like snow on the beach / theodore nott

PAIRING theodore nott x bubbly!fem!reader

SUMMARY christmas is your absolute favorite time of the year! the tree, the lights, the music, the food . . . however, to you, the most important thing about christmas is spending it with your loved ones.

your world falls apart when you find out you can't go home for the holidays. you're stuck at hogwarts with a bunch of stuffy professors and zero loved ones. however, you make an unlikely friend who also happens to be stuck at hogwarts for the holidays . . . and you find out he despises christmas. you make it your mission to prove him wrong.

TAGS theodore nott x bubbly!fem!reader, christmas, holiday cheer, the power of belief, reader loves christmas, this is soooo dash and lily coded, inspired by dash & lily's book of dares, grumpy!theodore nott, simp!theodore nott, i'm a slut for pathetic men 😩

QUOTE "i've never seen someone so lit from within, / blurring out my periphery, / my smile is like i won a contest, / and to hide that would be so dishonest," - snow on the beach by taylor swift, featuring lana del rey

WORD COUNT 5.7K

WRITTEN 12.4.2023

You shoved your hands in your pockets - despite the fact that you were wearing gloves in this freezing weather, you could still feel the harsh wind nipping at your skin. Here you stood at Hogsmeade station, your friends boarding the train as you watched in discontent. They were all going home for the holidays this year, but you were going to be stuck at Hogwarts. No Christmas tree, no baking gingerbread cookies, no sipping on hot chocolate while snuggled in a warm blanket, no watching holiday movies. Just the freezing cold and your own company.

You plastered a grin on your face when the train began to move and waved to your friends. They bid you their last goodbye from their compartment window. Once the train disappeared from your sight, you trudged your way back up the path to Hogwarts. Well, the sight of the castle was beautiful, in the very least. You could see snow capping the towers and covering the shingles. But even then, it was just another reminder that you were here and not there, at home, with your family. There was only one thing to cheer you up.

"Afternoon Madame Pince," you greeted softly as you walked into the library. She sent you a stiff nod in return. While she didn't really like anyone in paticular, she was at least kinder to you than other students.

You knew exactly which books you wanted to cozy up with by a warm, crackling fire. Dashing across the library, you ammassed an entire stack of books, one that was tall enough to obstruct your vision. You waddled through another row, searching the shelves for one paticular title. Spotting it on a high shelf, you found a rolling stool and pushed it with your foot until it was directly under the book you seeked. You tried to place your pile of books somewhere, but it wouldn't fit on the sheleves and you couldn't plop them onto the floor without angering Pince. Stupidly, you decided to step up onto the stool, carrying the pile of books under one arm all while reaching for the desired book. Of course, you should have expected what came after.

You lost your balance, the books tumbling backward out of your arm, the weight of them pulling you down too. You fell off of the stool and expected your head to meet the bookcase behind you, but in your suprise felt someone catch you as your books loudly clattered to the ground.

It took you a moment to catch your breath, to let the adrenaline and fear run it's course before you turned towards your savior. He was tall, devilishly handsome, but with oddly dead eyes. He had an odd way about him - devastatingly beautiful, yet there was this aura of melancholy around him. It was unusually attractive.

"You all right?" He asked, his tone short and gruff.

"Yeah . . . sorry about that. Should've just put my books down somewhere, I suppose."

"What is all this noise?" Madame Pince's striking voice ring throughout the library, her footsteps approaching rapidly. Soon enough, she turned around the corner and let out the most horrified gasp, hand flying to her mouth. She glanced at the two of you with a dark, murderous glare. You suddenly became aware of the fact that his hands were on your shoulders and your back was resting against his chest. "You two! Out of the library at once! I will not have you diabolic teenagers destroying the sanctity of this library! Out! Out!"

She shooed the both of you out of the library and slammed the door in your faces. Now there you were, banned from the library, with no means of proper entertainment. Of course.

Bah humbug, you thought.

"Great," said the boy sarcastically. "As if I have anything else to do now." He sighed and turned around, bumping his head against the wall.

"I'm so sorry!" You squeaked, a blush rising to your cheeks.

"Don't be," he responded, turning back around. "It's not your fault."

Realization struck just then - you recognized him. "Wait . . . you're Theodore Nott, right?"

"You've been stalking me, have you?" His tone was always one of solemnity, so it really wasn't your fault that you couldn't tell he was joking.

"No, of course not, I've just seen you in a few of my classes is all," you responded, quite defensively, but mostly out of embarrassment. "You're in Malfoy's gagle of friends . . . shouldn't you be at home with your family?"

"Shouldn't you?" He returns swiftly.

"Point well taken," you respond with a grimace. He didn't respond and neither did you - what was there to say? You had never really had to interact with him, you weren't friends . . . yet you felt some sort of pull towards him. Like an invisible string that kept you hooked. He did save you from falling to possible death after all. "Well, you know, now that neither of us have anything to do, we could . . . I don't know, hang out or something?"

"Why?"

You arched a brow at him. "You got anything better to do?"

A flash of a smile flitted across his face. "Point well taken."

You were once again snuggled in a large coat, a knit hat atop your head and a large wool scarf pooling out of your jacket. Theodore's hands were shoved into the pockets of his thick, plaid trench coat. His hair billowed in the wind as the two of you wandered the ground, snow falling around you.

"So!" You jumped in front of him and began to walk backwards, keeping the same pace as before. "What is your absolute, favorite part about Christmas?"

Theo simply shrugged. "I don't have one." Your jaw almost dropped to the floor - how could he not have a favorite part about Christmas? Christmas, to you, represented love, family, and compassion. You loved everything about it: the tree, the lights, the music, the food, the presents. In fact, there wasn't one thing you could pick as your favorite because you adored all of Christmas too much.

Your shocked expression didn't seem to suprise Theodore in the slightest. "You don't have one?" You reiterated in disbelief, stopping. He jolted when you stopped walking, the two of you damn near as close as you were in the library. "But it's Christmas?" Theodore shrugged again. "You don't like Christmas?"

"No, truthfully . . . my family doesn't really do Christmas," he responded begrudgingly, glancing out at the Forbidden Forest as though he were disinterested. Really, he just didn't want to get into detail about his personal matters.

"Oh," you could only respond. Now that you thought of it, you could only imagine what Nott had to deal with at home, being a pureblood and all that. You knew that a lot of pureblood families were abusive and strict.

Suddenly, everything became clear. His family may not do Christmas, but you certainly do . . . you want him to feel the Christmas spirit that you do. Doesn't he deserve to understand exactly what the holidays are all about?

He tilted his head in curiosity as a grin spread across your rosy cheeks. Your eyes glittered with excitement and something akin to child-like wonder. "You know what? No. I'm going to prove to you that Christmas is the best time of the year."

Nott let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. He kicked at the snow, staring down at the ground as he shook his head. "I don't think you can."

"Do I hear Theodore Nott turning down a challenge?" You asked, cupping your ear with a mock judgemental expression. "Are you scared that I'm right, is that what it is?"

Nott sighed, biting back a grin as he finally met your eyes. "Fine. But I'm telling you now, it's not going to work."

"Oh, we'll see."

Theodore would be lying if he said he hasn't had his eye on you. How could he not? How could anyone not? You were quite literally the most outgoing person in your year. You were friends with mostly everyone, give a select few, and participated in many different student organizations. You were modest yet brash, kind yet firm, intelligent yet open-minded. You weren't afraid to speak your mind, even if it made you unpopular with certain crowds. He admired that about you.

So admittedly, the main reason he had gone to the library was in hopes that you'd be there. He's trying building up the courage to talk to you in the past, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Must be the reason why he's not a Gryffindor.

He felt an odd feeling in his chest when he saw you - as if he were so light he could float away, but also regurgitate his lunch all over the hundreds-year old carpet. He built himself up in his head and finally followed you into the rows of bookcases. When he saw you struggling with your pile of books, he froze, insecurities clouding his mind like a thunderstorm hurtling through his head. But when you were about to fall down, he instantly forgot whatever he had been thinking about and jumped to your rescue. Catching you, feeling you pressed against his chest, his nose burrowed in your sweet-smelling hair, he couldn't help but feel his heart beating incredibly fast and hard.

Finally, when the two of you were outside touring the grounds and you had so optimistically wanted to prove to him that Christmas was the best time of the year . . . he couldn't help but want you to prove him wrong.

That's why he was fussing over his hair as he stared in the bathroom mirror, tilting his head back and forth. It took him a whole ten minutes before he decided his hair would never comply and threw on his favorite plaid trench coat. You hadn't told him where the two of you were going, but he trusted that you weren't trying to pull anything funny.

You turned around as he exited the Slytherin dorm, the portrait slamming close behind him. He felt his stomach twist nervously as he looked at you - you were dressed rather festively, wearing a short green and red plaid skirt along with a mahogany turtleneck. Mini ornament earrings hung from your hears, gently bobbing as you turned to face him with an excited smile.

"Ready? Wonderful!" You exclaimed. "Come on, let's go!" He joined your side as you began walking at a brisk pace up the stairs. You lead him outside, chattering about holiday traditions you and your family had. He couldn't help but be enraptured by you - the way your eyes twinkled with joy and your hands gestured feverishly. Your bright rosy cheeks and how your scarf made them look plump and adorable.

"Oh, sorry, I've been rambling on so much you haven't even been able to get a word in!" You said, chuckling nervously, hoping that he wasn't annoyed with you.

"No, I like listening to you talk," he assured you pointedly. "Go on."

"But -"

"Honestly. I don't mind."

He could see your shoulder visibly sag with relief and you continued to explain to him as you walked down stone steps towards a small little hut next to the forest.

"What's that?" He asked you, gesturing to the hut.

"You'll see," you replied with a secretive smile. Once you were standing on the front steps of the house, the sound of a dog barking resonated from within. You knocked on the door with force, three times.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'!" A gruff voice responded from within. "Oi Fang, back! Get back, you mangy mutt!" Suddenly, the door swung open and Theodore was taken aback. Before him was a man towering at eight and half feet, a long, gangly beard running down his front, and a rather excited dog at his heel. "Ah right! You told me you were coming down today - and you've brought a friend I see!" The giant man turned towards Theodore with a friendly smile. "Rubeus Hagrid - I be the Groundskeeper. Ah! Don't want to keep you two out here in the cold - come, inside! Inside!"

He ushered the both of you into his hut, which was rather quaint. While Theo's eyes danced across the hut, you were already removing your coat and making yourself comfortable. His eyes fell upon a pine tree sitting in the corner, as well as a pile of boxes sitting next to it. He glanced back towards you and found you placing a kettle on the gas stove and setting out three teacups.

"I thought we'd start with one of my most favorite traditions - decorating the tree. Hagrid keeps a tree in his hut and he's asked me to help him decorate this year!"

"Them boxes over there are filled with ornaments!" Hagrid told them, gesturing to the boxes. Theodore noticed that the dog (Fang, he supposed it's name was) had approached you with a wagging tail and you had bent down to pepper kisses all over it's face. "I really appreciate youse two's help! Tha's why I made some of my famous rock cakes for ya to take back up wit' ya to the castle!"

"Thanks Hagrid, that's really nice of you!" Hagrid handed you a large, bulky package wrapped in a floral tablecloth. You placed it inside the bag you had brought with you. All the while Theodore watched as Hagrid slung some kind of bag around his shoulder and called Fang to join him by the door.

"O' course! Just remember to eat them while they're fresh!" He exclaimed with a chuckle. "Don' want 'em too hard. Ah, anyways, must get going. I've got to do my rounds about the grounds with Fang. You two young'uns have fun."

"Bye Hagrid!" You said as he closed the door behind him, offering a cheery wave. Once Hagrid left, you went back into the kitchen to remove the whistling kettle from the stove and pour the two of you some tea. "Here you go," you said slowly, more focused on not spilling the tea you were handing to Theo than what you were saying.

He took a sip of the tea, swallowed it, and then stared down at the yellowed water. You watched him in amusement, holding back your laughter. "You don't have to drink it if you don't like it."

He placed the cup back down on the table. "That is absolutely abominable," he told you with a sour look, pushing the cup towards you. You laughed, placing down your cup as well.

"It's not the most delicious thing I've ever tasted, but Hagrid found these incredibly rare plants in the forest with healing properties! So he's been using them for tea."

"How did you come about to be friends with the Groundskeeper, I wonder." Theodore pulled out one of the kitchen stools, rather large in comparison to himself. It wasn't easy to sit atop it, but in the end he triumphed over the chair.

You shrugged in response, taking another sip of your tea. "Well, Harry, Ron, and Hermione have known him for ages so they introduced me as well. People are kind of - I don't know - weird about him, but he's honestly lovely and gentle. He's not anything like he seems at first glance." Moving on from that topic, you clapped your hands together excitedly and ran over to the pile of ornament boxes. You separated and opened each and every box, displaying all the different ornaments. Theo approached, scrutinizing the glass balls with the tilt of his head.

"Some of these are . . . interesting, I must say." He grabbed an ornament of a brown bear and turned it around in his hand. You plucked the bear from his hand, placing it back in the box. In your other hand was a long string of tinsel.

"There are a few rules to decorating the tree," you started, walking backwards towards the mantle over the fireplace. You flipped on the radio, Celestina Warbeck's "Nothing Like a Holiday Spell," softly playing in the background. "First, you must listen to Christmas music. Second -" You held up the tinsel in your hand. "- you always do the lights and/or tinsel first. Okay? So, I'm going to need help wrapping this around the tree. I'll stand on one side and wrap it around my half, then I'll hand it to you so you can wrap around your half and you give it back to me, all right? Sound good?"

Theo nodded - this didn't seem too hard, nor unenjoyable. You didn't notice, too caught up in your jolly Christmas spirit to notice the way Nott was fondly watching you humming under your breath, tinsel trailing on the ground behind you as you stood on the opposite side of the tree. Standing on your tip-toes, you leaned up to wrap the tinsel around the top branch but struggled. When he noticed you were getting nothing out of your efforts, Theo walked behind you and grabbed the tinsel out of your hand. His chest was pressed against your back as he reached up with ease and wrapped the tinsel around the first branch.

You froze when he had come up behind you, a blush painting your cheeks. It wasn't your fault he had decided to come so close and that he was so damn attractive. You did your best to hide how flustered you suddenly felt, no matter how dimly veiled.

He didn't seem to notice, preoccupied with wrapping the tinsel around the top area of the tree that you were too short to reach. "Uh, thanks. Just, um, when you're wrapping the tinsel, make sure you don't wrap it too tight or too close to another row, okay?"

"I'll keep that in mind," he responded absent-mindedly, brows furrowed as he gave his task the upmost attention. He wanted to make the tree look perfect, just for you. He was trying to figure out how he should space the rows - as of now, are they too close together or too far apart? Maybe he should separate them a little.

"Don't think too much about it. It's not supposed to be perfect," you said, as though reading his thoughts. You grabbed the tinsel and began to wrap it around again. You handed it to Nott, who wrapped it around his side of the tree and handed it back to you. "It's supposed to look imperfect and wonky and unusual - that's what makes it your Christmas tree. Trying to make it look perfect takes all the fun out of it."

"So . . . the uniqueness is what makes it special?" he asked as he took the tinsel from you yet again. You were pretty special . . . unique. You stood out from your peers. Maybe that's why he was attracted to you - all his life, he was pushed for excellence. He was pushed to be perfect all the time and finding someone like you, so free-spirited and imperfect, well . . . he couldn't help but admire you.

"Yeah, exactly!" When you handed him the tinsel again, you said, "well, we're getting near the bottom. Just hand me the - yeah, the tinsel." You took the tinsel again and bent down as you wrapped it around the bottom of the tree. He followed you to the other side of the tree, preparing to finish the job once you passed the tinsel to him. "And I'll just finish this - oh!"

He hadn't realized you were planning on finishing the tinsel yourself and the two of you walked straight into each other. Your noses accidentally brushed together, your lips only centimeters away from his. You noticed an odd sort of glance in his eyes. It disappeared only a second later, but you were certain you saw it. A hunger, a longing. Like he wanted to kiss you.

"Sorry," he mumbled, not moving from where he was bending down.

"Yeah," you said breathlessly, quickly standing straight and clearing your throat. It must have been a flicker of light - there was no way the Theodore Nott liked someone like you. He was prim and proper, you were disorganized and eccentric. Not exactly a match made in heaven, especially in the eyes of his parents. "Sorry . . ."

You couldn't think clearly after that - all that was on your mind was a tall, quiet, brown-haired Slytherin boy who hated Christmas. But his especially those lips of his. Pink, full, just begging for a moment of your attention. Scenes in your mind played our what could have happened if either of you had made a move. Many ended with both of you in rather interesting positions.

Maybe it had just been you. Or maybe there was a spark there. You hoped, you dreamed, that he was feeling exactly how you were. You held onto this hope as you left your common room and rushed down the Grand Stairs to the Great Hall. You had another grand adventure in mind.

"What is on the roster for today?" Theodore had asked when you met him by the tall, oak doors of the Great Hall. The two of you set off towards the courtyard path.

"It's a suprise, silly!"

"Ah, suprises."

"What, you don't like suprises?"

"I didn't say that."

"How can you not like suprises?"

"If you don't mind me asking . . . why aren't you home for the holiday break?" Theodore asked as you slowly made your descent into Hogsmeade. He was kicking at the snow with his feet, secretly nervous. "You're not usually here."

"You've been stalking me, have you?" You replied with a wicked grin, remembering your first encounter. Theo flushed a bright red, his ears turning an especially poinsettia-like red. "I'm just joking." You sighed, your grin turning to a dismal frown. "Yeah, usually I'm at home for the holi's, but my parents are both away on buisness for work . . . so I had to stay here this year."

"You don't want to," he stated simply. You grimaced, shaking your head.

"Nope. I just want to sleep in my bed, my real bed, and wake up home on Christmas morning, surrounded by my family. But I'm stuck here." You sighed - talking about this didn't make you feel much better. You decided to brighten things up, sending a grin Theo's way. "At least I have you, Nott."

He stopped you. "Theo," he said, staring at you with those dark, alluring hazel eyes. "It's what all my friends call me," he added sheepishly.

The corners of your lips curled up, your heart fluttering like a fall leaf in the wind. "Theo," you repeated softly. "Well, Theo . . . perfect timing. We're here." You looked towards the shop on your right, the exterior wood painted a forest green with faded lettering. The window was frosted over, Hamilton depicting the festive scene inside. Warm fairy lights floated around the window, a variety of holiday-themed presents and objects on display not three inches from their eyes. "Holiday store. Perfect for getting gifts and getting in the holiday cheer."

"This was here all this time?" Theo asked.

You made a grand gesture towards the entire road you were standing upon. "I like to call this the Forgotten District. Great stores, but only the locals come here really. A fair few students know of it, but not many. Let's go inside."

You swung open the door, keeping it open with your foot as you entered so that Theo could enter right behind you. Though the ceilings were low and the room was so filled with whimsical trinkets and do-dads that it did feel a bit tight inside. "Hi Fred, how're you doing?"

"Good, good, and you?" Replied the man standing at the registers. He was a rosy-cheeked, middle-aged man with a round belly who looked rather friendly indeed. Almost like Saint Nicholas come to life.

"Great! This is my friend Theo! I'm introducing him to Christmas."

"Introducing him?" Fred responded in disbelief, looking towards Theo as though he were a puppy that had been ran over by a car. "My dear boy, you must have a look around. Take any one item you'd like with you, for free, I insist."

"Thank you, sir." As Theo gradually made his way into the shop, scrutinizing every little object, whether it was a spinning top or a rocking chair. You sent Fred a wide grin behind Theo's back, gesturing towards him with excitement. When Theo turned around, you stopped and quickly made your way to his side.

"Find anything eye-catching?" You asked, your exuberant mood quite obvious to all who could see you. You were grinning, watching Theo with that child-like wonder, standing on the balls of your feet while you took a good look at the place. You let out a gasp and grabbed a cute snowman mug. "Look at this! This is cute. You know, Mrs. Weasley would probably love this."

While you began to chatter on, grabbing various items and displaying them to him with starry-eyes, he couldn't help but watch with a sense of fondness. At some point, you realized he was staring at you oddly and paused. "What?" You asked with an awkward laugh, wiping your mouth with edge of your sleeve. "Is there something on my face?"

Unsure how to recover from having so blatantly worn his heart on his chest, looks away from you, his gaze void of any emotion now. "Nothing."

With each passing day, his fondness and adoration for you grew. You were so bright and exuberant, so careless in the way you bestowed that angelic smile of yours upon anyone. He felt honored, still, that he was a receptor of one.

You had begun to spend a lot of time together. Sneaking into the library and nabbing plenty of reading material, wandering about the castle and grounds, stealing food from the kitchens. However, whatever else you had planned to convince him that Christmas was indeed, gay with yuletide cheer, had not yet occurred.

You both were spread along couches by the fire in the Slytherin Common room, void of people except for the both of you. You laughed and talked until your lungs couldn't handle the action anymore - he was the first to fill the silence.

"My mother . . . she had loved Christmas," Theo said softly, his head still hanging off the couch. "As soon as November 1st came around, she would pull the decorations out of the cellar and start putting them up. Father insisted that she let the house elves do it, but she was firm in the belief that decorating was a holiday tradition that we should all celebrate together. It was her favorite time of year."

His tone sounded almost . . . sad. You pushed yourself onto your elbows and watched him. His eyes were just glazed over, water bubbling at the edges of his vision. "Your mother -"

"She's dead," he said in an empty tone of voice. Suddenly, as though realizing himself, he wiped his eyes and sat up. "Sorry, I don't really talk about that with anyone. I shouldn't have -"

"No, no, it's okay," you assured him with a kind smile. "I don't mind. Tell me more about your mom, she sounds really cool."

He hesitated, fidgeting with his fingers, before he ran his hand through his hair and leaned back on the couch. "One year when I was a young boy, she got me Fiabe italiane a cara di Italo Calvino for Christmas, or Italian Folklores by Italo Calvino. She would read it to me every night. After my mother . . . died, my father tried to erase everything that reminded him of her. Including that book."

"Oh no," you whispered, a hand hovering over your mouth.

He gave you a grimaced smile. "Yeah, but it's been so many years . . . I don't really care that much anymore, it's not a big deal."

To you, however, it seemed like a very big deal.

On Christmas morning, you woke up extra early and gathered your presents. You knew you looked ridiculous - hair frizzy and wild, still dressed in pajamas, presents flying in the air behind you. Finally, you entered the Slytherin common room and clambered up the stairs to the boy's dormitory, finding Theo's room.

Your pounding upon the door startled him awake and he practically ran to the door to yell at whoever decided to wake him at this ungodly hour. Instead, he found someone he didn't expect to be there at all - you.

"Merry Christmas Theo!" You shouted in excitement, throwing your arms around his neck. In your fervor, your focus was drawn away from the hovering presents and they soon clattered to the floor. He swung an arm around you, envolping himself in you, but you pulled away too soon to look back at your presents. "Oops."

"Merry Christmas," he responded, quite late due to the fact thatft he had just woken up. He opened the door wide so you could enter, and you sauntered inside with your presents hovering behind you once more. You say down on the floor, placing your presents gracefully down in front of you. He closed the door and turned to see you watching him expectantly.

He hadn't opened presents with anyone before, at least, not since his mother was alive. He had thought at first that he would be upset, you falling into his life and pushing him back into the world of Christmas . . . but he found that he actually enjoyed your company. More than he liked to admit. "Do you . . . want to open presents together?"

You flashed him a toothy grin. "Why else did you think I came over here, silly? Come on!" You patted the ground in front of you.

He shuffled over, gathering the small cluster of presents by his bed next to yours, and seating himself on the ground. "You go first."

"All right then." You grabbed an oddly-shaped parcel that looked like a lump of under-cooked bread. You unwrapped it with care, making sure not to tear the packaging. You pulled out a forest green sweater with the initial of your name and a container filled with mince pies. "It's from Mrs. Weasley! She knits sweaters every year for all her kids and their friends." You raised it to your nose with a content sigh. "Smells like her cooking too. All right, now you go on!"

Theod can't remember the last time he had recieved a homeade present, from someone so kind and motherly. He pulled a neatly-wrapped parcel towards him and unwrapped it, revealing a set of books he'd been wanting for a while. From Blaise. Don't go reading it all at once :)

"See? Opening presents can be fun!" The two of you continued to unwrap presents, chatting about what you had gotten. Finally, a wrapped present sat in front of you - both of you stared at it.

"You're not going to open it?" Theo asked. You shook your head with a knowing smile, pushing it towards him bashfully.

"Actually . . . it's for you," you said slowly with a nod of your head. Nervously, you glanced at him, trying to read his expression. He looked rather . . . confused.

"You didn't have to get me anything," he said, pulling the present into his lap. He stared down at it stubbornly, because he felt too guilty accepting a present from you.

"Oh go on, open it!" You encouraged, nudging him. He couldn't help but smile at your excitement, nothing the way you fidgeting in anticipation.

"All right, all right," he responded, raising his hands in mock defense. He untied the ribbon and gently unwrapped the present, making sure not to tear the paper. He froze once he saw what was sitting in his lap, staring up at him.

You watched him with trepidation. You didn't go to far, did you? You hoped that - well, you weren't sure what you hoped, but you wanted him to treasure the gift. You wanted him to say something, but didn't dare question him. You were afraid of his reaction.

"Fiabe italiane," he spoke softly, running his fingers along the spine of the book. It didn't have the weathered grooves his mother's copy had, but it felt like home. He turned towards you with an expression of disbelief. "How - you didn't have too -"

You offered a sheepsih shrug. "I wanted too. You sounded so . . . happy when you talked about your mother. But also sad, so I thought this might cheer you up. Brighten up Christmas a bit."

Theo kept staring at you with an odd expression - you weren't sure what to expect from him. You certainly didn't expect his lips to smash against yours, resting his hand on your thigh. The suddenness of the kiss left you in shock, unable to move. He took this as a sign that you were uncomfortable and unreceptive. But, as soon as he pulled away, you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pressed a kiss to his lips, soft and tender. You couldn't help but smile as you pulled away and you noticed that his eyes had lost that melancholic darkness and was instead replaced with something much more merry.

"I think I'm starting to like Christmas."

You giggled, bringing a wide grin to his usually stoic face. "C'mere," you said, pulling him into a cuddle. "As long as I'm here, I will make sure that every Christmas you have is filled with love and comfort. All right?"

He glanced up from where you had buried his face in your shoulder. "You're amazing, you know that?" He asked, starry-eyed.

You offered a mock uncaring shrug. "I know." You were both silent before you burst out into laughter. "I'm not." As Theo started to protest, you interrupted him. "No really! I'm not, I'm just showing you what a caring relationship is like."

"I still think you're amazing." He paused. "I'm glad we ran into each other."

You glanced down at him and brushed the hair out his face, pecking him on the nose. "Me too."

#— [ glizzy posts ☆ ]#theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x you #theo nott x reader #theo nott x you #my writing #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my fic #writing #fanfic #harry potter #slytherin boys #theo nott x y/n

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twistedwonderlandimaginesblog · 5 months

Note

idk if this counts for headcanon, but since Harveston event is here

How would boys react to their girlfriend casually walking by on the snow and then she takes next step the snow collapses and she gets stuck in the snow, her fohead bearly vissible above it, and she can't get out 😂? ( it's something that happend to me and it was hollirious to me and my familly)

for Idia, Jade, Sebek, Epel and since I have one more lets add Malleus (even though he isn't originally there 😂)

also ..if it's not a problem could I just ask if my previous asks made it in ? I was just wondering if I didn't submit them past the time when asks were open 😅

Epel Felmier:

Epel knows the perils of snow banks more than anyone, having to dig his way out of a few when he was younger. He’s still surprised to be on the other end of it, with you in view one second then gone the next. He seemed more panicked than you, the trapped, displaying snow as quickly as he could to lead you to freedom. He sighed in relief when he confirmed you were just fine, seeming nervous that you might not like the area as much because of the experience.

Idia Shroud:

Idia is immediately alarmed when he doesn’t feel you at his side, head whipping around as he wondered if you finally decided to break up with him and leave him in an icy tundra to deal with his feelings. When he looks down and sees you buried deep in the snow his panic gained more experience, leveling up as he already concluded you were suffering from hypothermia, never meant to feel the warmth of the sun again. He has enough sense to help you out, only greeted with your nonsensical question of what might happen if him and his hair were the ones buried in the snow.

Jade Leech:

Jade would check if you were okay, the grin on his face betraying his concerned tone. He wondered how dangerous snow could be, contemplating unnecessary questions like if someone could drown in snow if left there long enough or if the cold would get to them first. Once you’re safe he stated the cold isn’t that bad, and that it was good practice before he dragged you into the depths of the ocean (to meet his parents, of course).

Malleus Draconia:

Malleus at least showed enough care to pull you out of your icy prison before laughing at you. Thankfully, seeing a smile on his face and hearing his deep chuckle distracted you entirely from being embarrassed. You’d probably dive in headfirst again if you’d get the same reaction out of him. Malleus offered his arm, telling you to stick close as he didn’t want to lost you in another snow pile.

Sebek Zigvolt:

Sebek nearly looked you over but did a double take as snow shifted, calling your name in shock. He, no hesitation, reached into the snow to hoist you out, not even considering the use of magic. He proceeded to brush you off, pushing all snow to the ground until you looked fresh, like you had just walked outside. It was nice that he cared but you still felt embarrassed when he scolded you about watching your step.

#Twisted Wonderland #TWST #Twisted Wonderland Imagines #Twisted Wonderland x Reader #TWST Imagines #TWST x Reader #Epel Felmier #Idia Shroud #Jade Leech #Malleus Draconia #Sebek Zigvolt #Epel Felmier x Reader #Idia Shroud x Reader #Jade Leech x Reader #Malleus Draconia x Reader #Sebek Zigvolt x Reader

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chrisevansonly · 5 months

Text

𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲’𝐬 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 (𝐫𝐮𝐞’𝐬 𝐣𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜 1)

𝐃𝐚𝐝!𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐋𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: it’s your little girls first time experiencing snow and charles couldn’t be more excited to share that with her and with you

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: non super fluffy!!

𝐀/𝐍: HAPPY HOLIDAY SEASON!!!! omg i’m so excited for this christmas celebratory little fanfic party time!! i love christmas and what better way to start it off than dad! charles 🥰🥰

🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄

Lyla Marie Pascale Leclerc was quite honestly the cutest little five month, almost six month old in the whole world, and of course as her mother and father you both weren’t being biased at all.

She was a late summer baby so when the holiday season began to come around Charles couldn’t help but become more excited at the fact that his little angel would be experiencing her first snow. Not to mention her first Christmas and you’ll admit you’d been getting in the spirit and looking forward to it, but Charles, well he took it to another level

“Lyla, regarde maman mon ange…” (lyla, look at mommy my angel)

You stood in front of Lyla, your phone out as she sat in the snow, her hands hitting the ground as she squealed happily

“Are you enjoying the snow baby girl?”

Honestly her squeals could cure anyone’s sadness, especially as she looked up at her father, Charles melting as she reached up at him

“Is it cold? You ready for papa to carry you around again?”

“She noticed you weren’t busy enough, you’re back to carrying duties my love”

Charles smiled, picking her up off the ground before coming over to you so he could place a kiss to your lips, Lyla whining as you got the attention she wanted

“Oh was maman stealing papa’s kisses? I’m sorry little love” you cooed softly kissing her forehead, effectively returning the smile to her face, that only amplified as Charles pressed kisses around her face

“Maman is all left out now..”

At the sound of the slight drop in your voice, your little girl looked at you her lips forming into a pout before she reached for you, your eyes softening as you took her and kissed her cheek

“Aw je t’aime tellement mon petit amour, merci bébé” (aw i love you so much my little love, thank you baby )

Charles was more than happy to watch the two of you cuddle up together, there was nothing more he loved than spending time with his girls, and now having the winter break, he had all the time in the world to spend with you two before heading back to pre season testing in February.

While you continued walking throughout the park, Charles picked up some snow and molded it into a snowball, bringing it over and holding it out to Lyla, causing more happy squeals to come from her

“This is a snowball princess…you throw it anywhere you want, here try it”

The little girl looked at her father as she took the snowball, obvious confusion in her eyes before she threw it, the best a five month old can, landing straight on Charles’s chest, his mouth dropping in faux shock

“Well done my love!! You got papa!” you laughed, causing Lyla to follow through, her laughs only getting louder when Charles dramatically fell to ground, snow continuing to fall around him

After a few seconds of squirming you put Lyla down and let her crawl over to her dad, letting her climb onto him and hit his chest, babbling softly until he grabbed her gently and lifted her into the air, more laughter spilling around him as you joined them in the snow.

The same spot where Charles once made you fall in a snowstorm 5 years ago on this same day, the day that changed your lives forever and brought two perfect people together, and now you had a daughter to share the love with.

The same spot that love once flourished is the same spot that love still grows…even in the snow…

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astraystayyh · 2 months

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Burning in the winter wind

changbin x reader. (fake) enemies to lovers. hurt/comfort but it’s a light fluffy read!! college!au. lowkey romcom vibes (i tried 😭) wc: 4.4k)

summary : Sustaining an ankle injury during a ski retreat isn't fun. Especially when Seo Changbin volunteers to stay back to tend to you- the one man you can never get a read on.

a.n: sahar finally writing a fic that doesn’t take an emotional turn… we cheered!!!!!!!!!!!!! my 3rd fic for the winter falls collab with my writer :,) if u haven’t checked out xi’s fics yet what are u waiting for!!!!! please enjoy reading, i hope you’ll like this one too <3 i love you muah

“Are you okay?”

It is quite difficult to roll your eyes when your face is pressed against the snow, you’ve found, so much so you're sure you’re breathing in dainty snowflakes rather than the intended oxygen.

A dull pain emanates from your right ankle, the very one you just twisted while attempting to ski down a sled, making you plummet head-first into the hard ground. Despite how soft snow looks as it blankets the earth in a pristine white, it is quite incapable of cradling your fall. Instead, its snowflakes seem to liquefy, filtrating through your clothes and making a biting cold cascade down your spine.

Clearly, you are far from okay; hence, your eyes roll in a silent protest at the stranger’s questioning, though they cannot see you. If you further bury your head in the snow and do not move, would they think you are a collective hallucination and spare you the embarrassment of helping you?

“Um, should we call an ambulance?”

Clearly not.

“I'm peachy!” you throw a thumbs-up in the air, not bothering to lift your face off of the ground, you’re sure that by now the blank canvas beneath you has reluctantly molded itself to the contours of your face.

Much prettier than a snowman, you’d personally argue.

“Are you sure?” the tentative voice quips up again and you suddenly feel bad for ignoring this passerby, now stuck comforting an odd person whose limbs are not adequately crafted for skiing.

“Yeah,” you finally turn around, realizing that the pain in your ankle will not disappear, even if you choose to ignore it. “Just resting, on the snow. The view is nice from here, you know.”

The stranger backs away subtly at your words, and you chuckle inwardly.

“I got it.” Someone else speaks from your left and their voice carries a familiarity that drapes an uncomfortable weight atop your lungs. You pivot your head incredibly slowly, locking eyes with none other than Changbin.

You scoff outwardly.

“Need help?” he asks, hovering above you like a shadow.

Changbin was once your partner in a lab chemistry project, he is also the one person you now avoid most in college.

So, you do what any sensible person would in your place— you turn away, once again pressing your face into the comforting oblivion of the snow.

“I… can still see you.” His words linger, hesitating in the crisp winter wind, and you respond with a (now more effortless) roll of your eyes.

“I know.”

“Then, what are you doing?”

“If I pretend you are not here long enough, will you finally tire and leave me alone?”

“No.”

“Fine,” you huff, turning back once more. You summon the resolve to finally push your torso up from the pits of your embarrassment, before glancing down at your ankle, only to find that it has doubled in size. An angry scream bubbles up in your throat, but you will yourself to tame the fire within— if you think slightly more about your situation, you’d burst into tears right here and then.

“That needs to be treated,” Changbin states simply, his eyes also locked on your injury. You shut your eyes closed, forcing a deep breath to travel through your lungs. The oxygen you just inhaled seems only to fuel your anger more.

“I actually think it’s fine,” you put on the brightest smile on your face, yet your eyes refuse to follow the movement of your lips, making you look like a catatonic doll. You hope that’s enough to make Changbin go away.

“Who are you lying to?” he cocks an eyebrow at you.

You’re wrong. Again.

His self-assured tone further aggravates you, so you will yourself to stand up, wincing as soon as your right foot touches the floor. You bite your lip hard enough to draw out blood, the metallic taste of it coating your tongue uncomfortably.

“See, I can stand!” you say cheerfully and he crosses his arms before his chest, clearly unimpressed. “Try walking.”

“I actually wanna stay here.”

“Still as stubborn, I see,” he sighs, before bending his knees slightly. Next thing you know, you’re scooped up in his arms, your hands wrapping around his neck instantly.

“What are you doing?” you ask incredulously, eyes darting furiously over his face.

“Carrying you to the infirmary.”

“I can see that,” you say between your teeth. “I said I'm fine.”

“You clearly aren’t.”

“What are you? an ankle expert?”

“When your parents own the ski resort you kind of become one,” his eyes meet yours once, still as emotionless as they’ve always been when they gaze at you.

“Do your parents own this?” you clear your throat, surprise overtaking your tone.

“Yeah.”

“Can you tell them to upgrade my room to a suit, then?” you bat your eyelashes at him, your smile as sweet as saccharin.

“You literally buried your head in the snow two minutes ago because you wanted me gone.”

“Exactly,” you nod vigorously, “that was two minutes ago, I am a changed person now.”

“Yeah?” he smirks slightly, the corners of his mouth almost tugging upwards. “What changed?”

You shrug as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn't know your parents owned the resort.”

☃︎⋆꙳•❅

“It's not broken, thankfully, just sprained. You need to ice it, and not put any pressure on it. Keep your leg elevated at all times, and avoid walking at all costs.” Maria’s voice reaches your ears in waves, the pain in your ankle making it harder to grasp what she’s instructing you to do. Still, you easily understand that all your winter break plans are now officially ruined.

“But I wanna ski,” you pout at the fifty-something nurse who smiles sympathetically at you, handing you a cooling balm.

“You shouldn’t have fallen then.” Changbin deadpans before she can reply and your right eye squints in annoyance. Maria catches it and winks at you.

“You shouldn’t have fallen then,” you mimic, voice high-pitched. He simply shakes his head, a ghost of a smile appearing for a second on his lips, before disappearing promptly.

“Thank you, Maria,” he bows slightly, his voice sounding kinder when it speaks to everyone but you.

“Welcome, baby,” she squishes his cheeks before patting them gently, and you stifle a giggle at the blush sprouting on his face.

Maria leaves the room, stating that she has another patient to check up on. Your eyes remain downcast, glaring at your ankle as if it’ll scare your body back to health.

“You'll burn a hole into your skin at this rate,” he comments, his hand suddenly appearing in your line of view. You sigh in defeat before reaching for his hand, intertwining fingers as he aids you in rising. His arm becomes a secure anchor around your waist as he guides you toward the elevator. There, he inputs a code on a small panel before pressing button 44.

“That's not where my chamber’s at.”

“I know, I had them move your stuff to the penthouse,” he explains simply as your heart skips a traitorous beat.

“Actually? I was just kidding; I don't want an upgraded room.”

“I wanted to,” his eyes locked on yours, a myriad of stars seemingly swimming in his pupils. “It has easier access for you since it opens up directly in the room.”

“I'll pay you back. How much is the difference?”

He leans in, whispering a six-figure number in your ear and you feel your knees buckle underneath you.

“That much?” your face pales and he nods. “You still want to pay me back?”

A nervous chuckle leaves you as you lock eyes with the camera in the elevator, “thank you Mrs. Seo for the gift,” you bow down to the best of your capacity. “Thank you, Mr. Seo.”

The penthouse is much more spacious than your previous room, vast windows framing breathtaking vistas of pristine mountains. The sound of a crackling fireplace tames the fire within you, morphing it into a harmless ember rather than scorching flames, soothing your soul. A chandelier right above the bed casts a warm glow on the room, that softens your heart and makes you less resentful towards the snow.

“Here,” he sits you down on the edge of the bed, before heading to the mini-fridge across from the room. He takes out a packet of ice before promptly kneeling in front of you.

“It'll be a little cold,” he reassures before placing the ice on your wound. the sarcastic retort you had withers at the tip of your tongue, like a candle flame blown away by a gentle breeze; because Changbin is being gentle to you right now. his eyebrows scrunching as he makes sure not to hurt you even more, his fingers encircling just above your ankle to hold you in place. Clad in his black hoodie and joggers, the tenderness of his touch is an echo of softness from days long past.

“Thank you,” you whisper, hoping your voice would get lost in the crinkling of the wood. It doesn’t, as Changbin looks up at you, pausing his movements. “For helping me,” you add, “you didn’t have to do it.”

“It's okay. You’re not a stranger, so…” he trails off, as a buried bitterness floods your throat, akin to downing a shot of acid. You withdraw your ankle from his hold, taking the ice packet from him.

“You can go, I got it,” you smile, yet your eyes flee away from him, refusing to catch his gaze, refusing to peer into that same void that once lured you in.

“Fine. I'll come check on you later.”

As Changbin swiftly exits the penthouse, you sink into the mattress, hands pressed against your forehead, squeezing tight. to Seo Changbin, you were not a stranger. To you, he might have been everything, once.

☃︎⋆꙳•❅

You first met Changbin on the stage of your nationwide rap contest, held within the confines of your campus.

You did not know he was, but you were instantly captivated by his incendiary stage presence, and so was everyone around you, gleaming eyes turned unanimously toward him, the air ablaze with loud cheers erupting like a bubbling volcano. The question at the tip of your tongue was a natural one— “Who the fuck is this gorgeous man?”

It was as though he had sensed your inquiry, because soon after he concluded his rap with a boastful line— “They call me,” a pause, his eyes meeting yours, “Seo Changbin,” he finished, a subtle smirk painted on his lips, as if he knew that his name would become a golden trademark, one that the music world would remember for generations to come.

His gaze lingered on you, but you did not shy away from it, you’ve never been one to run away from the things you want. Instead, you smiled at him, a toothy grin that left your cheeks slightly aching afterward.

He did not return the gesture fully, but the corners of his lips did tug upwards, as he dipped his head slightly forward in thanks.

Cute.

You stayed back long enough to witness Changbin accept his well-deserved first place award, clad in his gray joggers, a snug black tank top, and atop it a deconstructed hoodie boasting enticing holes on the side, giving you a generous view of his sculpted muscles. His silver chains glimmered under the resounding flashes, and you felt a surge of pride at this stranger basking in the spotlight.

Your smile only grew wider as Chan and Jisung ran to him, encircling him in his arms and shaking him with palpable happiness. Thunderous cheers erupted, a chorus of voices chanting 'Seo Changbin' at the top of their lungs.

His name will stay with you long after that.

“So, is he single?” you inquired casually a few days later in the university cafeteria, three cups of iced americano placed before you, Chan’s extra sweetened. The latter looked up from his phone, eyes slightly widening, before leaning in.

“You like Changbin?” he asked incredulously and you squint your eyes, moving even closer to him.

“Why? Shouldn’t I?”

“I'm just surprised because you’ve never liked any of the guys I introduced you to.”

“Because they’re all douchebags who can’t keep up with me,” you declared, tossing your hair over your shoulder as Chan smiled amusedly.

“Hey! He introduced me to you,” Jisung chimed in from your left and you rolled your eyes, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “We’re better off as friends, Ji.”

That was true, your first, and last date with Jisung, ended up with you ordering sushi and laughing at your Tinder matches at an empty parking lot. He's been one of your closest friends ever since.

“Are we?” Jisung made obnoxious kissing noises and you faked a gag, pinching his arm. Han retaliated by yelling so loudly the entirety of the cafeteria turned to look at you. Chan attempted to cover his face with his palm, a desolated look painted on his features.

“Anyways,” Jisung cleared his throat once he settled again, “he is single. But he’s not looking for anything right now.”

“Maybe he just hasn’t looked at me yet.”

Fate seemed to be on your side because Changbin did look at you after that. Your professor Kim, an unwitting cupid, paired you with him for your chemistry project, and for the following month, you found yourself meeting Changbin every day in the college laboratory, to work on the synthesis and characterization of aspirin.

Changbin was different from anyone you’ve ever taken a liking to. He did not stir violent butterflies in your stomach, nor made your palms sweat endlessly from nerves. Instead, he infused a peculiar serenity within you, enough to make you eagerly count down the minutes until your next meeting.

Contrary to the fiery persona he unleashed on stage, Changbin exuded a calming aura that held you captive each time he drew near. It was impossible to divert your gaze from him, especially when his loose curls cascaded perfectly over his dark brown eyes, ones framed by thick-rimmed black glasses. His scent, a captivating blend of pinewood and spices, lingered like a second skin on your body, trailing after him and enveloping you in its embrace, long after he was gone.

He felt like a winter wind brushing against your skin—strong enough to be felt, yet cool enough to be craved by each one of your senses.

You sensed his gaze upon you as well, felt the subtle brush of his hand against your spine when he moved around you, unnecessary yet deliberate. How he brought you hot chocolate every time you met up to warm up your icy fingers. He was sweet and caring; in a way you’d only notice if you paid attention to the things said silently.

Yet, he remained an enigma—warm on certain days, cold on others. It seemed as if he restrained himself from growing comfortable in your presence, as if you were a bad weed that’d spread through his roots if he dared approach you. Or maybe that was how he viewed himself— a delicate shell with a void inside, guarding itself against any perceived threat.

Who was Changbin, truly? What did he like and dislike? Why did he withhold his smiles, stifle his laughter, and avert his eyes after just a fleeting glance at you? Why did he draw near only to retreat each time you attempted to get close? The questions swirled in your mind, creating a tapestry of curiosity that begged to be unraveled by his hands.

“Wanna come to karaoke with me and hang out tonight?” Chan asked a week after the end of your chemistry project. You hummed non-convincingly, nose buried in your newly purchased book.

“Changbin might come too,” he sang-sung and you quickly perked up, much more interested in his plans now. He snorted at your reaction, and in response, you playfully flashed him your prettiest middle finger.

Chan's disbelief was right though. It was unusual of you to be so expectant of someone’s presence, for your gaze to flee to the door every two seconds awaiting their entrance.

Despite your high hopes, Changbin did not come that night, and as much as you tried to have fun, a sense of disappointment tainted your mood. That, and the realization that he wasn't a mere crush, but something much more to you. The man you couldn’t get a read on was already coursing through your veins when you thought he had only stopped at the surface of your skin.

Muttering a quick excuse about needing some fresh air, you left the karaoke booth, exhaling heavily, the warmth of your breath translating into silver gusts of air in the chilly night. As you descended the stairs, however, your ankle twisted on the slippery ice, and you found yourself falling, bottom-first, onto the unforgiving concrete.

An ugly sob caught in your throat as hot tears streaked down your cheeks, your palm now scraped and bloody from the impact of the fall, in a useless attempt to soften the blow.

“Let me see,” someone crouched in front of you, and you gasped softly as your eyes met Changbin's concerned gaze.

“Oh god, this is so embarrassing,” you admitted, clasping your eyes shut as he gently held your injured hand in his own, blowing air into the open cuts to soothe their burn.

“I didn't see anything,” he reassured, his tone overly sweet, and you squint your eyes at his obvious lies. “Definitely did not see you trip over nothing,” he added, a teasing smirk drawn on his lips.

“Hey!” you punched his arm playfully and he laughed, full-blown high-pitched giggles you did not think Changbin, out of everybody you knew, would be able to conjure. His eyes were squinted close, his apple cheeks raising higher as he laughed some more, and you felt an electrifying warmth flowing through your being. Suddenly, you were burning in the winter wind.

Suddenly, you wanted to confess.

“Did you just get possessed by a five-year-old girl?” you teased as his laughter quieted down, the smile refusing to leave his face, yet. His eyes softened as they found yours, a simple hum leaving his lips in reply. He applied some pressure on your ankle, checking if it is swollen, but that was the last thing you cared about. The sight of Changbin smiling so freely still running through your mind, again and again. You replayed it enough times since to make sure it was safely guarded in your memory, that the long march of time may not wear it down, graining its delicate edges.

“You should smile more,” you said softly and he looked up at you, a twinkle of gratitude gleaming in his eyes.

“Your ankle is fine. Stay here, okay? I have a first aid kit in my car.” He didn’t wait for you to reply as he jogged up to his vehicle, and you sighed, heart clenching at how affected you were by his simple touches.

“It will sting a little,” he spoke gently once he returned, before dabbing up your cut slightly with an alcohol-drenched pad. You hissed softly and he frowned, pausing in his tracks. “Okay?”

“Mm,” you nodded, a small smile playing on your lips, “Okay.”

He continued cleaning your cuts, before applying a cooling cream on it and wrapping it in a clean gauze. He hesitated for a few seconds and your breath hitched as he leaned forward, placing the faintest kiss on your palm.

“Healing kiss,” he said shyly, a blush blooming on his face and you giggled, bringing his hand to rest upon your cheek.

“I like you, Changbin,” you said truthfully, simply, even as your heart thudded in your chest. “Tell me, should I stop? I don't want to hurt myself.”

“I…” he began, his words trailing off, interrupted by Chan walking out of the karaoke booth.

“What happened? Are you okay?” he asked, worry clearly dripping from his tone and you cursed inwardly. You loved Chan but you’ve never been more annoyed to see him. Your eyes flee tentatively to Changbin as Chan takes your hand in his, inspecting it.

“Let's go inside, it’s freezing here,” Chan pulled you up and you nodded, as Changbin followed suit, before he stopped you by the door, his hand on your arm. “Come over tomorrow, please? We can talk then.”

“Sure,” you smiled and he nodded, swiping his thumb soothingly along your wrist. “Thank you,” he whispered, before walking inside.

☃︎⋆꙳•❅

The landline ringing snaps you away from that long-buried memory, as it disappears before your eyes like morning mist. You rub your forehead tiredly before answering.

“Hello?”

“Hello, I would like to inform you that we'll be coming up with food service shortly,” the sweet receptionist announces in a cheery tone, and you furrow your brow.

“I did not order anything, though.”

“It is on the house. Enjoy your food!” she explains gleefully before hanging up.

On the house meaning it is Seo Changbin's treat. You couldn't help but scoff at the array of food presented before you minutes later, including that damned hot chocolate he always used to bring you, complete with marshmallows on top and colorful sprinkles because why settle for plain when you could have rainbows in your drink.

“He remembers,” ou whisper to yourself before sighing. What was the point of him remembering now? Every bit of hope you had was dismantled two months ago, akin to a hopeful dandelion blown away by the bitter wind.

You bite your lip, contemplating for a few seconds before finally dialing Changbin’s number.

“The food will get cold. Come quickly. I won't wait for you,” you mumble before hanging up and tossing your phone away.

A few minutes later, Changbin enters your room, his cologne still following him like a second shadow. You avoid his eyes as you dig into the seafood pasta, the one he ordered for you.

“Good?” he asks, and you glance at him from the corner of your eye. "Yeah, good."

“Are you okay?” he inquires, taking a bite of the pepperoni pizza.

You knew he was asking about your ankle, and yet, in this moment, sitting on the floor of the penthouse Changbin upgraded for you, eating the food he bought after tending to your injury, you suddenly no longer cared about the state of your body. Instead, an exasperation built up in your throat, directed towards the man who had left you hanging many nights ago.

“You confuse me,” you say honestly, putting down your fork and he frowns. “I confuse you?” he repeats incredulously.

“Yes. You always confuse me and I hate it.” Sudden tears threaten to well in your eyes and you groan, burying your face in a pillow to hide it.

“I can't believe you are saying this,” he whispers, pushing away his plate and you scowl, lowering your silky shield.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You never came, y/n,” His voice, draped in heavy emotion, catches you off guard like a sudden storm in the calm of the night. “I waited and waited for you and you never came.”

“I came,” you say quietly, the hurt suddenly feeling fresh within the confines of your heart. “At the wrong time, maybe the right one, I don't know. But I came.”

“What?”

“I came to your dorm only to see you kissing a girl’s cheek and hugging her by your door. You told her you missed her and to come later once you sorted something out. Was I… What? supposed to enter and sit there to hear you reject me?” You say quickly, finally releasing the words that had long haunted you.

An incredulous laugh escapes his lips as he runs a hand through his hair, slightly pulling at its edges. “My god, that was my sister.”

“What?”

“She came over unannounced that morning. I actually told her she can't stay the night because I had someone important coming over. That someone being you,” he explains and you feel hot embarrassment flood your being, then relief. For what, exactly? Wasn’t it too late?

“How was I supposed to know?” you ask defensively and his eyes widen as he comes closer to you.

“You could’ve asked me!”

“I was embarrassed because I put my heart bare to you. I told you I liked you when I wasn't even sure you liked me back.”

“Of course, I liked you back.” His voice softens as if it were a truth known to everyone but yourself.

“Then why were you so… distant.”

“Because you scared me, you came into my life unannounced and everything changed around me,” he pauses, a shaky breath escaping him. “Because I wasn’t looking for anything but it turns out I just didn’t know to look for you yet.”

You giggle against your will at his words, shaking your head slightly. “That's exactly what I told Chan when I asked if you were single.”

“See, soulmates,” he grins, satisfied, and you feel tingles pulsate through your entire being at his words.

“Slow down Mr. Seo. We are not even dating yet.”

“Yet? So, is there still a chance?”

“I…” your phone rings and you let out a loud groan as you peek at who's calling— Chan.

“You have the actual worst timing ever dude,” Changbin nearly screams into the phone and you can clearly hear Chan’s confused voice asking “Changbin? Where is yn?”

Changbin hangs up on him without answering, before putting your phone on silent. Then his, for good measure.

“It's like he’s my archnemesis or something,” Changbin sighs and you laugh, amused by his exasperation.

“So,” he clears his throat, a bit shyly, “can we start again? Properly?”

“I don't know… I need to see if something’s still there…” you muse and he cocks an eyebrow at you, leaning even closer.

“And how will you do that?”

You throw your hands around his neck, before resting your cheek on the slate of his shoulders. He remains still for a few heartbeats, only to tighten his hold on you, his lips delicately grazing the exposed canvas of your neck.

“I knew it, you smell nice, and you are really warm,” you sigh contently, closing your eyes as a soothing peace wash over you, all the worries you harbored dissipating at his warmth.

“You smell really nice too,” he whispers and a grin lights up your face.

“I can hear you smiling,” you point out, leaning away slightly to look at him.

“I’m happy.”

“That's cute.”

“You’re cuter,” he says, nuzzling your nose with his own. “Your total for the food is 160 dollars by the way.”

“Can I pay back with my kisses?” you smile cheekily, bringing your lips a hair breadth away from his.

He’s breathless as he finally presses his mouth on yours, “Please do.”

#skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids imagine #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #skz scenarios #stray kids scenarios #stray kids angst #stray kids fluff #skz angst #skz fluff #skz au #skz fanfic #skz reactions #stray kids fanfiction #changbin x reader #changbin fluff #changbin imagines

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starsinmylatte · 4 months

Text

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Living in Japan, you were used to people’s negative perceptions of your tattoos. An old man giving you a world-class stink-eye was more common than rain on a cloudy day, and those views were only compounded by the insular Jujutsu Sorcerer society you found yourself working in….. But what would the famous 7:3 Sorcerer think?

Pairing: Nanami Kento x afab!reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ minors DNI)

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Brief canon-typical violence, brief hurt/comfort, smut, inappropriate use of a cursed technique, you know what you're here for

A/N: Major thanks to @pseudowho for being so wonderful and encouraging. You should all go read her brilliant fics if you haven't yet!!

Click here to join my re-vamped taglist!

You hadn’t officially met the 7:3 Sorcerer until you were assigned a very lengthy mission together. Still, as soon as you started to learn about him from others at Jujutsu High, you knew your tattoos had to stay hidden at all costs.

Gojo, a man world-famous for understating things, had described Nanami as “a bit of a grump sometimes,” and you had even seen poor Ijichi nearly in tears at the thought of disappointing the severe blonde. So, in other words, you were right fucked. At the very least, you planned to hide the tattoos so you could make it through the next few weeks without aggravating your partner every time he laid eyes on you.

You saw Nanami briefly on the day before your mission, and the suited man cut such a clean, no-nonsense figure that you were certain of two things. First, he would absolutely hate the ink on your skin. Second, you’d simply pass away from embarrassment if the achingly handsome man ever had a negative remark about the sentimental art.

Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t even bat an eye at someone’s poor opinion of you- actually, you’d probably respond with a cheeky grin and a crude gesture- but Nanami was different. He was respected and loved by so many other sorcerers despite his serious nature, and he was infuriatingly attractive. No man had ever been more your type; at some point, you considered going to a shrine to interrogate the gods about when they read your grade-school diary because Kento was the golden-haired prince of your dreams.

Thankfully, it was the middle of winter, and all the forecasts called for was endless snow.

“Even the weather is on my side,” you murmured cheerfully as you packed for the mission, dutifully shoving every long-sleeved shirt and pair of pants you owned into your small suitcase. Everything was in place, and you had accounted for every possibility… or so you thought.

– (time skip) –

The driving, snow-laden wind stung your face as you sprinted toward the last curse, sword in hand. You could barely feel your lips or fingers, chilled to the bone and beyond exhausted, but this was the last one. The pitiful creature that skittered across the snow in front of you was the only curse left standing. It kept you from a warm bath and a strong drink back at the hotel, and if you let it get away now, you’d never catch up to it again after the storm.

“C’mon… just a little bit more,” you bargained with your aching body, groaning inwardly as the curse seemed to gain more ground.

The heavy snowfall muffled every sound and drastically reduced your visibility. Some small voice in your head screamed for caution, for you to go slower, but it was wholly overshadowed by your need to be warm again as fast as possible. Weirdly enough, that small voice sounded exactly like Nanami’s.

Suddenly, the curse tripped with a yelp, and you pounced on it with feline grace, ready to finish it off. A sickening crack rang through the air the instant you sank your blade into its body. You looked in horror as the ice underneath the curse shattered, revealing a roiling abyss of water below.

“Shit!” You screamed and dropped your sword, latching onto the ice's edge as the curse sank in a silent struggle.

It fell out of sight as your gloved hands slid on the ice, the loss of purchase sending your body further into the glacial water. You whimpered in pain, almost daring to believe that any second help would arrive- that Nanami would be next to you. Darkness swam in your vision, and your pain seemed to dull. You fought to keep awake, dimly aware that sleep meant never waking up again.

“N-Nanami, p-please… Help...” You begged into the uncaring snow.

Suddenly, a strong force grabbed your arm and hauled you out of the frosty water, picking you up almost effortlessly. You instinctively buried your face into your savior’s warmth and were rewarded with the deep, spiced notes of Nanami’s cologne.

You tried to mumble something, but the blonde sorcerer quickly hushed you, “No, save your strength. You have to stay awake. Promise me that you’ll stay awake.”

You couldn’t miss the panic in his voice as your eyes fluttered shut.

–

*Warm…. Content… Safe….*

It felt like liquid sunshine had been poured into your veins, thawing every inch of your frozen body. You were curled against something large and warm… Something that smelled wonderful.

Nanami’s hushed voice washed over you, thick and slow like warm honey, “How are you feeling?”

You slowly opened your eyes, and your heart immediately jumped into your throat. Your body was pressed against Nanami’s, your head tucked into the soft crook of his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His bare, muscular chest was pushed directly against your plush breasts, his skin radiating pure warmth as the scent of his cologne made your head fuzzy.

With that image now firmly seared into your brain, it took another second for the rest of your thoughts to process. The first was good news: you were alive unless the afterlife was identical to your hotel room. But the second…. Well, maybe drowning wouldn’t have been too bad because you couldn’t feel that you had any clothes on.

“Nanami?” As you spoke, your voice sounded panicked and far away, almost distorted to your ears. “Where are my- what happened?”

His head shifted slightly against yours. You couldn’t see his face, but Nanami sounded as uncomfortable as you felt. “I needed to get your body temperature back up… Shoko once told me that skin-to-skin contact was the best way to prevent hypothermia.”

You weren’t sure if you should slap the Doctor or send her a bottle of liquor as he continued, “I did my best to respect your privacy, but it was necessary. I apologize.”

Nanami’s apology sounded so blunt and detached that it stung. Your face burned at the thought of him undressing you, immediately replaced with a feeling of growing horror. Surely, he couldn’t have missed all the tattoos as he removed your clothes?

“Oh god… He must think I’m disgusting.”

Your thoughts and insecurities began to pile up as you lay in his arms, silent and stewing in your mortification. The two of you had grown vaguely close in the past two weeks- close enough to have dropped most honorifics and pretenses with each other. Outside the mission, the two of you had spent time idly chatting about life, and you’d developed a comfortable routine around each other. You had even almost worked up the courage to ask him out for coffee when the mission was over.

Nanami spoke again, disrupting your thoughts, his voice tentative beneath a forced layer of calm. “I can close my eyes and let you dress if you feel up to it.”

You could only nod worldlessly as your face burned red in embarrassment. His arms dropped away from your back to untangle the layers of blankets that sandwiched you two together, and you bit back a groan of protest.

“Alright, you’re good to get up.”

Nanami rolled over, facing the opposite wall. You winced at the sting of cold air as you slipped out of bed and away from him, quickly noticing that the only light in the room was from two large candles and the fireplace. Another groan fell from your lips, “Don’t tell me the power is out.”

“Unfortunately,” came the curt reply. “The storm dropped enough snow to block the roads and cut off the power.

“We better get some fucking hazard pay for this,” you swore quietly.

Nanami was silent for another minute; under any other circumstance, your comment might’ve made him chuckle, “I set out some clothes for you. They’re thicker than the ones you brought.”

You opened your mouth to argue but instantly shut it. You knew he was right. The black pajama set you favored was cute and long-sleeved but made of thin material.

“If you’re sure.” You sighed in resignation as you dug through your own bag for socks and underwear. The only two things you had left were a cotton thong and a pair of thick winter socks with bears stitched on them. You committed to your fate, slipping on the sweatpants and blue thermal shirt Nanami had set to the side before turning back around.

As soon as you did, another image permanently seared itself into your brain. Nanami lay on his side, hair mussed from its usual neat style, and you were treated to a mouthwatering view of his muscular back. His skin glistened, reflecting the flickering firelight, and your mouth went dry. It was all too easy to think about him looking like this after a more intimate activity.

“W-what will you wear?” You managed to force the sentence out.

“I have the pair of pants I’m currently wearing, but you have my last shirt.” Nanami paused momentarily. The usually self-assured sorcerer was oddly hesitant as he spoke again, more quietly this time. “I hope it won’t bother you.”

You stared at the back of his head incredulously. “You? Bothering me? Nanami, you just held my naked body for I don’t even know how long to keep me from freezing to death. You’ve seen what’s all over my skin. I probably disgust you now, and you’re worried about bothering me?”

Nanami froze mid-breath, turning to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. You couldn’t see the expression on his face in the low light, but you could feel intensity rolling off him in waves. “You really think that I’m disgusted by you?”

You clap a hand over your mouth, cursing yourself for letting that slip. “I-I don’t- I mean, I don’t want you to be…”

Your voice felt thick, your mouth dry like it had been stuffed with cotton as you covered your eyes and wished you could magically disappear into the ground. You were so distracted that you didn’t notice Nanami slide out of bed and cross the room.

A gentle pressure suddenly appeared on your shoulder, and you looked up, jumping slightly as Nanami’s warm coffee-colored eyes gazed into yours, his hand firmly gripping your shoulder.

“I’m not.” His voice was rough and strained. “I could never be…. Fuck, you have no idea, do you?”

You blinked slowly, the look on your face akin to a deer caught in the headlights. Nanami squeezed your shoulder to emphasize his next point, “I have spent the last few hours pointedly trying to ignore how beautiful I think you are.”

“But…”

Nanami held up a single finger, a motion for you to wait. He removed his hand from your shoulder and extended his arm for you to see the black ink nestled against his inner bicep. “Believe me more now?”

Your gaze washed over the neat, tidy lettering. The tattoo was Roman numerals- a date? You raised your hand slowly, gently tracing your fingertips along the lines as if entranced. Nanami shuddered at your touch.

“Careful, now.” He warned. “I can’t do much more of this.”

“Hm?” You stepped back to give him a bit more space, but your eyes were instantly drawn to the massive bulge in his sweatpants, the outline of his erection clear against the fabric.

“I have been trying to be a good man. I have been trying to be a considerate mission partner.” Nanami sighed tersely, his muscles flexing in the dim light as he reached up to push his golden hair away from his face. “I told myself that having a- a crush on a mission partner was juvenile and unprofessional…”

A slight blush crossed the usually stern man’s face. “I wanted to ask you to dinner after we returned- to do this properly…. but when I started taking off your clothes and found…”

His sentence trailed off as he gestured up and down your body, and your heart lurched.

“You found?” You questioned softly, almost not daring to believe your ears.

“You’re a work of art,” Nanami murmured. “I need to know if I’m making you uncomfortable… the last thing I want is for you to feel forced into anyth-”

He didn’t get to finish before your soft lips collided with his. Your eyes fluttered shut at the taste of him, savoring it. Nanami’s hands instantly returned to your body to pull you in even closer. He held you closely as if you were the most important thing in the world, and you melted against him, sighing gently.

“No, you’re not.” You whispered against his lips. “I feel the same way about you.”

His large, battle-calloused hand cupped your face with heartwrenching tenderness. Nanami’s thumb caressed the swell of your lower lip before he tilted your head back so he could look into your eyes. The tender, intimate gesture pulled a quiet sigh from you, and Nanami chuckled, a low, rich sound you felt in your bones.

“What do you want from me right now, beautiful girl?”

His gaze was intense and magnetic as it drew you in, causing desire to blossom in your lower body. Its electric tendrils wound throughout your veins at the sound of Nanami’s rich voice. You were usually so outspoken and confident, but this damned man made your head swim.

He stroked your cheek again, “I need you to use your words. Can you do that for me?”

Another sharp pang of arousal pierced your heart and fell straight through your core like a shooting star. “I want you, Nanami. I-I want to have sex with you. I want more than that, but right now…..please.”

You trailed off, acutely aware of how your pussy subtly ached and fluttered at your own words. It begged for attention, the small scrap of cotton underwear you wore already damp with arousal. Nanami’s small smile turned into a rather roguish grin, voice rough and low. “Good girl. Let me take care of you.”

Nanami’s praise forced another whimper from your lips as he pulled you flush against him. One of your hands splayed against his chest, the other tangled into his fine hair. He captured your lips in a searing kiss; you felt the thick strain of his erection press against you so insistently, even through the layers of fabric you both still wore.

With one swift motion, Nanami swept you up and off your feet. You wrapped your legs around his waist, keening as you rocked your aching pussy against his cock, forcing a hiss from the usually stoic man.

“Too many clothes,” you whined, drawing another short laugh from your lover.

“As much as I want to see more of your lovely body, we’ve gotta keep you warm, pretty girl.” Nanami cooed, nipping at your bottom lip. He pressed kisses down the column of your neck as he pulled your hips down, encouraging you to grind against him again. “Fuck, that’s it.”

You swore you could cum just like this, humping his clothed cock like a desperate schoolgirl eager for her first fuck. The friction between your bodies moved the seam of your panties against your swollen clit, making you cry out. His lips returned to devour your cries of pleasure, your kiss becoming desperate, filled with tongue and teeth.

“‘Nami, please…. not like this. Wanna cum on your fingers.” you beg, unable to stop yourself from chasing your rapidly approaching orgasm, despite your plea.

Nanami growled, swiftly crossing the room to deposit you on the edge of the bed. “No, I’m going to taste you first. You’re going to cum on my tongue.”

You sobbed, both from his sinful words and from the loss of his body against yours, as Nanami hooked a finger into the waistband of your sweats. He slid them down and threw them across the room unceremoniously, causing you to giggle.

That same giggle quickly turned into a wanton moan as his thick finger reached down to ghost over the scrap of cotton that barely covered your pussy from his gaze. Your legs fell open, begging him for more, and Nanami tsk’d softly, his legendary impatience flaring to life.

Through the heady haze of your lust, you felt Nanami’s fingers hook through your underwear in two different spots. His cursed energy flashed, and his fingers tore through the material like it wasn’t ever there.

“Nanami Kent-!” You didn’t get the chance to finish chastising him before he knelt with predatory grace, cupped either side of your hips, and pulled your hips closer. He licked a fat stripe through your glistening folds, and your head fell back against the bedsheets; the last syllable of his name instantly turned to a cry of ecstasy.

He chuckled again, lazily dragging his tongue along the same path before pressing a light kiss to your clit, “I’ll buy you more,” he murmured, “Needed to taste you.”

You whined as Nanami grazed your clit, the pressure enough to tease but not enough for true satisfaction. He spread you open with his fingers and watched in desperate fascination as your pussy seemed to beg for him, soaked and clenching around nothing. Your back arched off the bed as Nanami took the small bud between his lips and sucked.

He growled in approval, the sensual timbre of his voice traveling through your body and causing your cunt to clench again, “So perfect.”

Nanami held you firmly in place with his arms as he continued his blissfully torturous assault on your body. He alternated between sucking your clit and thrusting his tongue into your core, feasting on you with abandon like he needed your taste to live. Every so often, his nose tapped against your swollen clit, and you saw stars.

You moaned his name as Nanami’s clever fingers traced your opening, and you nearly cried as one thick digit fully slipped inside. He moved the finger experimentally, completely entranced by the way your velvet walls fluttered around him, begging him to stay inside you.

“Need to cum…. please.” You sob, desperately trying not to wrap your legs around his head and hold him in place forever.

“You’re doing so well for me- so fucking beautiful.” Nanami praised roughly and slipped another finger into you, scissoring them and stretching your walls experimentally. Your back arched off the bed again as he leaned down to tongue your clit at the same time. His fingers caressed your g-spot insistently; stars danced in your vision, and the arousal in your body all coalesced into one aching, burning knot.

“It- it’s too much… Nanami, nnnnguh ‘m gonna-”

Your sentence broke off into a desperate, airy whine as Nanami sucked your swollen clit between his lips once more, sending you over the edge of a mind-shattering orgasm. His hands stroked the inked skin of your hips, and you sobbed his name as he greedily lapped up the cum from your soaked folds. You gazed between your legs and watched, enraptured, as Nanami slowly stood and licked your cum off of his fingers.

“Absolutely delicious,” He groaned appreciatively at the taste, and you whimpered in response; the sight was easily one of the most arousing things you’d ever seen. You rubbed your thighs together, wholly lost to desire, the movement shifting the blue thermal you still wore even higher up your body. The fabric moved against your pert nipples, giving them enough friction to tease.

You tipped your head back as you rolled one of your nipples between your fingers with a practiced flourish, and Nanami’s impossibly hard cock twitched at the sight. If you were more lucid, you’d have seen that he was just as affected by the show you put on. The sight of you toying with your plush breasts, wearing only his shirt, half your tattoos clearly visible, and nipples strained against the fabric … If he were a weaker man, he’d have already cum while still in his pants.

“You put on such a pretty show ‘f me,” Nanami murmured as he slipped a hand into the band of his sweatpants, his gaze heavy-lidded, content to watch you play for a moment. However, you had other ideas. You flashed a coy, lust-addled smile and reached your foot out, tucking it next to his hand to gently tug at the waistband, a clear signal for the pants to come off.

“So impatient,” He chuckled roughly, instantly complying with your demand. Finally, you were treated to the view you’d been dreaming about. Nanami stood before you, completely nude and almost painfully aroused. A trail of neatly groomed, honey-blonde hair led down his toned abdomen, guiding your eyes to his deliciously hard cock. It was long, with a prominent vein that ran down the side to disappear before it met the thick, swollen tip.

You spread your legs invitingly, and Nanami crawled between them, the bed dipping under his added weight. He stroked his cock experimentally, hissing as he traced the tip through your warm folds before kissing the tip to your clit. You whimpered at the lewd, wet sounds, your pussy fluttering desperately every time his swollen tip circled your entrance.

“Please, Nanami….” You meweled, hips rocking involuntarily against him. He needed no further encouragement to slide into your warmth; Nanami hissed and groaned, slowly pushing into you, fighting the urge to just slam his cock inside your core. You took him in deeper, inch by agonizing inch, until his swollen cockhead kissed your cervix, and you sobbed in ecstasy.

With another low growl, Nanami rocked his hips slowly, watching you fall apart at the unhurried drag of his cock against your velvet walls. “Like that, pretty girl?”

You babbled and whined complete nonsense, biting and kissing into his shoulder as Nanami began to thrust his hips at a faster pace, enraptured by the pearly ring of your combined fluids that coated the base of his cock. In mere moments, he was drilling into you with ruthless efficiency, the room filled with the pornographic sounds of your lovemaking.

Every one of Nanami’s thrusts sent an electric shockwave of pleasure through your body, and you rocked your hips against him, desperately chasing another orgasm. You wrapped your legs up and around his waist, shifting your hips slightly, and his cock hit even deeper.

“Good girl… Good fucking girl,” he growled as your hips ground against each other. “Taking me so well... Cum for me one more time- shit, I need to feel you cum on my cock.”

Your nails dug into his back and arms desperately as the tight coil inside you built and built until it shattered completely. Sparks of blinding white flashed in your vision as your orgasm burned through like wildfire, and your pussy clenched around him desperately. Moments later, Nanami came with a look of sheer bliss on his face. Ropes of his warm cum coated your walls, stuffing you and giving you a feeling of delicious fullness.

A few minutes passed in blissful silence as you both caught your breath. Nanami made no real move to pull out, and you weren't complaining. Instead, he simply maneuvered into a lying position, pulling you close with his cock still buried deep inside you.

“It’ll help you stay warm tonight,” he murmured lovingly, tucking all the blankets back into place around your intertwined bodies.

Tagging some friends: @saradika, @thefact0rygirl, @babygirl-leon-kennedy, @hereforthesunrise, @ashotofspotchka, @ironandglass, @amyroswell, @cassandrablacker, @lady-valtieri, @justanothersadperson93

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#I need this man in a way that's concerning to feminism #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #jjk fanfic #nanami #nanami kento #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami smut #kento nanami x y/n #kento nanami x you #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #jjk nanami #nanami smut #kento nanami #jjk smut

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peachesofteal · 4 months

Text

The Pit

COD masterlist Part 1/2

Ghost/Soap/female reader 6.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, dub con, kidnapping, manipulative hurt/comfort, whump, the guys shave you, humiliation, forced orgasm, predator/prey, medical inaccuracies. Clothed males/naked female. The Pit by Silversun Pickups. Horror-ish. Misery inspired.

Winter in the mountains can be cruel.

This is something you’ve always known, even as a child. You were raised with it. Chose to return to it after school, decided to make a go of it, of a life here, as an adult. You knew what you were getting yourself into, long cold winters that felt both bleak and promising, unblemished blankets of snow possessing the ability to be stunning, while also lethal. Winters were dangerous, silent killers that left corpses in their wake and no amount of lupine or paintbrushes, glacier fed lakes or springtime moose calves could make up for the hell that winter wrought. Winter brings most living things to the knife’s edge of survival, forcing most to bow beneath the weight of its fury, backs breaking with the burden of just existing in an environment that truly acts, and feels, inhospitable.

Although, there are those who do more than survive the cold, violent stretch of winter.

There are predators who thrive.

“You closin’?” Your coworker, the new one, asks from where she’s settled across the dark wood bar, two amber Budweiser bottles empty in front her idle hands, eyes wandering to guys posted up by the loneliest pool table in fifty square miles.

“I am.” She casts the only window in the entire place a surreptitious glance, fingers peeling away at a label. It’s snowing, has been for hours, flakes fat and wet, fluffy enough that the density of the snow on the ground is light, but dangerous, as it hides the real risk underneath; packed snow sitting with a slick sheen of ice on top.

“You still trying to make it over Fall River pass tonight?” You nod.

“Yeah. Supposed to see my brother and his new place this weekend.”

“Fall River? Is that even open right now?” Andy, a regular who lives a few streets over from you, chimes in, twisting an empty rocks glass in his fist. You pull the bottle of Jameson from the rail and tip it vertical, honey brown liquid sloshing like a wave until his glass is halfway full, and he gives you a flirty kind of smile, the same one he’s been giving you for a year now. Yeeesh.

“It is. I could go around, but it just takes too long. And it’s Friday. I’m not trying to be stuck on the highway with weekend traffic.” You complain, and they both commiserate your opinion. The traffic is brutal, especially in the winter. Driving in hazardous conditions is considered to be a talent more than an innate ability here, and people often overestimate their aptitude for it, causing crashes and delays that get the highway shut down for hours, or even days, at times. You shrug. “I’ve had my snow tires on for weeks. Might as well get some use out of them.” Andy snorts.

“Like you haven’t been gettin’ good use out of them? First real snow was before Halloween this year.” You nod. He’s not wrong. You did get dumped on two weeks before the end of October, twenty-three inches piling up within two days, before half the area was even ready for it. You throw him a polite smile, one that you hope reads like ‘okay thanks for the concern, we’re done now’ and he sighs. “Well, drive safe.”

Fall River pass, it turns out, is not open. It’s closed by the time you split off from the interstate and start the windy, switch-backed trek in your jeep, flashing orange and yellow lights dotting the top of a barricade just barely visible through the speckled snow flying by in your headlights.

Fuck. You could have sworn the DOT website said it was open. You take a deep breath, quelling the anxiety that roils your stomach. Okay. Not the end of the world. There’s another road. A less maintained option, but… you’ll be fine. You’ve driven in worse.

The other road, a sharp, narrow, desolate path that cuts through a large swath of unmanaged forest just outside the national park, is easy at first. You’ve been driving the same jeep for years, a 2007 two door Wrangler, and you know how it handles like the back of your hand. With snow tires, it could pretty much cut through anything, even unplowed, fire watch roads like this one.

Which is why, after the first few miles, your nerves fully settle, and you allow yourself to relax a little bit behind the wheel, easing the jeep across the dips and slicks in the road as you cautiously build speed, snow falling fast through night, growing thicker the higher you travel into wilderness territory, and the farther you left modern civilization behind.

An hour creeps by, and then two. Long enough that you’ve now realized you’re the only one using this road, fresh snow blanketing the woods around you, topography and vegetation starting to change as you encroach on what you assume must be eleven thousand feet. You’ve seen this road on google maps once, or twice maybe, having noted it for future travel just in case of a situation like this. It runs perpendicular to Fall River, and eventually meets another, one that must be similar, on the other side of the range. The secondary road is one that takes you along the ridge, and then down, you’re pretty sure, although you can’t be one hundred percent certain, because you lost cell reception before you even turned off from Fall River.

Still, won’t hurt to check and see if you have this area downloaded.

You pull your phone from the center console, thumbing at the screen, allowing your eyes to linger too long without looking back up through the windshield. No one else is out here. It’s not like you need to worry about oncoming traffic. The little SOS insignia blinks at the top corner, and you tap on the map icon, hoping it will bring up your geo location so you can glance at the satellite image of the area.

You’re so fixated watching the little circle of death try to load, that by the time you look up and see the tree laying across the road, it’s far too late. You do the first thing you were always taught not to do in winter conditions, and slam on the brake, shoving the pedal to floor, heart rate sky rocketing as you panic and lose total control of the jeep. You spin, shoulders and chest jamming against the seatbelt, headlights flashing off into the woods, illuminating an endlessly dark web of trees, bark and branch scratching across the paint as you careen off the road, tipping too precariously onto two wheels and then rolling.

Time, your life, stands completely still for a moment. You see every individual fiber of the pine needles, every uniquely designed snowflake, every single droplet of blood that floats away from your face and through midair as you crash through the forest, your grasp on consciousness slipping farther and farther away, the jeep finally coming to a stop on its side, your head cracked against the driver’s window, stars and streaks spawning out across your vision, headlights finally blinking out completely, leaving you alone in the dark. Your head spins like you’re still rolling, and the only sound in the dead silent snow is your harsh breathing, frantic terror bubbling up through your throat as pain surges through your body.

It's freezing, but you feel surprisingly warm.

You’re going to die out here. No one knows you took this road, you don’t have service, by the time they find you, it’ll be too late. You’ll be a bled out, frozen corpse, long gone and-

You lose your train of thought quickly. Everything starts to fracture, fissures forming in your consciousness, part of you already losing the battle to the inevitable, darkness pulling over your eyes like a knit hat, lungs heaving just a little harder with each breath.

You could just close your eyes. Just for a moment.

Light sweeps across the ground, flashing across your face. You think, if you were truly with it, in your right mind, you’d think it was too bright. You’d say it was blinding.

But you can’t formulate anything of the sort, mind too busy slipping away, falling into an inky black depth, just barely on the verge when you feel a gloved hand on your skin, the lilt of an accent on the wind.

Sleep.

You’re drifting. Falling through a stardusted, molasses filled haze, your mind ebbs and flows with consciousness; soft and warm feelings contrasted with sharp pain that bites through your body as if it’s slowly trying to eat you, chipping away piece by piece.

There are words, voices. There are hands too, fingers walking across your skin, limbs being moved, arranged, always with pain that’s followed by a hushed whisper of apology, a confusing sentiment in the dark. Your eyes won’t open. Your mouth won’t work. Your head is stuffed with cotton, wispy strands of connections that can’t quite get there, scrounging along the walls of your skull, trying to meet in the middle. You’re drowning, sinking to the bottom of a macabre pool, the one that’s infected your synapses and kept you just inside the shelter of delirium.

You try to call for help, but you can’t.

You try to swim to the surface, but the grisly black of your mind is never ending.

You’re dying, the tiny sliver of rational thought assures. Or you’re already dead.

Despair swells, and if you could feel your face, you’d think you were crying, lost to the sweeping desolation of your pain. It steals your breathe. Your sense. Everything becomes secondary to the obliterating agony that you feel.

Something touches your cheek. Your eyes fight to open, straining against the heaviness that weighs on them, just barely blinking wide enough to let some light in, your vision fuzzily trying to focus.

Wood beams come into view. A ceiling? Where-

You try to turn your head but an electric shock rattles through your brain, forcing you to slam your eyes shut again, world spinning on an uneven axis as something on the edge of your sight shifts. A monster. A man?

Something is said, whispered, and then everything fades away, your mind and body slipping beneath the waves of darkness.

The next time you surface, you manage to cling to consciousness long enough to take stock of your surroundings, realizing you’re tucked into a soft, warm bed almost immediately, something hot near your feet, pillows fluffed beneath you. A hand stitched quilt is spread across the top of copious other blankets and sheets, and your fingertips scratch against the fabric. Flannel.

You’re also awake long enough to truly experience the pain you’re in.

One thousand tiny knives rattle around in your skull, slicing into the soft matter of your brain, tearing you apart piece by piece, everything in you unmoored and off balance. Searing pain radiates up your leg, through your arm and wrist to your head and neck, and when your instinct urges you to try to move, your body screams in protest, the pain so intense that you cry out.

That’s when you see him.

A man steps towards you from the edge of your peripheral, and you freeze in terror.

“Shhh. We’re not goin’ hurt ye. Ye had a terrible accident. Pure luck we found ye when we did, dove. Ye would’ve died out there.” He coos in an accent, inching closer, and you manage to get a better look at him, recognition failing immediately. An accident? An accident… memories come flooding back, broken clips of the jeep spinning, rolling, the woods, the fear. Who is he? Where are you? Brilliant blue eyes look down at you with concern, handsome face tweaked into worry, furrow in his brow partially covered by the long strands of an overgrown mohawk. He’s pretty. “Can ye follow my finger?” He presents one in front of your nose, but it splits into two, and then three, just the attempt to focus enough to make your head throb, and a whimper escapes from your throat. “I know, I know.” There’s a ceramic mug in his hand, and he carefully lifts it to your lips, encouraging you as he tips it back, warm, sweet liquid washing down your throat. You can’t even move your arms to push him away, and when he seems to be satisfied, his thumb wipes the corner of your mouth. “Good love. Well done.” You feel woozy all of the sudden, maybe even a little nauseous, and you think you could be hallucinating when another man appears at the foot of the bed, handsome, but in a rugged way, watching you with honeyed brown eyes, the broadest, biggest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Those bones need setting.” He says, and the pretty one grimaces, fingertips trailing along your cheek.

“Maybe tomorrow. I’m still worried about the concussion.” His thumb cards across your brow.

“It’s been three days, Johnny. Can’t put it off too much longer.” Three days? Your brain latches onto the time. Three days of what? Since when? You’re starting to fade, trying to focus on what they’re saying but losing the battle horrendously when the blankets shift, warmth tucking down around your waist and shoulders, unable to react or even speak when they both press a kiss to your forehead, affectionate and longing touch that startles you until you’re losing the battle to sleep.

It's snowing.

You don’t have to see to know. There’s something about how it hangs in the air, how the world sounds during a snowfall that blankets everything: houses, trees, mountains… your mind.

You love the snow. Even as a child, winter was your favorite. Winter brought you a sense of calm, of peace. It’s what brought you back here, kept you here, even amidst the perils. The feeling of a forest, lying still beneath the soft spun expanse of white, the crisp smell of the air the morning of a big snow, the eternal quiet that exists in the night when everything is dampened by the weight of a million, billion, uniquely crystalized webs of frozen water.

This snow feels different. It doesn’t feel like a velvety white, candy-coated dream world; but a nightmare… one filled with pain, anxiety. Where are you? What’s happened?

And why do you hurt so fucking bad?

“You’re awake.” A deep voice says from your side, and you flinch on instinct, immediately wishing you hadn’t as lightning sharp pain zings through you, your voice breaking with a cry. “Easy.” He cautions, and your head stops swimming long enough for you to realize it’s the brown eyed man, the bigger one. He’s sitting in a chair that looks far too small for his width, watching you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed.

“Where… am I?” You manage to choke out through stiff lips, your head spinning and the world tilting at the same time. It sours your stomach, more than you thought possible, and you try to swallow the burn of bile that’s racing up your throat.

“Are you going to be sick?” He strokes your face, the touch nearly sweet, but confusing, and you hold your tongue, unsure. He sighs, expression shifting into disapproval, and then a frown. “Tell me.”

“N-no, I don’t-“ You can’t even finish your denial before your stomach is heaving and he’s springing into action, shifting you onto your side where a clean bucket sits right next to the bed. You wail in misery, pain shooting through your leg and arm, your ribs, bile and spit leaking from your mouth.

“It’s alright, that’s it.” A hand soothes up and down your back as you dry heave, sputtering on nothing, tears dripping to the wooden floorboards with a splash.

“Nnrgh-“

“I know, I know. Poor thing.” He coos, and it sounds… endearing, so sweet yet… frightening, like the poison of a predatory, a pretty display meant to draw you in before it snaps a set of jaws shut around your face.

Somewhere, nestled inside the last shards of your sanity, an alarm bell whistles, but the intensity of your pain quickly drowns it out, and you cry aloud.

“Hurts.” He rolls you back to your original position, arranging you like a doll. “It hurts.”

“I know it does, sweet girl, I know. We’re going to fix it.” A cloth dabs at your forehead and then down to clean your mouth, just as the man with the mohawk appears on the bed, one knee down, leaning over you, worry rife in his features.

“Poor baby. Were ye sick again?” Again? You blink up at him. What is going on? He presses a glass to your lips, urging you to drink, and then pulling it away after you’ve had a few sips with a gentle “not too much.”

“Who are you?” The water is cold, refreshing, but a ting acidic, and you wonder if it’s well water, maybe?

“I’m Johnny.” He’s setting up something beside you, organizing it, but you can’t turn your head to look, and can’t quite catch it from your peripheral. “An’ this is Simon. Or Si, but ye probably willnae be callin’ him that quite yet.” Quite yet? What? Did they find you? Did they rescue you? Why can’t you remember?

“What happened.” You try again, gritting your teeth.

“Ye had an accident, remember? We talked about it yesterday. Ye rolled off the road, ended up nearly down the mountain, in the thick of the trees. Ye’re lucky the one didnae impale ye.” Impale?

“And you found me?” You're starting to feel tired again, all the sudden, woozy and weird, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. Shouldn't you be in a hospital? Why haven't they taken you to a doctor?

“Aye, we did. Pulled ye out, brought ye home.” Home?

“You don’t have to worry.” Simon, the bigger one, tells you. “We’re going to take care of you.” Take care of who? Everything is foggy, clouded, and you try to shake your head in confusion.

“I don’t… why-“

“Storm is pretty bad. One of those, once in a lifetime types. Pass is closed.” You close your eyes. Of course. The pass is closed. You guess you’re lucky. They could have left you to die, and you could have never been found. You could have frozen to death. Bled out.

“Thank… thank you.” Johnny hums, and then you ripple in shock as he leans forward and brushes his lips against your mouth in a kiss. This… this is not normal? Are Scottish people just… more affectionate?

“Want ye to know, if we didnae have to do this, we woudnae.” What?

“Do what?” Simon casts you a mournful glance, rising from the chair. He’s got piece of leather in his hand, like a cut from a belt, and your eyes dart between them, fear freezing solid inside your pores. Do what?

“Bite down on this, precious.” Simon instructs, placing the swatch against your bottom lip, and you jerk away in protest, pain burning through your body.

“Do what?” You try to sound strong, demanding, but it comes out a little less than timid, and he gives you a sad smile.

“Your femur is broken.” A warm hand rests on your leg, over the covers, and you try to click the pieces together. “And I suspect your radius is, too. We need to set them.”

Oh. Oh no.

“N-no, no, you… you ca-can’t.” You stutter. They can’t. A doctor should be doing that, shouldn’t they? Johnny hovers over you, placing his palm on your belly, stroking upwards to the middle of your chest, the other holding firm across your collarbone. His touch is gentle, but strong, and his thumb rubs in a cautious motion against your skin, lightly grazing the underside of your breast. It feels weird, and wrong… intimate in a way that makes you shiver. “Please. Please, please… don’t-“

“It’s alright.” He shushes you, and the pressure increases against your body as Simon wedges a thick finger between your teeth, slipping the worn leather in your mouth, bracing around your wrist, his other hand holding your elbow. You gasp for air, adrenaline fueled by pain and fear coursing through you, and Johnny coos, telling you ye’ll be alright, that ye’re with them now, and they’ll take such good care of ye.

“Take a deep breath.” Simon urges, and you stare at him, wide eyed, pulse thundering in your ears.

“Ye’ll probably pass out, bonnie. We’ll get the second one done while ye’re down, and I already gave ye somethin’ for the pain.” He assures, like it’s supposed to relieve you, and your nostrils flare as something tightens against your arm. Simon’s grip.

This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare. How can this happen? No, nononono-

There’s a crack. A crunch. Burning, obliterating torture rockets up your arm, exploding inside you like a shot. You scream and bite down at the same time, raw misery trying to claw it’s way out of your throat. You think you’re crying, hallucinating from the pain, having a heart attack, fucking dying, all at once. It hurts, it hurts so bad, stop, please-

“We’re sorry, we’re sorry.” Simon soothes, thumb wiping your cheek, but you can hardly hear him, your brain starting to sever itself from reality, floating away as you slip inside the dark tomb of your mind, losing yourself to the fog as they both stare down at you, sickeningly saccharine concern layered overtop the faces of wolves, predators licking their maws in preparation for a meal.

You sleep and wake in a haze.

You sleep. Your dreams are torments, visions of being chased through the mountains by monsters, being pinned to the ground, teeth tearing into your throat with no preamble, or nightmares of drowning, being swallowed by the ocean, lungs sputtering with concrete laden sea water.

You wake. Your vision blurs, mind scrambled by pain, vaguely aware of being moved, carried to the bathroom, held upright over a toilet, gentle touch soothing up and down your back, heavy palm cupping curve of your skull when your head is tipped back and something is dribbled past your lips. You blink blearily with stone weighted lids, taking in the room bit by bit, the wrought iron bed frame, crackling flames sparking in a fireplace, mountain of pillows sagging with the imprint of your body. Your limbs are wrapped and unwrapped, immobilized, and shifted, and the pain is enough to make you gasp for air, tipping you over into the decaying depths of unconsciousness again and again.

You sleep. Restless, chilled. Ice spreads from the nerves in the tip of your nose to your brain, your fingers, and you try to burrow it deeper, seeking the comfort of the pillows, but finding warm skin and muscle instead. In your sleep, it’s lovely. It’s comforting. Even when you’re rolled to your side, something sticking under your tongue, you chase the heady thick heat that seems to roll off the limbs around you.

You wake. There are voices, deep and rumbling, bouncing through the room. Warm water dabbing down your neck, your belly, your legs. You’re too hot, uncomfortable and smothered until you hear a sharp pitched snarl accompanied by a yank, and then there’s a void of emptiness around you.

You sleep.

You wake. The pain starts to change, melting into something that’s consistent, throbbing, but a little less sharp, unless you move, and then it shrieks through your nerves like an electrical shock, vibrating your jaw shut.

You sleep.

You wake. They’re there. Simon is dabbing a cool washcloth across your forehead. You try to flex away on instinct, but firm hands stop you, holding you in place.

“Hey there, dove.” Johnny whispers, smiling. It’s a shy kind of smile, sweet, and the world spins. You grapple with reality, trying to remind yourself where you are, what happened. The fire snaps and pops behind Simon, who stands at his side, massive hand on his shoulder. “Made ye some breakfast. Think ye can eat somethin’?” Breakfast? A steaming bowl of oats sits cradled in his hand, spoon at the ready. Nausea roars, enflamed by the pain in your bones, and you shake your head. “Ye need to eat. Been givin’ ye soup for the past few days, but ye need more carbs.”

“I- I don’t understand.” You try to explain your confusion, hundreds of questions brewing on your tongue, trying to spill out.

“You’ve been in and out consciousness for the last week.” Simon explains, and your eyes widen.

“What?” Panic knots, twisting you up tight, heart fluttering in your chest.

“We had to sedate you. Needed to keep you still through the first part of the healing process.”

“You… you drugged me?” You stammer, and Simon smiles, but it’s not sweet like Johnny’s. It’s severe. It’s dangerous.

“Soft calluses form around fractures, after they’ve been set.” He sits down on the other side of the bed, across your hips from Johnny. “Your breaks aren’t in casts, so we needed to minimize your movement until the calluses could strengthen.”

“Ye willnae be able to walk on the leg, or lift anything with that arm, but we’ll help ye.” Johnny assures. “We’ll be here for ye, as ye get better.” The words don’t compute, and you look at both of their faces, sweeping back and forth, blue eyes to brown, brown to blue, until the only thing that you can think of blurts out of your mouth:

“Where’s my phone?” There’s a flash of discontent in Johnny’s features, but it’s quickly smoothed away, and you wonder if it even there in the first place.

“I imagine it’s somewhere near where your jeep rolled. We weren’t exactly concerned with finding it, considering we were trying to save your life.” Simon’s hands flex in the sheets, and then relax, serious look on his face, and guilt swamps you. Right. They saved your life. You could have died. And the pass is closed. Maybe this is all… as normal as it can be, given the situation. Calm down.

Still…

Didn’t Johnny kiss you?

The spoon clinks against the bowl, jolting you back to the moment, eyeing the scoop of oats as it drifts closer to your mouth, lips parting on instinct.

The first bite is difficult, an insipid, unsavory lump sliding down into your stomach, toothy grin stretching across Johnny’s face as you swallow. The second bite is easier. So is the third, and you manage a few more after that until you start to feel wooly, head fuzzy and stomach sick. “I can’t.” You bleat, and he nods sympathetically.

“Alright, ye did good.” Sleep tugs, insistent again, strong surge of fog pulling at your eyes, and you yawn.

“Tired?” Simon’s already moving, hovering, patiently adjusting your pillows and lazily urging you into them. “You should rest.” You’re too weak, too miserable to argue, so you let yourself fade to black, easily falling back into the webbed slush of sleep.

You drift in and out for days after that. A bright spot of consciousness here and there before it dissipates and you fall into oblivion, and you find yourself embracing it as often as possible, trying to escape into yourself, away from wooden beams and potential predators that flank you.

You’re content to let it stay that way, hiding away behind closed lids for as long as possible, until the morning you feel the washcloth.

“Sh-sh-shhh.” Johnny hums when you garble out a distressed question, tipping a glass to your mouth. Cold liquid rushes across your tongue, and you have no choice but to swallow, confusion webbing across your thoughts. Simon has the blankets pulled away, chilled air nipping and your skin, and you moan. It’s strange, like you’re exposed, half floating like you’re high, and half spiraling through your pain.

“It’s okay, we’ve got you.” They’re repositioning you, arms and legs like a little doll, and you frown. “Jus’ need to get you clean.” Clean? The washcloth coasts across your neck and down to your chest, warm water soaking a trail down your breasts. You’re naked, fully, a hot palm against your hip, skin on skin contact registering as you blink fuzzily, watching the way Johnny focuses on you, concentration shining in his stunning blue eyes.

Water sloshes. Squeezing and dripping, and then the warm, nearly hot cloth is being pressed against you, stroking over your nipples, washing the underside of your breasts. It feels nice, and you whine a little when it pulls away. Simon chuckles.

“Do ye like that?” Johnny coos, reapplying the cloth to your belly. “Does that feel good?” Does it? Is it supposed to? Your vision doubles then realigns, and you stare at the underside of Simon’s jaw, mesmerized by the scar on his chin, the width of his neck. He readjusts you, again, slowly moving your knees apart, spreading your legs, and heat climbs through your bones to your cheeks.

You’re naked. They’re fully clothed.

“We’re goin’ clean this up a bit.” Simon murmurs, a thick finger tracing along your slit, through the soft curls between your legs, and you balk. Clean what? How?

“My… my-“ you can’t even get the words out, too embarrassed, and he nods, sliver flash of a razor twinkling in his hand. The air in your chest sputters.

“Your hair.” Johnny works the washcloth back and forth, water dripping down your skin to the towel that’s been placed under your hips, you can only lay there in mortification when you feel yourself getting wet, tepid arousal roaring to life between your legs. “If you’re a good girl for us,” Simon continues, spraying a big glob of shaving cream into Johnny’s palm, “we’ll give you a treat afterwards. How’s that sound?”

“A treat?” You squeak, and then whimper, Johnny’s fingers creeping down your slit, rubbing the cream across your pubis and labia, heel brushing against your clit. You make a noise of a protest, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Ye’re alright.” He coos, bumping against the swollen bud again, and you try to stop the moan that builds in your chest with no success, slamming your eyes shut and trying to disappear into the pillows. “It’s natural, dove. Ye dinnae need to feel embarrassed.” He leans forward, slotting his mouth against yours, lips soft and fragrant in a pillowy sweet kiss that lasts too long, his eyes blissfully closed in front of your almost crossed ones.

“Please…” you whisper, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, and Johnny coos at you, bending at the waist to get a better vantage point between your legs. You shake your head, eyes wide with disbelief, with fear, your mind trying to catch up, trying to rationalize what’s happening at the same time as your body is betraying you, slicking the cream that’s lathered between your thighs, clit pulsing with desperate need.

“I- I don’t want you to… shave me.” You whisper. You don’t want them to touch you… there, and the panic that’s pulsing between your ears continues to rise as your protests go unnoticed. Just saying it out loud makes you want to die of embarrassment, and Simon clucks.

“We have to take care of you, sweet girl.” Simon grips your thigh, fingers pressing into flesh, and the cool blade of the razor moves against the grain with a flick of his wrist, drawing back to a bucket for a rinse before a repeat, breath frozen in your chest as he slowly eliminates the curls of your pubic hair. “It will be easier to do that, to see what you need without all this.” He hums, the smile of a wolf coy on his face. “Stay nice and still for us.” They work in tandem, perfectly synchronized, and your unwanted arousal starts to overpower the pain that’s radiating from your broken bones. It’s been so, so long since you’ve been touched by anyone, and your body does not care that you didn’t want this, or agree to it, too eager to be satisfied, to be touched in anyway it can get, and it gets worse, more intense the longer it goes on, the precise movements of their hands, the slow and methodical approach to your cunt. “Almost done.” Simon tells you, and the side of his finger passes over your clit unintentionally, and you whine. “I know, I know. You’re bein’ so good. Such a good girl.” Your good hand is shaking, gripping the sheets, and when he finishes, Johnny wipes you down with a clean cloth, passing over your clit again and again, electric shocks sparking in your belly. You’re paralyzed, helpless, and yet… soaked. Desperate. The warring emotions tear at you, shame and fear and desire rendering you speechless.

“I think ye need some relief, dove.” Johnny hums, looking from your pussy to Simon, both of them tilting their heads to stare between your legs. “Poor thing is so swollen, Si.”

“Do you want to touch her, Johnny? Give her a reward?” Simon asks him, so sweetly, and Johnny shimmies down to be eye level with your pussy, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Half of you screams no. Half of you shouts yes.

All you can do is watch, helplessly, as they settle themselves between your legs, Simon over Johnny’s shoulder, tempering his frenzied excitement with assured patience.

“Will ye show me how?” He’s eager, and you frown, confused.

“Johnny’s never made a girl come before,” Simon tells you gently. “You’ll be his first.” Oh my god. “Will you help him? Tell him what feels good?” Your brain melts. You don’t know what to say, mouth half open, staring at the both of them, and after a few seconds, Simon sighs like he’s exasperated with you, before ducking back down next to Johnny and murmuring softly to him, probing along your cunt, finger dipping into your hole, swirling in the wetness gathered there and then moving up to your slit. You gasp, eyes nearly rolling back in your head.

“She likes that.” Johnny groans, breath blowing over your exposed flesh, and Simon takes his hand, thumb over thumb, guiding him in small circles around your clit.

“Nice an’ slow at first, when you’re rubbin’ her clit. Feel how hard it is?” He instructs, pressing a kiss to the side of Johnny’s head, and he nods enthusiastically, looking up at Simon with wide, puppy dog eyes, sappy and saturated with love. It’s sweet, and affectionate, like they’re the only ones in the room, in the world… and you’re intruding on a private moment between these two men and your body. Like you’re a bystander. Or a doll. It’s confusing, your brain trying to sort everything that’s happening into neat little boxes that keep overflowing or falling apart, fracturing under the weight of your helplessness, the shock and fear that’s nearly made you dizzy. “See how her little hole is clenchin’ like that? It’s ‘cause she’s empty, needs to be filled up. When she comes, she’ll get real tight.” He explains, your body enflaming in mortified heat. They’re pushing you closer and closer to an orgasm, and Simon increases the speed as your hips jolt.

“Fuck.” You hiss.

“That’s it.” Simon coaches. “Are you close, sweet girl? Gonna come for us?” You shake your head, but even if you wanted to close your legs, you couldn’t. You’re trapped, lost in a sea of wild waves that break directly over your head, one after another until you’re drowning, gasping, muscles so tight they burn, pain in your arm and leg a secondary concern behind the pressure in your belly, the zap of your clit as they drag you too easily to the bottom, before sending you breaking through the surface.

You come with a distressed moan, hips jerking, and then a raspy plea for them to stop, telling them it’s too much, you’re too sensitive, to which Simon wraps his hand around Johnny’s wrist and pulls his hand away.

“We can’t overwhelm her just yet. Gotta wait until she’s healed up, hm?” He murmurs, reaching for the cloth. You blink at the ceiling, drifting, floating away, little boxes in your mind broken up into gnarled pieces that don’t make sense.

What just happened?

You stay silent, blank, as they settle you, cloth cleaning between your legs, blankets being fussed with around your body, pillows plumped. Simon curls some of your unruly hair behind your ear, swooping down until the breadth of his body blocks out all the light in the room, lips brushing over your ear. “What a good girl you are, dove. Did so well, letting Johnny give you an orgasm. So sweet for him.” He tucks you in a little tighter, and Johnny ducks around him, kissing you gently, like you’re made of glass, thrilled smile tugging at his cheeks, unfettered joy the last thing you see before your eyes slip shut.

The next time you wake, Johnny is in bed with you. It’s dark, a flickering orange glow casting shadow across the room, and you startle at the weight of his arm stretched across your chest, cradling you close, half curled around you like a cat. You turn, face to face, his mouth slightly agape, breath blowing over your cheek. You can’t get enough leverage on one leg to slide out from under him, and when you squirm, he only tightens his grip, pinning you to the bed. You’re overheated, and when you peek over his shoulder to get a look at the fire, you see Simon instead, sitting upright in a chair, fully awake, watching you. White hot fear shocks your system, forcing your eyes down in disbelief, surprise, his chair creaking in the night. Your breath stops in your chest, and then there’s a hand smoothing over your forehead, as he leans past you to brush his lips against Johnny’s, and then rough stubble presses against your cheek with a jagged whisper.

“Sweet dreams, little dove.”

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