arina

I sometimes write smut and fluff. Masterlist

[arinapop]

Dirty Work

A/N: It’s Christmas time here. Is it Christmas yet where you are, reader?

Reader x ARTMS Heejin fluff

2k words

I'm a fool to do your dirty work, oh yeah

I don't wanna do your dirty work, no more

Pulling on her hoodie strings, Heejin asks, “Are you gonna get the slide deck ready by tonight?”

“Probably, yeah.” You look up, still typing away at the keyboard.

“Give me at least some time to have a second look before the meeting.” She flashes a smile. “Irene didn't like the numbers last time.”

“The numbers are the numbers, Heejin. What does she expect me to do - magically change the metrics into something they're not?”

“Which is why - I said - try and give me some review time.” Her eyes settle on a bobblehead on the table next to you. “What am I your mentor for?”

“To show me around the cafés.”

“That I do on my own unpaid time, thank you very much.” She taps the toy’s head - on the otherwise empty table - and it springs back with a sharp bounce. “Looks like the rest of the team isn’t in today either.”

“Yeah, well - Christmas week. Unlike me, most people have a life.” A momentary pause, then you squint your eye at the unsaid implication with her right there. There's lines, you see - unspoken, but drawn all the same. You're supposed to be coworkers - same team - but there's boundaries you don’t cross.

Her hand presses down on the toy’s head, holding it still. “Lunch?”

“Sure. Yes. Where do you wanna go?”

—

You raise a hand at her from far behind. She's looking around, tray piled high with three bowls of food. Her eyes catch yours - and she starts mouthing something, but it's anyone’s guess what. Finally she gives up, and walks over to the table.

“I was asking if you wanted the cake. It just got refilled, so I figured you probably didn't have the chance to pick one up.”

“Oh - no,” you blurt out without thinking.

Maybe you did. Either way, it's too late to change your mind now.

“Sure? You can have half of mine.” She furrows her brow.

Well, it can only be a stronger no now. Dig a hole, and you have to lie in it. Or something.

“Yeah. Sure. Eating light today.”

She glances at the four slices of pizza you've appropriately chosen to take today. “Light.”

“No sugar light, I mean.” The hole only gets deeper.

“Suit yourself,” she says, taking a bite of the pasta. “I'm not getting scammed by airport prices later, so I'm filling up while I can.”

“Oh, right,” you recall. “Packing all done?”

“Yeah, did most of it over the weekend.” She sighs. “My room got so moldy last time; I'll keep the windows open.”

“You could maybe leave the fan on too,” you suggest.

“I thought of that, but I don't want my roommates to think I'm careless or something.” She spins her fork, tapping the back of it against her chin. “Maybe I'll inform them in advance.”

“Yeah. Maybe you should.” You take a bite of the pizza, which is actually surprisingly light.

“What did you do this weekend?”

You look up at the ceiling. “Bed-rotted, mostly. Caught a movie.”

Chomping on her pasta, she gestures with her hand - which one?

“A documentary.”

Gestures again - about what?

“Uhh…”

—

“I think I had too much. Why did you choose this place?” she asks, stepping out the door.

“Did I?” You raise a hand at the sun, squinting. “I kinda don't remember who suggested.”

“Me neither. But the junior's supposed to take the blame.”

“Blame taken.” A curt bow with your head. “A walk could help,” you offer.

“In this heat? My knees have been hurting too.” She thinks for a few seconds. “Alright, maybe it'll help.”

The main entrance rolls by: workers hanging lights from the ceiling, Christmas trees being unloaded from a truck, decorations lining the wall.

“Dunno if it'll be ready by the time I leave today,” she muses. “Bet it's gonna look real pretty when it's done.”

“What time's your flight?”

“Seven, but I'll be leaving earlier - going with my roommate whose flight’s an hour before mine. Save the costs, y'know?”

“Smart.” You nod. “Better to be early than late, too.”

“Tell me about it.” Heejin laughs. “One time my cab ran out of gas on the way - can you believe it?” Her index finger traces slow, soft circles at her temple. “It was kinda the middle of nowhere, too. Scary! I made the driver stay till my next cab came. I thought my flight was gone.“

“Was it?”

“No. But why take risks again?”

You run a hand through your hair. “Maybe you can also tell her in the cab - about the fan.”

“Well, the assumptions will start the moment we leave the house. So I’ll probably have to tell her before that.”

“Smart.” You tap your finger against your jeans. “Guess that's why you're the mentor.”

Heejin's eyes drift back to the Christmas tree, naked and bare. Not dressed up - not yet - for her night of the year. “I really hope they finish decorating soon.”

—

“Ugh, I am in no mood to resolve these compliance issues,” she sighs. “Will probably work on these in the airport later.”

Your eyebrows perk. “Are they urgent?”

“Not really. I’ll be bored. What else to do?”

You stare past her. A slight drizzle falls; not the kind that calls for an umbrella, but enough to leave shadows ghosting on the long office windows. It’ll wash away her question too - what else to do?

Heejin starts packing her bag: her laptop slides into the compartment, and her headphones follow suit. She throws a half-eaten pack of peppermints in her hoodie pocket.

“Leaving?” you ask.

“In a bit. I’ll go have coffee downstairs, then leave.” She smiles. “So - Merry Christmas!”

So if you draw a decision tree here, there’s a few ways to take this. When it’s just the two of you, she usually calls you for coffee. But if she doesn’t ask, there’s really just one valid option - however unappealing. Not much of a tree, more like a stem. Of course, you didn’t actually draw the tree before saying what you did; it just happened to coincide with what you would have said if you did:

“Merry Christmas, and have a safe flight!”

“Thanks, take care.”

—

Sunset, and you're leaving. Slide deck is not anywhere near done, and that's just as well. You'll be bored when you get home - what else to do?

Some calculations - you'll have a couple hours until her flight lands, and ideally you want to send it to her by then. She's not gonna stay up for what is technically your work. Why would she?

Meeting’s first thing in the morning, and she's definitely not a morning person. So - if you’re gonna send - it has to be by tonight.

You walk past the first block, music playing in your ears. The headphones are bright, but outside noises creep in from time to time. A car horn, a screeching bike, and when you get close enough - workers chatting loudly.

You turn, and the main entrance looks much the same as before. A few more lights, a few more ornaments on the Christmas tree - but still not nearly as pretty as she should be.

Why aren't they done? Isn't it supposed to be ready by tomorrow?

Maybe they planned on working the night.

What else to do?

—

Heejin joins the call - “Hey, good morning. We have, what, five minutes before the meeting starts?”

“Hm, yeah. Ballpark.” You fidget with the UI, trying to put your slides on. “Can you see my screen?”

“Mhm.” She smiles, peering behind you. “Didn't go to the office today?”

“No I stayed up all night working on the slides, and, uhh…” See, there's a thread you can follow here. She asked you something, and you can maybe ask something back - how was the flight? reached on time this time? but -

She cuts off the phantom thread: “I see. Okay - walk me through it. Quick, quick, quick.”

What started as a smile on Heejin's face - step-by-step - evolves into a frown as the slides roll by. Much to your concern.

Thank-you slide, and “Well?” you ask.

“Well,” she says, shaking her head, “this won't do. Irene's gonna grill you on this.”

You cover your face in disbelief. Disbelief is… rich. Not like you didn't know the data sucked. Just that you didn't want to admit it, hear it said out so loud. Not this soon, atleast.

Heejin exhales sharply and sits up straight. “You're still gonna have to present - I already told Irene that. But the cross-questions, maybe I can take them.”

“But…” you stutter. “Are you sure? You - you don't even have context on the numbers.”

“I'll go through them quickly, build a narrative. You just - focus on - ”

Irene joins the call.

—

You weren't planning to go to the office today. It just didn't feel right not to, after this morning. You could swear the lack of sleep was killing you but - here you are, standing in front of the main entrance.

You were never someone who cared much for aesthetics like these. Sure, they looked nice - yellow lights shimmering on the walls, a Christmas tree dressed in ornaments from top to bottom, lanterns swaying gently from the ceiling - but that’s all they were to you: nice. Nothing more.

Again, it's not planned or anything, but when every passer-by is pulling out their phone for a click - it just feels wrong not to. So you do, too.

There's a bit of a crossroads here, a decision tree: you have the picture on your phone - you can now either just keep it, let it weigh down on you. Or do something with it.

And that's when lines come into the picture. There are lines, sure, but they're not well defined. When you're far enough in either direction, it's clear which side you’re on. But when you hover near the edge - around where dots blur - who's to tell where you stand? It's not an exact science.

You wish it were, but it's not.

So, like all other things, you'll leave it up to fate. You're in the lobby - surrounded by automatic doors on all sides - and your elevator is here. Cool. While coming back down, if your ride is on the right, you'll hit send; otherwise, well.

Yeah.

—

Sunset again, and you're leaving. You press the down button and wait for your ride to arrive politely.

After a long day of trying to disambiguate the position of the line - not much unlike a high-school math problem - it's time for you to receive your answer. The gods themselves will decide what's right. And you'll receive the message, of course, if you remember which way you were pointing when you decided on left and right.

You do remember, right?

The thread floats in the air, still. A few seconds.

A ping shuts it down. The lift has arrived, and you'll have to get on. There's people waiting. There's a line.

You don't remember which way you were pointing, but you sure know which way you hope you were.

Open work chat, and Heejin’s name sits at the top - reacted thumbs up to thanks for saving my ass.

Pull up the picture and type: “you wanted to see it fully dressed up - well, there ya go.”

Your finger hovers over the send button for a couple of seconds, then presses down. Hard.

A typing bubble pops up almost instantly, then vanishes just as quick: “hehe thanks for sharing, it looks really good!!!”

Perhaps it's just very photogenic.

You'll smile nonetheless.

—

[yieldtotemptation]

ARTHOUSE ft. Asa

asa x male reader smut

10k words

It’s becoming a habit of hers.

You’ve got good at it—reading the signs. Sensing the shift in her before she even moves.

Asa, sidling up. Pressing every soft, dangerous inch of herself against you. Giving you that look—lips pushed out in the brattiest pout, eyes heavy and starving for attention.

Deciding, all on her own, that it’s been far too long since she's had your hands on her ass, fingers marking up her skin. Since she's had your cock, rutting deep into her tight cunt and replacing every ache with something meaner.

Her breath hits your ear. Hot. Sweet pretence. All fake innocence pinned to a single question: “Do you wanna know what I’m thinking?”

You don’t reply. Never do.

It’s always the same damn thing.

She can’t help it. She’s just wired this way.

Straight from whatever factory cranks out these flawless dolls, only they either messed up with Asa or made her the upgrade—edges filed sharper, running at a temperature that’s frankly unbearable.

See, on the surface, the framework’s all perfect: the high cheekbones, the wide-eyed blush—the kind of face that’s designed to be stared at.

But look closer.

Trace where the image starts to drift. Heavy, ink-dark smudge of eyeliner. Lethal cut of her jaw. That smile. It’s dangerous. It’ll lodge in your brain for the rest of the day—rearrange everything—and it’s just dangling there off the corner of her hot-pink lips.

Throw in the coup de grâce: the strip of midriff she refuses to hide. Sure, she’ll dip a baseball cap over her eyes, wear a facemask to cover her mouth, but those abs must always be on display—the lean, hard promise of just how punishingly tight she’s going to feel when you finally get inside her.

“Asa,” you warn, a half-hearted dismissal. You keep your eyes on the large screen at the front of the theatre. There’s a hero, a damsel, a car chase. All the hits. “I’m trying to watch.”

It’s more of a courtesy than anything, not giving in too fast.

Wouldn’t want to spoil your girl.

But she’s completely tuned out the screen. There’s a car crash playing a couple dozen feet in front of her, all fire and twisted metal, but she couldn’t care less.

“Please,” she tries. Testing the waters. Falling back on old tricks.

You sigh.

You’re supposed to be the voice of reason here. Officially: her choreographer, dance teacher. Paid to instruct her how to move, to drill proper form into her. Not just… drill her.

The fact that she looks this good—that’s on you.

Don’t need to see her mouth beneath her mask to know she’s pouting right now. Easy enough to picture: plump lip out, jutting. Not that it’s needed. Her eyes are doing all the heavy lifting anyway.

She keeps at it, working her way through her favourites, “Please, coach.”

You roll your eyes. Asa clocks it. Decides to work harder.

“Sir,” there’s an uptick in her tone, the beginnings of a whine, and she keeps running down the list, “boss,” and she’s even closer now, nuzzling into your space. The armrest is already up, the only barrier cleared between your seats. And it’s the silhouette of her—sharp angles locked in deep shadows, framed like sin.

Those endless legs peeking out of her shorts. The plunging neckline of her low-cut top. The far-too-familiar curve of her hips.

Close enough to feel the humid heat of her breath. It’s trapped under the mask, hitting your skin damp and heavy. You can hear her stuttering something muffled; low whispers. Dialogue a hell of a lot more interesting than any script could cook up.

The things she’s telling you.

Oh, Asa’s got kinks on top of kinks. Exhibitionism, obviously. Desperate to be seen, adored, watched—reason enough to become an idol.

And yet, this is her favourite game. She knows the stakes—getting caught, ruining herself, her career, the carefully curated image. Willing to torch it all for a big cock and a generous helping of cum spilling out of her.

You can feel it pouring off her—her heart slamming against your shoulder, begging for what comes next. It’s the lead-up to the biggest kink of them all—the one she cries out every time you end up tangled together, the confession she spills when she finally unravels—in quiet moments, loud ones.

(After you’ve left her limp from fucking her inside and out, and you’re cradling her from behind and she just can’t let it go. She’ll guide your palm down from her tits to the curve of her stomach. Needing you to feel it. The ridge, the ripple, the little piercing there—a bullseye for what she really wants.

“Imagine it,” she’ll tell you, sounding like she’s caught somewhere between worshipping you and pleading for your mercy, “Imagine me. Filled with your cum. So deep in my belly.”

It’s the word that’s always dancing on her tongue, so easy to say, like it’s automatic.

“You could do it, you know? Make me yours—forever. Breed me, knock me up, you could be my—”)

“Daddy.”

“Asa,” you try again. Your brain isn’t offering much else.

“Come on,” she says, leaning into it, zero interest in pretending otherwise. “I’m gonna, like, die if I don’t have your hands on me soon.”

You nod toward the empty rows ahead. Reminding her just how little privacy exists here. Aware that you’re poking at the flame but, well, fuck it—you have far less at risk here. Besides, denying her is half the fun. “You’re the one who wanted to come here.”

"And you’re the one who picked the seats and the session,” she answers. She’s already scanning the dark. “Put us right in the back corner. There’s like, three other people here. I’m sure they’d be more entertained by this than whatever the fuck’s happening up there.”

She’s not wrong.

“Can’t we just skip the part where we pretend to disagree? Get to when you start calling me all those names, and I’m cumming all over your gorgeous cock?” She offers, way too casually for your liking. “It’s been so long—"

“It’s barely been a day.”

“Twenty-four whole hours.”

You’ve tried to train it out of her. Girls like her—everything comes easy. And yeah, it’s for good reason too—she’s insanely hot, no secret there. But she’s also barely hitting twenty. Young, sure, but the age gap? Hairline fracture, not a canyon. But just enough of a reach to give her the leverage she needs.

The ‘Daddy’ of it all, the kink she cultivates. Knowing the spin it puts on your whole student-teacher dynamic. A girl who should be out partying with classmates. Instead—devoted to begging her big, strong… whatever you are. Dance partner. Dildo.

“Daddy,” she says again, lingering on the word. Like it’s something sweet. Worth hanging onto. It’s such an easy out for her.

Her whining finally gets to you. Has you turning away from the flashing screen to look down at her.

She capitalises on it immediately. Preens. Uses a touch of her natural charm and all of her distracting cleavage. Watches you from underneath the dark sweep of those lashes.

It’s unfair. This is the one routine she’s got down perfectly.

But you don’t give her the satisfaction yet. Just raise an eyebrow. You’ve always enjoyed the preamble more than she does—there’s a certain joy in seeing her squirm. Making her work for it.

“Really?” The question comes out low, hitting that note you usually save for instruction. You can’t help it. It’s reflex around her. “Here, Asa?”

Asa blinks, unable to see the issue. Looking up with that faux-innocence that doesn’t stand a chance against your scrutiny. “Why not? How’s it different from anywhere else?”

Instinct has you moving before you can talk yourself out of it. You reach out, a thumb against her chin, a finger hooked under to tilt her face up. Getting a better angle.

She helps you, pressing into your palm to snag the mask’s strap. Tugs it down, letting it bunch at her chin before it slips free.

When it finally drops, her mouth is right there. Open. Spilling these hot, needy breaths over your fingers. Eager to place a kiss on your shoulder, before trailing up, closer and closer to your neck. Ready to plead her case.

“You never had a problem backstage—” Her lips graze your jaw, hot and slow.

(Fuck. Instant replay: green room, stage makeup just put on, legs spread on the vanity while you knelt and ate her out slow—tongue dragging until she was shaking, tasting like salt and adrenaline. Sending her out dripping, curtain up, crowd screaming, none the wiser.)

She shifts, breath ghosting your cheek. Teeth snag your earlobe. “—or on our plane rides—”

(Turbulence rattling the cabin, blanket over your lap, her head hidden underneath. Choking herself down on your cock, gagging quiet every time the plane dipped—deeper with each bump, eyes watering when you finally spilled down her throat.)

Her mouth trails higher. “You loved cumming between my thighs on that train, remember?”

(Packed car at rush hour. Crushed against the door like tourists. Her back to your chest, hand snaking behind to guide you between her thighs—just slick heat and smooth skin. Every lurch of the tracks made her squeeze tighter, milking you until you came across her legs, both of you pretending like she hadn’t just figured out your deepest, repressed fantasy.)

“And you’ve never had a problem fucking me after practice.”

(That first time. Sweat-soaked studio, mirrors everywhere. She cornered you. This sweet young thing, the casual hand on your arm, holding tight. You actually fell for the act, thought it was just innocent charm for a better spot in the lineup—a little more time front and centre.

If only you knew.

The first time she asked if you could read her mind.

No words. Just spun her to face the reflection, pinned her there, ripped the sports bra off her, tore a hole in those leggings. Fucked her against the glass until the mirror fogged and she was calling your name into her own warped image.)

And here she is again.

Same impatient smile. Clock ticking down. Eyes dropping to your lips for half a second.

“Haven’t I been a good girl?”

Ah, fuck it.

The movie’s pretty shit anyway.

Your answer’s always the same—a hand clasped on the back of her neck, the other gripping her thigh, and your mouth hard against hers.

Asa melts.

It isn’t a soft kiss. She wouldn’t let it be. Already biting at your lip, nails digging into your chest, through the fabric. Pulled together so tight the brim of her hat knocks against your brow—then it’s gone, tumbling somewhere between the rows.

She’s flush against you, but it’s still not close enough. Still not satisfied, scrambling into your lap—one knee braced on the seat, the other hooked over your thigh.

It’s a mess. A starving, desperate thing. She’s losing track of where she is, her world narrowing down to your hands and nothing else.

See, Asa lives for this—you squeeze and she’s smiling against your mouth, letting out these shaky, happy sighs that tell you that there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

It’s like running your fingers over heated stone, nothing soft that isn’t backed by muscle—that lean dancer’s build. You’re deeper in her mouth now, tongue taking what it wants while your hand maps the line of her shoulder, dropping down to catch the weight of her tits.

Your other hand is having a hell of a time with her shorts. Practically painted on her skin, vacuum-sealed over her hips. You’ve got your fingers hooked into the waistband, but the denim is stubborn, snagging hard on the curve of her.

Asa makes this low, frustrated sound against your lips.

It’s a battle—an inch-by-inch victory, Asa arching back and lifting herself off the seat—until the fabric finally gives.

The second you slip past the edge and slide inside—fingers finally finding bare, slick heat—Asa jerks taut. Whole body arching, hips snapping forward to chase the contact, breath fracturing into something dangerously close to a whimper.

You don't let it escape.

Your palm instinctively clamps hard over her mouth, muffling the sound before it can grow.

She doesn't fight it.

No—she welcomes the restraint. Leans forward until her lips part against your skin, tongue flicking wet against your palm. Low, filthy moans vibrating straight through your bones, each one a little wetter, a little more broken.

You can feel the exact second she decides this is better: your hand sealing her shut while your fingers slide deeper inside her shorts, stretching that denim, making her drip down onto your digits.

No lace to meet you—she’s bare underneath.

Why wouldn’t she be? She never wears anything on the off chance that you might actually—inevitably—touch her.

“Asa,” you say, teasing. Unable to help the grin plastered across your face. “Keep it down. People can hear you.”

She draws back. Just enough. Lips drag slow across your thumb, soft and deliberate. Fixated. Gone. “So what?” She whimpers, voice cracking high. “Let them.”

It’s dumb as hell to let things get this stupid. You strive to keep your books clean, keep things on the straight and narrow. Fuck, half your job is centred around maintaining discipline.

But honestly? Try pretending it’s all some unfortunate accident. Like you’re the poor, unwilling teacher who just got dragged into the temptation of his student.

(Asa—barely dressed, dignity in tatters. Like you never wanted her this obsessed, this unhinged for you.)

You lean close, lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Who taught you to act like this?”

She doesn’t hesitate—answer slurring hot and wet against your palm: “You did, Daddy.”

Jesus Christ.

You pull her closer, hand staying, muffling her, and glance around. Just a handful of people scattered at the far ends of the theatre—safe distance, for now.

Not that Asa even cares. She’s already past words. Busy chasing her breath the second you finally lean some real weight into those fingertips.

To her credit, she’s holding back the worst of it; all you get are those high, pretty moans when your fingers finally take the full measure of her aching pussy. Her folds part so easily—red, swollen. So ready for you.

She wriggles, trying to force her shorts lower, but there’s barely enough room to move. You just drag a slow, punishing circle around her clit—teasing that makes her cry.

“Gah—” she chokes against your palm, the rest dissolving into shaky, broken sounds. It’s every press—her thighs clamp and release in frantic pulses, like she can’t process it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

She’s just so soaked. Like, embarrassingly soaked.

Most girls don’t fall apart this hard, this quick. They moan, maybe whimper a bit. They don’t flood your hand like this, don’t leave the denim dark and heavy, don’t sob these quiet, wrecked little hitches the second your fingers finally get to work.

“Fucking hell, Asa,” you’re saying, but you’re the last person that should be surprised.

You taught her how to use every inch of that body, every pose that gets the cameras hard. This is your fault as much as hers.

“You’re a disaster. Look at you. Haven’t even got inside you yet.”

You shift your grip, letting her gulp down some air, right as the movie’s score starts to swell, drowning everything else out.

“I tried,” she rasps, pupils blown. “It’s just—you should know. Bringing me here. Dark room, public place. I’ve been thinking about feeling you inside me since we bought the tickets.“

"Hm." You shift your weight, changing tempo. Your first finger pushes into her opening, while the knuckles of your other hand find their way past her lips. Something to bite, to gag on. "I guess you’re right.”

Her eyes go wide. She’s caught between the feeling—fingers spreading her open below, doing what they can in the confines of her shorts. Which is not much—other than apply pressure. Make her feel you—feel the potential of how much you could ruin her.

“I did bring you here—chose this session, these seats. Because it gets me fucking hard, knowing I can have you wherever, whenever—if I want to.”

And from the speakers above, the orchestra’s reaching its peak, and hidden in that noise, around your knuckles, Asa manages a broken, “Oh God.”

There’s no guesswork when it comes to it. It doesn’t even take much effort anymore.

It’s almost too easy—just you, getting your hands dirty while she unravels around your fingers. But you don’t cut any corners, still putting the work in, getting messy and taking your time. Swirling a thumb around the sensitive, swollen lips before pressing down. Holding. Letting the weight of your hand remind her of the truth.

That this is it from now on. You—fucking her up, again and again.

Stage lights. Spotlights. Camera flashes—she steps under any of them, and you’re already there. In her head. Your fingers. Your grip. She’ll clench at the memory and know who it is that owns that little pulse between her legs.

That’s how you break her. How she ends up this needy, blubbering mess every single time you touch her.

You keep her pinned—arm wrapped behind her neck, bicep and shoulder trapping her—while your fingers stay lodged between those perfect lips.

“Look at me,” you tell her.

Asa obeys instantly.

Eyes drift upwards, searching for yours in the gloom. You can feel her teeth on your skin, adding to the collection. You’ve never minded the marks—trophies, each and every one. A history written in scars.

The one on your palm from when you fucked her senseless backstage and ruined her opening outfit. Those on your knuckles from nights spent sneaking into her dorm room. Every nick and scratch is regalia, medals granted for every time she choked down your name and begged for more.

The screen flickers—bright glare sliding over the sweat slicking her cheeks, catching the way her lids keep fluttering half-shut, fighting to hold your gaze. You don’t ease up. Not even a little. Yank her in harder, twist her right against you so you can really dig in, fingers shoving deep into her pussy.

You’re being a dick and you know it. Pushing her until she’s on the verge of a total meltdown. The swearing, the quiet ‘oh fucks’, the way she’s starting to moan—at this rate everyone in this theatre will know your name.

“You can’t even keep it together, can you?” Your voice comes out drier than you expect. You clear your throat. You want her to hear this. "People are starting to notice, Asa. They’re going to turn around and see what I’m doing to you. See ‘perfect’ Asa being such a little slut.”

She quivers hard, her body sinking deeper down your fingers in one greedy pull. It’s a full-body reaction—hips rolling, grinding—and Asa grits her teeth, fighting to stay quiet through it.

For the briefest second, your fingers slip free of her lips.

Asa seizes the opportunity. Words wrecked, cracked, defiant, “I don’t care,” she drags in a short breath. “They can look. I want them to know—to see—”

And it makes you decide to lean in, to give her what she wants. To really fuck with her head while your hand stays busy below. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being my little whore in public. Getting off where anyone could just walk by and catch you.”

“Yes—God—yes,” she returns, breath snagging in her throat, “They can watch. See how you make me. Know that—”

You finish her sentence for her—"Know that if I just moved my hand, fucked you a bit harder, faster, everyone in this theatre would hear how desperate you are for my cock.“

Tears streak down Asa’s cheeks, landing in your palm. It’s too much for her—the noise, the risk, the way you’re handling her. Has her looking up at you with this devotion.

And you find yourself saying, and realising, all at once—"You'll let me do whatever I want."

Asa answers, so perfectly, "I'm just a toy. Nothing but your toy, sir.”

God, you’re both feeding into this. These bad habits. Pushing each other towards something dark and just letting it happen.

Your fingers curl. Thumb presses. She's halfway to making a scene already—you cut it off. Mouth on hers, rough, impatient, tasting salt and that stupidly expensive gloss she always wears.

Her hands are fisted in your collar, white-knuckled, pulling you in until there’s no air left between you. She’s trying to crawl right into your skin. Straddling a leg over your hip, trying to climb you in the dark.

She’s hooked on this.

The danger. The shame. That’s what she wants. The risk that someone might see her like this. Not the untouchable idol they all jerk off to. Just yours. Ruined. Claimed.

You drag spit-slick fingers down from her mouth, streaking her chin, straight down the column of her throat, to the stiff points tenting her shirt.

Chest thrust out, tits offering themselves to you. You slide fingers under her top—grab a handful, squeeze hard enough that she sucks in a sharp gasp.

Asa folds right into your grip, hips canting sharply, a broken moan starting in her throat that you smother fast with another kiss.

“Way too loud,” you mutter. It’s a useless warning. She’s only going to get worse.

A few rows down, someone shifts. Head turns slow, searching the dark like they’re not sure what they heard.

You’re just shadows mashed together. One messy outline. One shape.

But maybe if they focused, if the screen flashed white at just the right instant, they’d see it all.

Asa: draped all over you, boneless. An expression of pure fucked-out elation on her face.

And you: hands vanished. One shoved deep in her shorts, the other crammed under her top.

Drawing these moans out of her, each one edging so close to too loud. You kiss her stupid each time to shut her up.

And she’s only burning hotter the longer you draw it out. Same steady push-pull, finger sliding in, sliding out. No gradual build, just holding her there until tears prick her eyes and she’s soaking your hand, cunt drooling down your digits.

Asa finally cracks, her lips leaving yours to whisper-beg right in your ear: “My pussy's so ready for you—I can feel it—” Hot mouth glued there, trying to drag you deeper. “faster—harder—just one more finger—just—make me—”

You curl slow, fingertips scraping—just enough to be cruel. Seat’s too damn tight for real leverage, but Asa’s crumbling apart anyway. You feel it all—the insistent throb sucking at your knuckles, the low tremors rolling through her hips, her inner walls fluttering and then gripping like they’re trying to keep you forever, that fever-hot draw pulling you deeper.

But it’s not enough. Not even close.

You can only sort of see her—outlines, flashes—the darkness is stealing half the view, robbing you blind of everything you’re owed.

You need to see it all.

Need the visual to match the friction: the specific, strained look on her face when your cock finally sinks deep, eyes glazing over like she’s gone somewhere else.

Want to see those tits bouncing in time with your thrusts, tracking every inch you feed her.

More than anything, you need that flush—the delicate pink crawling up her chest, her throat—right when she breaks—that glorious, messy spill of her all sloppy and undone.

She’s climbing, breath turning jagged, about to tip over—and you pull out.

Fingers slide free, rest wet against her mound.

Nothing.

Her eyes snap open, dazed, betrayed. Body still wound tight, teetering right on the brink you just yanked her back from.

“Why?” She's panting, voice splintering. “I was right there, I need to—I’m almost—”

“No,” you answer. Steady, controlled. “Not now. Not here.”

Asa’s biting her lip hard enough to bruise. Lights strobe again—flash—and there it is. Eyes dark and wrecked. Fuck. Part of you wants to haul her ass right up to the front row, shove her over the railing under the big screen and just let everybody in the theatre watch.

Every single person. See you fucking her completely senseless.

Real entertainment.

You shake your head.

“Then—get me out of here,” Asa surrenders, collapses against you, arms looping your neck like she’ll fall otherwise. “Before I lose it and scream.”

The movie’s winding down, end credits creeping closer. House lights will kill the dark soon anyway.

Even if you wanted to finish here, fingers alone were never going to cut it anyway. Not with Asa this close. Not with you this unsatisfied.

“Up,” you simply command, giving her a beat to stir, to dispel the haze.

You pull her upright—more manhandle than help. Asa’s knees buckle immediately, knocking like she’s drunk.

Trying your best to steer her down the stairs, feeling the thrill when she stumbles into you. But she’s a total disaster of your making—baseball cap, mask left somewhere in the back row. And those short shorts are fucked—buttons open, denim sagging low, barely clinging to her hips, only your grip on her ass-cheek stopping them from sliding off completely.

Not that you give a shit who sees now. Asa never did.

“Please,” she slurs as you hit floor level, ignoring the indignant shhh she gets from a patron she nearly trips over. “Somewhere close. Right now.”

“Soon.”

“Faster,” she gasps, attempting to be petulant, but just sounding so desperate, the sob still remaining in her voice. “I can't—take me somewhere, fuck me—just—”

And thankfully, you manage to reach a side exit without too much of an incident, ducking into a darkened area before she makes her shameless plea.

“Just make me cum,” she breathes, like a prayer to a higher power. “However you want. Fill me if you need to, fuck me however you want—just—I need you to make me cum.”

You’re barely holding it together listening to her—truthfully, you’re every bit as desperate.

But that urge gets shoved down for now, and you scan the service hallway you’ve stumbled into. Dim, liminal, probably bypasses the main lobby—staff shortcut, whatever. Not empty, though. A couple of patrons and some random usher spots you.

At first their heads tilt, concern flickering—girl, half-carried, looking like she’s about to pass out. But if any of them linger—if some asshole stares even a beat too long at her nails gouging into your bicep, or that dreamy, totally-fucked look smeared across her face—they’ll get it.

They’ll see right through the mess. See Asa, usually all filters, poses and bright lights, reduced to this drooling wreck.

Let them have their suspicions.

Leave it to the staff to scrub through the security footage later, let the rumours spread. Is that her? What are they doing? Are they going to—

You’re already moving too fast for their curiosity to catch up.

You find it at the end of the hall—a heavy door marked Staff Only—Authorised Personnel.

It’s good enough, you’ll take whatever you can get. The bathroom’s the usual cliché—but you’ve written that story dozens of times already.

All you really need is a hard surface, some privacy. Room to bend Asa over and take her properly—the way she deserves.

You shove the door wide—hauling her out of the corridor and inside, kicking it shut behind you. The deadbolt clicks home.

Both of you freeze for a second, breathing hard. Scanning the room.

Not a bathroom, not a closet. Projection booth. Narrow, uncomfortably hot. Fans humming, servers whirring, projectors throwing off this dry, stifling heat.

You glance across the booth and find the view: big glass ports looking straight down over a theatre.

“This will do,” you tell her, finally releasing her arm.

“I bet it will.” Asa flashes that grin, already backing up to find the perfect spot to get split in two.

Through the glass you can see into the audience. A bigger crowd than the one you ditched. A sea of dark heads, all facing the screen. Oblivious. No clue to the idol right above them, ten feet up, barely holding it together.

That’s the real view that hits.

Asa, lit by the projector’s spill. Bright, silver-blue, strobing across her skin. Every bruise, every fingerprint, every mark you've put on her—glowing. On full display.

She looks staggering.

Light dances up her tits, hits her collarbone, catches the sweat pooling there. Eyeliner a smudged, charcoal mess—daring you to fix it, or make it worse.

And she’s already at it. Hands shaking, fumbling the buttons at her waist—too wired to manage finesse.

"Fuck, I can’t wait,” she starts, a manic, little laugh bubbling up in her throat. So gleeful now that you’re behind locked doors. But her eyes—they’re wide, almost panicked. “Oh—look at me. I’m shaking.”

But you don’t move. Don’t help. Just lean back against the door, arms crossed, watching.

Your star pupil, freeing herself out of those tight shorts.

You give your instruction: “Strip."

That’s all it takes. She shoves them down, kicks them off—sneakers too—a heap on the floor forgotten.

Straightens. Stands there in just the tiny cut-off top. Legs endless. Pussy dripping. More than you imagined. Light catches the trails running down her thighs—shiny paths, creamy skin glistening. And higher up, hitting that silver stud in her navel, making it flash every time her abs flex with those shaky breaths.

It’s the sight of her like this. Exposed. Drenched. Still managing to look almost regal in the filth.

Just look at her.

So proud of the mess she's made.

It’s enough to make your cock ache against your zipper so hard it hurts.

Asa catches you staring—sees how you’re drinking it in, the state you’ve reduced her to. She smiles. It’s a devastating thing.

“Fuckable, aren’t I?”

No point denying it. You step forward, hands going to your belt. Unbuckling slow, tugging your zipper down. Giving her a show back—her mouth drops open, slack, tracking every movement as you close the distance.

“This is what you wanted, right?” Asa slides one hand to her waist, fingers teasing just above her heat. The other drags her top up slow—pale skin, goosebumps everywhere. Nipple caught between her fingers. She twists. A fast, involuntary inhale melts into this airy, perfect sigh that scrambles your brain. “To see me like this? See how soaked my pussy is for you?”

“It’s a good start,” you rasp, words like gravel.

Her feet shift apart. Legs spreading wide. Gifting you with the full picture: pink folds, flushed and slick, heavy with how bad she wants it.

“Claim it, Daddy. Stretch me open, ruin every inch—” Lashes dip low as she slowly pushes a finger inside herself, lids heavy, almost lazy with how good it feels. “Paint my insides, mark me deep… Or—” Pulls it out, now stained and shimmering, dragging it across her bottom lip. Sucks noisily, tasting herself. “You can even make me choke on you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You swallow. Hard.

“Anything. Cum on me—in me. Fuck, maybe we can figure out the projector, put you feeding me your cum on the big screen. Wouldn’t that be good, Daddy?”

“Brat.”

Asa sighs. One word and she's shaking. That's what you do to her—sandblast every perfect inch until she's just raw need. All those filthy things you've taught her still ringing in the ears of a girl who used to be so, so innocent.

And then you’re on her. Hands sliding, gripping, taking. Lifting her like she's weightless. Dropping her onto the edge of a heavy crate, bolted solid, cold metal biting her ass.

She lets out a harsh gasp as you crowd in close, making her feel every bit of your weight pinning her. She’s all supple strength, dancer’s grace, but against you she feels small. Fragile. Yours.

Her legs wrap around you on instinct—habit, submission you’ve drilled into her. Heels lock tight behind you, and it’s total surrender.

She grinds her slick pussy against the obvious bulge beneath your briefs, tormenting herself with that cruel friction right at her opening.

Then she stops.

Hands drop to her sides.

Leaves herself wide open, bare. At your mercy.

You roll your hips—just a fraction.

That's all it takes. Sigh into a whimper into a loud, broken groan that drowns the projector's hum.

"Yes,” she whines. “Yes—make me feel it.”

She’s creaming all over the cotton—you feel it hot against your cock, making you throb, blood surging south in all sorts of terrible ways.

Asa’s eyes haven’t left it once.

“Can I?” she begs, shamelessly.

“Take it.”

Her hands dive down fast, fingers quick and sure as she fishes you out. Cock springs free—throbbing, painfully hard in her small grip. “Shit—look at you. This is what I—”

You kill that thought before she can finish it. One hand stays clamped on her ass, cheek filling your palm; the other fists her dark hair, yanks her head back. Crashing your mouth to hers—tongue shoving past teeth while you press forward, sliding out of her hands until the head catches on her sloppy-wet entrance.

You take a breath—hold your cock there for a beat, two.

Savouring it. Torturing Asa with the wait. Making her wail helplessly, body aching forward.

The slide in is seamless.

From her slick, open slit straight into that velvet heat—scalding, gripping like it’ll never let go. So easy. Like coming home. Her lips go slack against yours, slipping to your chin as the kiss falls apart, needing the air for her newest chant.

“Ngh—fuck—yes,” is about the most you can make out of it—choked like hiccups coming every time you sink another inch.

Your own lips trail down her cheek, venturing south. Finding that perfect spot on her throat. Somewhere to suck—mark her dark and deep. Something that’ll linger for days.

A brand.

A reminder of what you both know, what she’s been proving this whole time. She’s yours. Completely. Body, mind, in every light and darkness. Crowds can chant her name all they want—this joyful, desperate, falling-to-pieces wreck in this locked room—it’s the real Asa.

“That’s it—that’s it—right—there—ohhhh-fucking-hell.”

And Asa’s making these faces again. Nothing you haven’t seen before, but everything you love to witness. Brows knit in that pained pleasure, eyes squeezed shut like it’s all too heavy to hold. Lips parted in lovely, glossy surprise at how good it hits.

She can’t hide it—every twitch of her thighs, frantic hip tilt, desperate clench. She can’t help herself. Just has to show you everything.

“Asa,” you groan against her neck.

Your girl is back in tears again, but mixed with these pleased, giddy giggles. Haughty little laugh—not at you, at herself. At how helpless she gets every time. You make her cry, beg, then push her to the edge so fast her head spins.

Shit, you’re barely three-quarters in, no real rhythm yet, when her walls start seizing.

One heavy thrust—bottom out, buried to the hilt.

“Fu—ah!”

Asa loses it.

Hands fly—clawing your neck, then slamming the crate for grip. Anything to anchor her through this storm. Leaving it to you to hold her there, filling her completely. Incapable of anything but groaning your name in squeals that nearly drive you over.

Impaling her cunt like this—it’s rapture.

Pure heat. So intensely warm, tight, gripping around you like it owns you back. She’s thanking you in sputtering mewls, finally hitting that peak you’ve been dragging her towards since you first put a hand on her.

“Cumming—cumming—finally—fuck—”

It hits her out of nowhere. So fucking hard.

Ripples through, shatters her all at once. Nails dig into your neck—keeping her steady as her body locks. You expect a scream but there is none—just a strained gasp, too seized to let it out.

It just rocks her. Undoes her. Turns her limp in your arms—putty, liquid.

Oh, she meant every word—you can do whatever the hell you want. But for now, you leave her squirming on your cock, pulsing in long, slow waves, pussy clamping in these spasms that threaten to pull you under with her.

“Yes—oh—shit—” Words come back, but she’s still barely functioning. Held up by your strength and the cock still buried deep.

For as quick as it crashed over her—Asa comes down slow, in shaky stages.

You’re about to tell her that break time’s done—it’s your turn now, exactly what she’s been demanding for—but she doesn’t give you the chance to even draw breath.

Her heels loosen behind your back. Those strong, trained thighs flex—core tightening—and she slowly, deliberately squeezes you out. An agonising drag, inch by inch, until you’re almost free, head barely catching at her entrance.

You let her.

Let her push you back just far enough.

Then—snap—heels hook again, and she slams herself down hard. Full length in one brutal drop.

“Fuck!” rips out of you before you can stop it. The wet crack of your thighs against the heavy curve of her ass echoes off the server racks, bounces off the glass, rattles straight through your skull.

Loud. Filthy.

The most satisfying sound you’ve ever heard.

And Asa just laughs.

Watches your jaw clench, reads every flicker across your face. Making you think she really can read your mind. For that split second, she kind of can.

Taking control like that—dragging you out slow, then slamming you back in deep—knowing exactly what it does to you. How it lights every nerve. How badly you need her to keep doing shit like this.

“Sir,” she says, breezy as hell. The post-orgasm glow makes her look unreal—cheeks and chest flushed, lips wet and parted like she’s still chasing the high. “Whatever you want, Sir.”

So you make your decision.

You get in close, dropping your voice to that low register reserved for discipline. She keens when she hears it.

“I'm going to fuck you as hard as you can take. But I want you begging for it, first.”

Sure, she's been begging since the very start, but fuck—there's always more. Always another layer to drag this filthy little fantasy even deeper.

Asa dives straight in.

Kicks off slow, then builds. Broken, breathless stream of every depraved thought she’s ever had about you. A desperate litany of her very best, most filthy—yeah, you wouldn’t be surprised if it’s just a collection of what runs through her head when you’re posing her in practice rooms or holding her steady during rehearsals.

“Please,” she starts. “Daddy—I need this. Need you to ruin me. I’ll do anything. Anything you want, I swear.”

There she is—everyone’s dream girl—playing the part to perfection. But the honesty, the truths she saves only for you, hums through her.

“Haven’t I been so good for you?” She sputters, eyes searching yours for the approval she craves most. “I’ve been such a good girl. Tell me. I can be better—I’ll be perfect for you, I promise.”

Louder now, voice straining over all that ambient noise around you, words blurring into one long, filthy recitation straight from your darkest corners.

"And if I haven't been—if I've been bad then you have to punish me, don't you? Take me—however you want. Use me up—I’m yours. Just fill me—stuff me full until I’m leaking you.”

You almost laugh—because she’s pinned, exposed, in no position to bargain. But the promises keep spilling anyway.

“I need you stretching my tiny hole,” she gasps, head lolling back at the thought alone. “Need it deep inside me—need it so fucking—”

She cuts herself off—swallows the rest, teeth sinking into her lip to trap the scream. Heels dig into the small of your back, your fingers buried in the pliant flesh of her ass because you’re done waiting. Done letting her collect herself for her grand worship speech.

You nail her in earnest.

Teeth grit, jaw tight from holding back for far too long.

It’s unbelievable—her hole’s even tighter now, walls gripping in a strangling vice that shouldn’t be possible.

“God damn, Asa.”

But your focus narrows to the rhythm.

Watching her body answer every thrust—the clench of her abs, the ripples around your cock. This is what should get awards. Not CGI crashes on screens—this: tears carving tracks through smeared eyeliner, hair wild and static-charged, lips frozen in a silent oh-fuck.

You need her to hear it. Need her to know. “So ridiculously tight. Don’t know how you do it—always this wet, this hot.”

“Liar,” Asa shoots back, laughing—giddy, grinning through it. “You know it’s you. Your cock. You know how easy it is to make me cum every fucking time.”

You take the angle, turn it punishing. Skin slapping skin—hips crashing, the constant echoing thud of her back being driven against the wall.

Your hand goes to her chest—you need it all bare. Dragging the hem of her top up until it’s bunched around her neck, and then yanking it over her head so you can toss it with the rest of everything that was keeping you from seeing Asa in full.

Her spine curves, body lifting to meet you. And God, her tits—finally free. Bouncing in this hypnotising rhythm with every lunge.

You could touch them again—grab them, twist the peaks. But you bend instead—take one nipple in your mouth, sucking hard. Rough tongue, heat, suction swelling the bud between your lips.

Asa’s unmoored. Hands thread your hair, hold you there—binding you to her chest, keeping the pressure right where she needs it.

You roll the stiff peak between your teeth—just enough tug to pull that sweet-pained sigh. Mewls—adorable, desperate—with every graze. Chest heaving, fighting for air to match your pace.

Perfect, the both of them. So you switch sides—lap one wet and hot, knead the heavy swell of the other. Leaving them bruised, glistening, making her writhe, hips stuttering, knees squeezing your waist like your mouth on her tits is the only thing keeping her from shattering.

“God it's—so—fucking—good—” she’s gasping, falling apart. Collapsing and you’ve barely started.

You pull back from her nipple, leaving her skin damp and sticky. You could spend hours more on her tits—but you need a better angle—need to drive into her deeper. Harder. Faster.

Need so much more from your girl.

Whatever look crosses your face, it has her dazed, smug, joyful—knowing exactly how she makes you feel, what she does to you. What she is to you.

The tightest, hottest, most deserving cumslut you’ve ever had.

You oughtta make sure she knows. “That’s my girl,” you growl, praising your number one student. “God, you feel unbelievable.”

No easing up now. No tender bullshit, no slow-lover rhythm—maybe later, when it’s late and you’re all alone and you can afford to be honest with the softer parts you both pretend don't exist.

Right now it's just about carving her open. Rewriting every single muscle until her legs forget how to stand. Until the only thing left is your cock holding her up—buried so deep she feels it in her throat.

There’s only so much Asa can do—but she does it all. Buzzing with pride, arms around your neck, pulling herself up so close, face buried in the crook of your neck.

She moves. Hips tilt just right.

Suddenly she's there—weightless in your arms, yours to use. Built for this depth, this angle, this exact stretch.

Nothing but your good little cocksleeve now.

Her teeth find your skin, biting down hard. Enough to leave a mark—a matching set to the ones you’ve already branded onto her.

“I needed this,” she slurs into your shoulder. “Needed you to use me like this.” Her breath hitches as she grinds down once, greedy. “You’re not stopping after one, right? One round—one load—that’s never going to be enough for me.”

You find your pace. Grip tight on her hips.

Lifting her nice and slow, then—dropping her. Gravity does the rest. Wet slap after wet slap ringing out loud.

“If you’re good,” you tell her. “After this—when we get home—"

“No,” she interrupts, audacity still there, even when she’s ruined. “Not home. In the car. As soon as the door shuts you’ll feed me every inch. Once here won’t cut it—you know I’ll suck you dry on the ride back.”

“Christ,” you huff out, more air than sound. The image makes your cock throb inside her, pulsing against her seizing walls. Her legs spread even wider, her heels locking harder—opening up new depths. Gifting you every angle of that tiny idol cunt—sopping, perfect, made only for you.

And then, because she’s a brat, even as you thrust faster and faster—quick, hard pounds, devoured by her slick cunt—she pushes for more.

Wants to be hurt. Wants the bruises makeup can’t hide.

“Claim every hole—cunt, throat, ass—leave me dripping from all of them.”

“So demanding.”

"Day’s not over. We’ve already started—might as well go as far as we can.” It all just slides so nicely into your ears, makes so much sense coming from her. “Maybe I’ll call one of the girls.”

The scream when your knee buckles—the drop impales her hard. The crate creaks. Asa takes it all.

“Ah—fuck! You like that don’t you? You’d love it if Ruka or Pharita or—”

“Ahyeon—” comes out before you can stop it. Surprising even you, the name coming from some carnal, primal corner of your brain that’s been waiting to have a light shone on it.

Asa takes it all in stride. “I’ll call her. After you—ah, God yes—after I take all your cum here—I’ll call her. Have her waiting at the house. She’ll be there as soon as we get through the door. Our audience.”

It’s your turn to laugh—a low, mean sound. She’s cracked open your darkest impulses, the ones you usually keep under lock and key. Her fault for bringing it out. “You think she’ll just watch?”

“Why?” Asa shudders. Building up to it again—hips rolling helplessly. Creaming so heavy, gushing. Wet squelch with every thrust—loud enough that it wouldn’t be hard to tell—if someone was outside, had their ear up to the door, heard your words, her moans, the sounds of her cunt. Oh, they’d know exactly what was happening to their favourite idol. “What are you going to do?”

“Make you watch,” you decide, getting rougher, driving these pretty noises right out of her lungs. “I’ll take Ahyeon to our bed. See how her tiny cunt compares. Who knows? Maybe she’s more deserving of Daddy’s cum than a brat like you.”

“Oh God—” she whimpers and whimpers and whimpers, slipping right back to what she really is for you: your cum-hungry little toy.

“Tie you up,” you keep going, fantasy fuelling each thrust. “Wrists, ankles. Gag to keep you quiet. Leave your little toy buzzing while I fold Ahyeon over and fuck her pretty pussy right in front of you.”

“Yes—gah—I can't—” Asa’s a catastrophe—getting hoarse, vocal cords exhausted. Her forehead thumps against your shoulder. All torn up and tired—making you push into her harder, get as close as you can, as far up into her guts as your cock can go and then further still.

“You’d fucking love that, wouldn’t you?”

You snap your hips and drive into her again—getting your answer. “Yes—yes—just—inside first. Please!”

Asa’s bawling, delirious, out of it. If your cock wasn’t pinning her in place she'd be on her knees, mouth open, begging with whatever breath she has left.

But you both know the truth; there's only one place this ends. Lost count of her cycle weeks ago—not that it matters. It's the same endless litany spilling from her lips, wrecked and reverent: inside, inside, inside—a prayer she's been chanting since the first time you bottomed out and she realised she could have this forever.

You drive harder. Deeper.

Chasing that white-hot snap where everything collapses.

"Fuck—look at you. You’re shaking so hard—gonna break for me again?”

No pause—hips crashing, shaking the wall, rattling the glass in its frame. Hard enough that you might crack it before you’re done.

“Do it—break for me. Cum all over my cock—right now. Cum so I can walk you out and show everyone what a dirty little whore you are.”

And this is the point where the tension is snapping, and you’re reaching the head of every single one of your shared kinks and fantasies and everything that keeps the two of you going. This is the mountaintop. Sensory overload. You and Asa. The very real risks. Door could open any second. Intensity climbing up the length of your cock.

Her arms cuff themselves around your neck, eyes screwed shut, nose wrinkled in raw, aching bliss. Asa’s tongue darts out—clumsy, desperate—licking your jaw, chin, grazing your lips. Trying to anchor, to kiss, but you’re hammering her too hard, too fast. Too punishing for her to hold on.

But there’s no other way to show it—what the sex, the words, the dirty talk like psychological torture is doing to her. Finally driving her mad.

“I need it—Daddy—my pussy needs—needs you—I can’t—” she sobs, then simply loses the ability to speak.

Another orgasm shoots through her—wildfire scorching her skin. Her spine clicks, her muscles—her cunt—rippling, fisting around you.

She’s too loud—louder than any projectors, the equipment hum, the muffled movie beyond the glass.

Just her voice, cresting into slurred, filthy gratitude that no walls could ever hold.

So you take her mouth again—tongue gagging her cries, swallowing the rest before she screams the place down. The image flashes hot: Asa, your gorgeous, thoroughly used girl, coming undone on your cock, and the crowd behind the glass all turning at once to catch her.

“They’re gonna catch us, Asa,” you breathe against her lips. “Any second, that door’s gonna open—they’ll see everything. See you pounded, broken, filled with me. You want that? Want them watching me ruin you?”

“Yes!” She cries, gaze going utterly dark—pupils blown so wide the brown disappears, nothing left but black staring up at you. “Let them look—see how you fuck me—how you breed me—” And she just can’t hold on anymore, walls flutter once, then seize, refusing to let even an inch slip free. “Cum in me—right in my little pussy—make it yours for good—"

You feel it all at once. Every promise, every bargain she’s made. Your body locks—pressure burning molten-hot before it surges forward. “Fuck—Asa!”

Your hips slam deep—her heels dig in, forcing you forward until you’re fully buried.

Then you erupt.

A hot rush floods her centre. She freezes—braces herself against the wall as she feels that first thick release splash inside her. Drooling from the corner of her mouth, lips quivering with each and every spurt you drive in.

“You have no idea, it feels so good,” she says, barely audible. “I can feel it—all of it—feel you fucking it deeper—”

Not done yet. Keep grinding, hips working in the confines her heels give you, fucking your cum deeper into her, even as it starts to leak. It’s cataclysmic, a proper disaster—the liquid heat of her, your heavy load making this obscene slosh that fills your ears with pure delirious satisfaction.

Nothing else exists. Nothing else has ever existed.

Just this: draining every last drop into Asa's greedy belly until she's overflowing, until it spills hot and thick down her thighs.

Her fault, always. Milks you like she’s owed. Wrings out the biggest, messiest loads you’ve ever given anyone, every time.

It seeps out of her, thick and slow. Dribbling down the backs of her thighs. Staining the crate—but Asa’s barely there to register it.

Your perfect idol. Dripping with your cum.

You wrap her tight—arms around her, chest heaving against hers. One last clap of your hips as your cock throbs the final globs. Kiss her temple, her cheek, her mouth—hard. Taste salt tears, sweet gloss, feel her finally melt and relax into a delighted, liquid-soft heap.

It's got you all delirious, you think you're even laughing when the last tremor fades. Like you can’t believe it. Even after everything, after all this time, Asa shorts out your circuits, overwrites every shred of better judgment.

“Baby,“ you say. Catching your breath. Savouring the fantasy girl in your arms. “Don’t know if I can even leave this room.”

“Then don’t.” Asa suggests. Soft, still clinging. "At least wait a sec. Don’t pull out yet. Just stay.”

You do as she says, you owe her that much. Staying buried in the sticky, spent mix you’ve made. You know you should make a move, should be preparing a warning about time, place, the world outside—but it goes forgotten when you see her face.

So content. Fulfilled. Face gone all slack and dreamy. Your gold-star girl, fucked-out and so damn happy.

It does something stupid to your chest.

“Just. Let me have this,” she coos. “Just a second. Then you can take me wherever.”

God, she looks perfect. You’ve told her a million times—she just absorbs it, owns it. Says it’s all for you. Then reminds you why.

“I’d let you, you know.” Wistful smile, complete awe. “Walk me out—parade me through the lobby, the street. Dripping with your cum. Tell everyone I’m yours. I’d be so proud. Making them all jealous. At me, stuffed full of you.”

She takes a beat. Challenge flickers—sparks—in her eyes, blood already rushing back.

“You could even put me on a leash, if you really wanted.”

The thought sits. Takes time to settle. You see it in her eyes—crystal, terminal. Every kink you’ve fed her, distilled. Right there.

“Is that what you want?”

You’re honest with her. Quick and upfront. “I just want to make you happy, Asa.”

And she blushes at that—a genuine, deep crimson that has nothing to do with how exhausted and spent you have her. Preens under the affection, then sighs. “Then help me up. Let’s get out of here.”

She shifts—lifts herself close enough to press her forehead against yours. It’s nice—and a little vulnerable. The gentlest thing she’s given you. Her fingers find yours. She squeezes.

You could probably say something pretty about it: the faint tremor in her wrist when she reaches, the linger of her fingers a second too long, the tiny catch in her breath when your cock finally starts to slip free.

The slow, thick dribble that follows—shiny, obscene, tracing a lazy line down her inner thigh. It’s a work of art—should be hung in museums, exhibited worldwide.

But it’s just Asa. Hair mussed midnight, skin glowing, cum leaking down her leg in a single proud stripe.

Look at her.

Your perfect girl, snapping her thighs shut, locking every last drop inside that tiny cunt you just ruined.

“You’ve made such a mess of me,” she says, like she couldn't be happier. Surveys her trembling limbs. “Think I’m gonna need you to carry me out.”

She steals your shirt—dabs at smeared eyeliner, the last of her tears. A half-hearted attempt at decency.

You do your part too—helping her tug her top back on, smoothing out the edges you’ve fucked loose. Putting her back together as best you can—even if the pieces don’t fit quite as snugly anymore.

“Shorts?“ She gestures. You kneel, help her step into them. Slide them over the streaks.

But she can’t quite wait for you, bending down as you’re halfway up her thighs, reaching to fish out her phone. Her thumbs start flying across the screen.

“What are you doing?” You ask, fastening the last button at her waist. Dipping low—pressing one last kiss to the beauty mark just above her hip.

Asa smiles—a sharp, wicked thing. She reaches down, a finger under your chin, tugs you up until you're eye to eye again.

Close enough that her swollen lips brush your nose in a soft, almost tender peck.

“What do you think, Daddy?” That coy little lilt still there, voice rasped raw from screaming into your mouth. “Texting Ahyeon.”

(And just like that—your Asa, fully back online. Photogenic smile locked in place, lips plush and bruised, endless legs shifting, ready to be spread open for round two.

Just a stack of obsessions, one neatly atop the next. Each hungrier than the last, begging to be broken the same way.

You’ll take your time. One by one. Whenever the mood strikes.

They’re all yours, after all.)

[arinapop]

tumblr user arinapop, oh tumblr user arinapop…

where art thou, tumblr user arinapop 😭

sitting under a tree, waiting for miggy writer era to happen

[sprenthecreator]

Ladies and gentlemen, in case anyone wonder, this is what peak looks like:

[arinapop]

I'm in love with the dynamic in that Heejin fic. I need more and maybe smut toooo

Thanks for reading <3

I'm not opposed to either; we'll see.

[arinapop]

Heyyy Love your fics

Are you working on something?

Thank you <3 It's heartening to see the love despite me being inactive for so long. Everytime I open Tumblr I see so much stuff on my notifs - it's insane to me.

Do I have drafts at varying degrees of progress? Yes.

Does the frequency at which I'm interacting with them qualify as me "working" on it? I'm not sure.

I hope this pic can compensate a little for this unsatisfying answer:

[arinapop]

dead 🖤💘

Gamer brain is screaming "this is a trap ❗"

Gooner brain is telling me to run head first into them

I think the correct answer is always to run headfirst, Frisky.

[arinapop]

For you, considering your status as a smut writer, what do you think is the safest space for you to interact with the K-pop community? Excluding Tumblr of course.

I would hesitate to call myself that. I prefer the term - homage payer.

I used to be active on various K-pop servers back in high school. They were fun, but eventually - I grew out of them, and they grew out of me.

Nowadays, it's mostly limited to the server you're familiar with, and some IRL friends that are into K-pop.

[arinapop]

It’s the month of superheroes! If you had to live in one universe, would it be: full of metahumans and monsters, or one where theres only one team protecting the whole planet?

Metahumans.

I might get some cool powers. Better than being dependent on someone who'll destroy my house without blinking as collateral damage.

[arinapop]

I see the chuu profile picture but where is the fic?

I see the Snorlax profile picture but where is the fic?

Chuu is—on the way. Traffic's a bit heavy right now. Some trouble brewing on her route. She'll get there. Eventually.

[arinapop]

That winter fic was sooo cute, loved it. Will you write more such plotty stories in the future? Wish it had gotten more love. Hope you're not disappointed.

Thanks for reading! I am glad you enjoyed it.

All my stories have a good amount of plot, I think. The main difference was that this one had little to almost no focus on smut. My only objective was to tell a story.

Will I write more like it? Maybe. Almost everything I do in this hobby is completely volatile and based on my mood at the moment.

I'll admit, I was a little disappointed in terms of notes; didn't get a lot of reblogs either. But I suppose that's how it goes for non-smutty fics here? Or maybe that's just my audience? I'm not sure.

The positive comments I get and asks like yours will always outweigh that, though <3

The primary person I write for will always be myself, so my focus is unlikely to change based on the notes I receive. So do not worry!

[arinapop]

Margin of Error

aespa Winter x Reader

Tags: Fluff

2k words

A/N: Wrote this for a Momentous Events prompt hosted by @suchsweetstories. Thanks for putting it together! Fic's just plot and fluff, but you can find some smut if you squint. This was sitting in the freezer for a while, but it seemed appropriate to release it now, since the author graduated this weekend as well :)

A little searching, wandering—and you stumble upon a free seat with a clear view of the stage. Not too close to the crowd’s bustle; not too far that you might as well be watching the live stream. The Goldilocks zone, if you will.

The loudspeaker hisses to life with a couple of taps—metallic, a little corroded. “The degree-awarding ceremony will begin shortly,” the presenter announces.

Your eyes drift to the group gathered near the stage.

Some students are laughing, sharing final inside jokes before they go their separate ways. Others—searching the audience for familiar faces, eyes darting through rows of chairs. For you, it’s the other way around.

You scan the sea of gowns for Minjeong—but no luck.

Your phone buzzes with a text from her: “Might be a little late. Don’t freak.”

Great. Not that it surprises you by now. Late for her own graduation, of course.

It’s not worth panicking yet. Her name’s towards the end of the list, last you checked.

Besides, you’ve never done things the easy way with her. That's simply far too boring for Minjeong. A few variables off, and her name might not have been on the list at all.

Frankly, it’s a miracle she got any studying done.

—

“One last time, what’s the epsilon-delta definition of a limit?” You tap your pen on the table, trying to pull her focus back from whatever she’s staring at outside—birds, clouds, anything but the math in front of her.

Minjeong lets out a dramatic groan and drops her head to the table. “Isn’t it break time yet? I’m pretty sure we’ve been studying longer than legally allowed.”

“There’s no limit on that.” You nudge the book towards her, smiling. “But the definition of the one I asked still needs to happen.”

“Uh, let me think. The limit of a function as x approaches c is L if…” She scratches her chin for a while, then tosses her hands up in defeat.

“You skipped the part that actually defines it.”

“Didn't I say a break would help me?” she retorts. “We could play something for a bit. Might clear my head.”

You close the textbook. There's no way anything’s getting into her head in this state.

“Alright. What do you wanna do?”

She scoots her chair in. “No clue,” she says, locking eyes with you. “Was hoping you might have an idea.”

There's a glimmer in her eyes—you know it’s never good news.

“I don't like where this is going.” You look away.

She slips a hand around your waist and leans in. Her floral scent takes over your breath. “You sure about that?”

You thread fingers through her hair. “You always try to flirt your way out of studying.” An accusation—but it barely sounds like one out loud. Not when you’re being compliant, right there with her.

“Oh, not always.” Her lips curl into a smile. “Just the pretty ones distracting me, causing trouble.”

“I don’t like the plural in that.”

A soft laugh slips from her mouth. “You're the only pretty one for me, baby.” She presses her lips to your forehead.

“Knew studying at your place and not the library was a bad idea.”

She shuts you up with a kiss on your lips. Her lips are warm and sweet—you've always loved the taste. Your fingers find her chin and tilt her head towards you, the tip of her nose brushing against yours.

Her hand drifts lower, fingers trailing along your thigh, edging dangerously close.

“Minjeong…” you sigh. “We're not covering any material like this.”

“How can we if this is much more fun?” Her voice turns musical, sing-song.

You part your lips to protest, but deep inside, you can only agree. Or, heck, she’s made you. Either way: “Fine… but revise your definitions by tomorrow. We need to start with problems.”

“Let's solve this problem first.” Her hand slips beneath your waistband—the motion pulls a sharp moan from your throat.

“Fuck.”

—

The first name echoes through the room. It’s all surprisingly simple, considering the years of effort it took to get here. Your name gets called: you walk up, collect your degree, and move on. There’s some polite applause. Symbolic, mostly.

That’s how it’s supposed to go, assuming you’re around when your name is called. A small, crucial detail.

One name becomes two, then four, and before long—whole sections blur past, names checked off like errands.

Good news: they’re sticking to the order.

Bad news: almost half of the list is done, and still no sign of Minjeong.

You text her, ”Your turn’s about to come, get your butt here ASAP.”

Your phone buzzes almost instantly—maybe she’s nearby. Instead, you’re met with a: “Pick up where you left off. Continue watching: Legally Blonde.”

Thanks, but with the girl missing in action and your memories interrupting at random—you're mostly covered on the academic drama front.

You get up and rush toward the front, pushing past swathes of people, looking for someone in charge. Maybe you can convince them to push her name down the list.

Every name called shrinks the odds of her making it. She didn’t work this hard—pull all those sleepless nights—just to miss her own graduation.

But then again, Minjeong was never one to shy away from long shots.

(Mostly, cut her a little slack.)

—

“This pasta is so bland. Even the fast food place I work at has more flavor.” She drops her fork on the plate, unimpressed.

“Minjeong, you were in charge of seasoning tonight.” You stare at her, deadpan.

“Was I? Maybe that’s why we get complaints about taste all the time.” She sighs. “I’ll get the oregano. How’d your exam go?”

She walks barefoot to the kitchen, the loose hem of her t-shirt brushing just past her hips.

“Fine. That cheat sheet you scribbled extra stuff on? One of those actually came in handy.”

“So I did well to ignore your instructions.” A proud little smirk tugs at her lips as she stands leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Don’t make it a habit.”

A buzz rattles the table. You glance at her phone, then meet her eyes. “Your Lin Alg grades are out.”

She freezes. Wipes her hands on a napkin and rushes over. The phone screen lights up her face—then drains it.

“No way…” Her shoulders slump. Head tilts to the side, heavy.

“What is it?” You have an idea, but you have to ask.

“Fucking D,” she hisses. “I'm failing this course too unless I get an A on the final.”

For a moment, neither of you say anything. You drag your fork across the plate—a soft scrape.

“At least there's still a chance,” you offer.

“A long one.”

“Minjeong.” You shrug. “You haven't exactly been a star student so far.”

“Yeah, I think the grades made that clear.” She crosses her arms. “Thanks for rubbing it in.”

“That's not what I meant, idiot.” You push your plate away. “I'm saying if you, for once, actually look at your books while studying—you might do okay. Or not. But you'll never know unless you do.”

She keeps staring at her phone, like she could will her grade to change now if she focused hard enough.

Her fingers tap slowly on the table. “Guess I have no other option now. I have to cover a semester's worth of content in 2 weeks… and somehow score an A on that.”

“Not easy, but not unheard of. Finish your dinner, and let’s get to it.”

—

“What do you mean—you can't?” you snap, voice rising.

“It should be clear what that means. I can’t change the order now.”

“It’s a...” Your eyes dart around, scrambling for an excuse. An ambulance helpline poster catches your eye.

“Medical emergency,” you blurt. “She’s in the—uh—ER right now. We can get a certificate later if anyone asks.”

The admin lady stares at you, blank. “Doesn’t sound like she’ll make it even if she’s last.”

“She might,” you say—weakly. Shouldn’t have gone with that stupid excuse.

“There’s another event booked right after. We don’t have any breathing room.”

“That sounds like irresponsible scheduling.”

She exhales sharply. “Look, these things are decided far in advance. She can get her degree later. It’s no big deal.”

Nothing left to say that won't get you kicked out. You shake your head and make your way back up the stairs to your seat, pretending you don’t want to shove the nearest wall.

You scroll through the list on your phone, flicking each name out of the frame as it’s called. Your heart skips a beat when hers slides in from the bottom. Just a few people to go.

A message from her: ”Almost there.”

“Stop wasting time typing and just get here,” you shoot back.

Time suddenly speeds up. Names roll by faster than ever. You fidget with your collar, trying to loosen it.

And then—it’s her name that's about to slide past, leave the frame.

The hall is impatient. The microphone crackles; the next name’s already loaded on the tongue of the announcer.

“Kim Minjeong.” Her name echoes through the room. Nobody steps forward.

—

“Kim Minjeong.” The voice from the laptop snaps her out of her daze. “I hope you were paying attention.”

She blinks and sits up straighter on her bed. “Yes. Yes, I was. It’s just… a lot to take in. Sorry.”

“We hate having to terminate students as much as anyone. But with some effort, you can still turn things around.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly, and shuts the laptop.

You dim the light and climb into bed beside her. “You doing okay?”

She drops her head to your chest, whispering, “What the fuck am I doing with my life?”

Not exactly the kind of question school prepares you for.

“It’s just a minor setback,” you murmur. Not completely truthful, but what else can you say?

“No.” Her voice catches, thin and watery. “I’m going to get kicked out of college. My parents were right all along.” She rubs a tear off her cheek. “I’m… I’m just wasting everyone’s time. Mine, yours.”

Soon, it's more than she can wipe. Tears slip down and soak into your shirt.

“You’ve been so sweet to me, and I’ve done nothing but waste your time.” Her hands tremble as she grips your shirt tightly.

“They’re wrong.”

“Who?”

“Your parents. They’re wrong, Minjeong. You’re not wasting anyone’s time. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.” The weight in your voice surprises you a little, too.

“I know you want to. You help me so much. But I still don’t get anything done.”

“That’s not true. You started studying. I’ve seen it, the past few months—you’ve changed.”

“And I flunked two courses anyway.” She presses herself harder into your chest, voice muffled. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for this.”

“I can’t tell you how to live your life. But what I can is… things don’t always change overnight.” You slip fingers into her hair, stroking gently. “If you want something, you've gotta keep showing up—even on days you wanna fling the book out the window—and hope they will one day.”

“Do you think they will?” The eyes you’ve known for years look up at you—there’s something different in them tonight.

“I do.”

Hope, maybe.

“I’ll keep trying then. If not for me…” she trails off, eyes disappearing into the ceiling.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

You don’t press. But it lingers between you, warm and real.

She asks: “Wanna head to the library later?”

“Ehh, might skip today. Kinda sleepy,” you mumble, faking a yawn.

“Shut up. You’re coming with me.”

—

You freeze when her name is called. Two calls, then they move on, that’s what the admin said.

One’s already passed. Time slows to a crawl. Your knee won’t stop bouncing. The seat edge might as well crumble under your grip.

The quiet swells, heavy and taut, like a held breath about to snap. Your chest tightens at everything she’s—you’ve—given up for this moment. And she might miss it.

Then the door by the students’ section swings open, and in she walks.

There’s hardly an outfit she can’t pull off. Honestly, you’re jealous of her versatility—her being your girlfriend only makes it slightly less unfair. Sundresses, crop tops, jeans, skirts, sweaters, leather jackets: you name it, she wears it better than anyone in the room.

But the Minjeong you see now—hair disheveled beneath her square cap, breath ragged, stole hanging lopsided over a gown that doesn’t quite fit, shoelaces tied in a rush—the one who dragged herself out of the dirt to get here.

This one might be the prettiest of them all.

Her name is called—again. She finds you in the crowd almost instantly, eyes lighting up the moment they meet yours. Her hand lifts in a faint wave as she heads up the stairs to the stage.

She doesn’t always make it easy. But she always makes it.

—

“What was so important that you almost missed your fucking graduation?” You stare daggers at her.

She shrinks a little in her gown, clutching her degree in one hand like a hall pass.

“Uh—my friend’s puppy ate a bag of chocolate almonds, then puked on my laptop. And that turned into, like, a whole thing. Don’t ask.”

“That counts as a medical emergency, right?”

“I suppose.”

You shrug. “Then I didn’t totally lie to the admin.”

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I’m sorry.” She exhales softly, lips pouting. “I'll try to fuck up less. Promise.”

“We’ll see about that. Dinner’s on you tonight—Kim Minjeong, certified engineer.”

A disbelieving scoff, a shake of her head. “Some engineer. But yeah, I'll get dinner.” Minjeong takes off her cap and gently sets it on you, still warm.

You blink.

Her hand lingers at the edges. She bites her lip, tilting the cap this way and that—adjusting, pondering. After a moment, she finds an angle she likes and steps back with a quiet, satisfied smile.

—

[arinapop]

Congrats on 1k followers! Sakura is pleased 😚

Detective Kkura doesn't need a gun, I mean how do you even focus with all her tricks up her sleeve and between her tits

✋🤚

I surrender ma'am

She disarms people just with her beauty and other things ...

What's she making all those expressions for...?

Oh, she's pleased. Makes sense.

No, she doesn't need a gun. The tricks up her sleeve are sufficient. She can pull them out easily. Assassin's creed style.

But—between her tits? Sakura in a tense standoff—and she makes a move by reaching into her boobies? How do you suppose the logistics of that would work, frisky? And why is it always frisky doing the asking? Why can't we ask frisky something for once? Is that allowed or will that get me kicked off Tumblr? If I return with a new account will I see another frisky ask in my inbox?

So many questions, so little answers.

That's two of us doing the surrendering. No questions there. I'd raise the white flag faster than France.

The disarming charm is potent enough to turn a tank into a little puppy begging for treats.

Of what? Her beauty, of course. And maybe what pops up if you let your eyes wander lower... and lower... and maybe even around the back. I've turned into google maps.

Ask me for directions to your next destination.

[arinapop]

Congrats on 1k! arina my pookie :luvv:

What, or who rather, is next on the chopping block for you?

:catshock: Who's calling me their pookie on anon? Please reveal yourself.

I'll answer both who and what.

I have Chaewon and Kazuha fics, but my LSF bias—Sakura—is still sitting lonely without one. I need to fix that. As for WIPs, I have a Chuu mostly mapped out in terms of plot, so maybe that'll be something you'll see on this page soon.

I also have pipe dreams of pulling off a detective smut fic. There are obvious feasibility issues I need to sort out—I don't want this page to spiral into total insanity. But that is something that remains a secret wish of mine.

Of course, it'd make things simpler if I combine these ideas:

[arinapop]

1k followers <3

1000 of you folks thought my rambles were worth having on your home page. Pretty sweet.

I feel a little sheepish when I take a look at my masterlist—to find three released fics. I've had to take my time with each, but I'd also like to have written more by the next milestone.

In the meantime, feel free to send me asks—about my fics, K-pop, writing, or anything in general. I'll try my best to give you a satisfying answer.

Oh, and thank you for reading.

[arinapop]

Ultraviolette

LE SSERAFIM Chaewon x M Reader

Tags: Smut

9k words

People don't come to parties like this to be themselves.

Not to be anyone, really.

The point—or the lack of one—is to let loose. To give in to feelings they'd swear don’t exist. Get stupid drunk and high. Make out with strangers in random hallways. In short: act like they've never heard the word "decency.” And the next morning? Drop it off like a temporary persona, head to work, and pretend nothing ever happened.

Heejin's taken it to heart, evidently.

“That girl definitely likes it rough,” she says, clicking her tongue. “Y’know—on her knees, mouth fucked senseless, head against the wall. Till she can’t feel her throat. Or anything.” She takes a sip from her straw—you don’t even want to know what’s in the drink. “And finish with slick dripping all over her.”

You stare at the speakers, bass thumping through the floor. “God, I wish they’d turn up the music just a bit. So I could go deaf. Permanently.”

Apparently, she’s already deaf, because: “Probably likes being called fuckslut when you fuck her up. Fuckslut or cumslut? Can’t decide which fits better.”

(Oh, and about forgetting nights like this. By morning—you'll be praying for that kind of luck.)

“Does the first thing you say about a stranger always have to be how they’re in bed?”

“Don’t be mistaken—there’s no bed involved. Just her knees on cold tiles, bathroom floor. Wall behind her.” She drains her glass, swirling the straw around. “I've never been wrong. Go ask her if you want.”

“Gee, and here I was thinking I’d start with a ‘What’s your name?’ sorta thing.” The blue lights swing around, catching you right in the eye. You flinch and raise a hand, squinting.

“Bow and call her queen while you’re at it,” Heejin mutters and drifts off towards the drinks table.

You exhale, shoulders sagging. Your fault for pointing the girl out to her in the first place. Should’ve known better.

Lonely Friday nights drive a man to dark places. In your case: a shitty party, where the only person you know is Heejin? That’s about as dark as it gets.

You came here begrudgingly, Heejin doesn’t hear “no” when it comes from you. And you were right: you were enjoying yourself exactly as much as expected. Not at all.

Until you saw her.

The girl.

You weren’t trying to notice her; she just kept appearing in your line of sight. A constant. And you’ll admit she’s nice to look at. Like now, the way she leans against the wall—glass dangling loose between her fingers, head tipped just right for the light to trace the curve of her throat.

She lifts the glass. The light follows—up, towards her face. A jolt: her hand trembles, nearly drops the glass. A faint pop, a subtle crack in the air, but she recovers quickly. As the light shifts away, so does the tension. And you're back in your head again:

Those lips, parted beneath your teeth. Her body, pinned and pliant against the wall—

Fingers tap your shoulder. You turn, Heejin’s back, a fresh refill of her poison in hand.

Ugh.

Sober Heejin is unbearable. A few glasses in? There’s a reason no one but you ever sticks around.

“No one ever told you staring's rude?” She sips through a new straw that takes several unnecessary detours on the path to her mouth.

“I wasn’t.”

“Uh-huh. And I’ve been drinking tea all night,” she bites. “You sure you don’t wanna drink tonight?”

“No. I’m driving us home.”

“One glass won’t kill you. Here—I’ll ask AI if you like.” She pulls up her phone, holding the power button. “Hey Google, how many glasses before you can’t—”

You snatch it, switch it off, and shove it back in her purse. “I’m good.” You couldn’t care less about Heejin, or the drive home, or anything else she’s whining about. Your focus is elsewhere entirely.

A look back confirms it: the girl’s still there.

“I think she’s alone,” Heejin says, peeking over your shoulder. “Name’s Chaewon, by the way. A little birdie told me. Come on, let’s go talk. Maybe she’ll—”

You cut in: “Forget her. Wanna go dance?”

Why you asked is anyone's guess.

Maybe because you don’t want to keep imagining things you shouldn’t; shut down the reel playing in your head.

Maybe because even if you did talk up the girl—Chaewon, it wouldn’t be with Ms. No-filter, 5 drinks deep, as your wing-woman. Or anywhere in the same zip code, for that matter.

And when’s she ever taken no for an answer.

Heejin snorts, raising a brow. “I didn’t come here to dance with you.”

“I know, but I don’t see anyone hitting you up. And me, well.” You shrug. Needs no explanation.

“Didn’t think you’d like flailing around in that sweaty mess. But sure, if it floats your boat.”

She heads toward the crowd, and you trail behind. Chaewon’s disappeared now, nowhere in sight.

First order of business: ditch Heejin in the crowd.

The crowd swells as you step in. Bodies press in, the bass rattling in your chest. You lose track of where Heejin is in the mess. She was ahead of you, but now you think she’s somewhere behind?

On track so far.

You scan the edges, trying to spot Chaewon—but no luck. Just a swirl of backs and raised arms. Party lights slice through the dark, leaving flickers of blue and white on damp skin.

“Your moves suck,” a voice cuts in behind you. Heejin, unmistakable even over the thrum of the speakers.

Can’t catch a break tonight.

“Never claimed to be a dancer.” You turn to spot her shaking her hips, lifting her glass high like a trophy.

“Everyone’s got one in them. Just need a little encouragement.”

Before you can react, she tilts your chin up—her fingers cool against your sweat-warm skin—and brings her glass to your lips. She pours what’s left of it into your mouth in one swift motion.

The drink hits fast and sharp. Sharp, burning, with a hint of sweet. You burst out coughing, nearly stumbling as someone brushes past you. But you’ve swallowed most of it. Your throat’s on fire.

She grins, patting your back. “The shit I threw in it should give you a spine now.” Among other things, you'd fucking think.

“Fuck you,” you spit.

Just when you think the night’s tapped out on ways to fuck with you, a bead of sweat rolls down your neck when you see who’s right behind her.

Chaewon. Dancing. Alone.

Just hope to god she disappears before Heejin spots her. You throw your arms in the air and move, swaying to the pounding music.

“There we go,” Heejin says, amused. “Alcohol finally gave you a dancing bone.”

You keep your eyes locked on her. Try your best to hold her attention. Keep her gaze from drifting where it’s not needed. She holds your stare without looking away—surprisingly long.

Strange.

Then it hits you: she isn’t looking at you. She’s looking just over your shoulder. Small, but crucial difference.

You glance back, heart skipping.

See, the thing about crowds at parties is they’re never still: bodies shift, swirl, rotate—and the flow has just turned, perfectly, to line you up with her. The light spins around to land on her, and there she is: Chaewon, now right behind you. The blue light slides across her face, casting her features sharply.

Fuck.

Something else’s off, too. Her eyes quiver—not a blink, more a microquake—under the light, with a look on her face you can't quite attribute to any emotion you've known. A glitch is the only way you can put it. But that thought quickly drops in priority because—

Amusement slips into Heejin’s eyes as she pushes past you, heading straight towards her. To utter something totally fucked, no doubt.

“Heyyyy, beautiful.” Drags the y out like it’s for show. “I was just telling him. Do you prefer fuckslu—”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you.” You don’t even remember deciding to push Heejin; your hands moved before you could think. The last thing you see before the crowd swallows her up is her body tilting, on a collision course with the floor.

Good thing the tiles are hard.

The press of bodies returns, but there’s an opening now.

Chaewon, standing there in an expensive dress, looking at you with an expression that says both curious and you’re-fucked-in-the-head. Which, okay. Fair.

The light hangs on her longer than it should.

“Why are you wearing a dress like that? You’re classing this shithole up.”

“I was expecting a…” She looks around, lips parted, searching for the right phrase. “Different kind of party.”

“One with less physical violence?”

“You could say that.” Her lips curl slightly. “Not that I’m particularly averse to it.”

She says it casually—like a throwaway line, an obvious extension, an aside of no particular importance.

You should walk away. You know how this night ends—with you passing out in the middle of nowhere. And you know what this girl is: nothing but trouble, wrapped tight in a 5’4” package.

But—seeing her now. All dolled up, perfect makeup, a pretty one-shoulder dress. Hair pulled back neat with a band. Sticks out in the middle of a dirty party like a flame flickering in smoke. The dress hangs criminally low off the other shoulder, showing off smooth collarbones—delicate, catch-the-light sharp. It ends right where it should, too, exposing pale thighs you can already imagine your fingers sinking into.

Goddamn if that isn’t an attractive fucking package.

“She was insane, by the way. Batshit crazy. Had it coming for a while.” You wave a hand vaguely in the direction of where you sent Heejin spiraling.

Her shoulders drop in a shrug. “I didn’t say a thing. Are you convincing me or yourself?”

“You gave me a look.”

“Maybe. But I wasn’t the only one giving looks.”

It feels like another unholy cocktail was just poured down your throat; something sour twists in your gut. Oh, she’s got you. In the palm of her hand. In under a minute.

She’s a killer, that one.

“Shouldn't we find a better place to talk than dead center of the dance floor?”

She tilts her head, leaning in close. “Talking, is that what we're calling this?”

Honest hand to god, you don't even know what else this is.

Okay, maybe you’ve got some idea. Promises don’t count at parties. Not when the girl in front of you looks like that. Or something.

“Whatever it is.” You catch her wrist, pull her close—a sharp elbow slices through where she just stood. “Not the place.”

See, humans have definitions: a set of principles, rules. Little lines in the sand that make each identity (or the illusion of one) unique. Without those, people blur into each other. Everyone becomes one.

These definitions change, evolve over time. You're not who you were a year ago, or even yesterday, before you walked into Heejin’s room without knocking. (That’s one you’ll remember alright: always knock.)

One such definition you've carved from experience: nights like this—shady party, girl you’ve never talked to before and probably never will again—are never a good idea. It's a drink; alcohol, a numbing of something deeper. And when the high fades, the weight inside just settles heavier.

So you swear it off. No more drinks. Not a drop.

But what if a glass of scotch worth more than you'll make in a year—the kind you'd ruin just by holding—shows up? Yours to do with as you wish.

Oh, ruin it, you will.

Scene cuts. Fast-forward a few minutes. A secluded, dark corner; somehow, there's still one left that doesn’t reek of sex layered over alcohol and sweat. You're on your way to fix that problem.

The reel plays again, bolder now: your hands in her hair, hers all over your body. Lips sealed, your mouth tugging at her bottom lip, tongue teasing, teeth hovering just close enough to threaten a bite.

Except it’s not in your head anymore.

The scent of alcohol is sharp on her breath, but it only adds to her charm; luxure, if you will. Besides, with whatever toxins Heejin force-fed you, you’re probably not doing much better. Not that Chaewon seems to care, not when her dainty fingers are skating across your crotch, feeling your hardening response in real time.

Which is why it’s so jarring when she pulls back to ask, soft and almost playful: “What was she going to tell me?”

You shake your head, clear the static. “What?”

“Your friend?” She raises a brow; you give a reluctant nod. “Was telling me something before you football-tackled her. Just curious what it was.”

“You don't wanna know,” is all you manage.

“Quite the opposite, actually. I'm asking because I do wanna know.”

“And I'm telling you that you don't.”

She grabs your hand and presses your palm to the inside of her thigh, her skin cold against your fingers. Then she slides it up her curve, squeezing tighter with each inch.

“Look, we don’t even know each other’s names,” she reasons. You can find a better time to tell her that’s not completely true. “Just thought I heard something I liked.”

She squeezes again, like that’s supposed to make you more likely to give in. Which, okay. Fair.

“She was narrating a porn script. About how you’d be in bed.”

Chaewon raises her fingers in a little camera-cut rectangle, framing her own face in the center.

“Huh, interesting.” Her lips quirk. “Give me the screenplay.”

You didn't think it was possible to meet someone more fucked in the head than Heejin, but clearly, you were wrong.

“Starts with you on your knees,” you begin.

“Classic,” she says.

And you go on: ”You’re looking up at me with those pretty doe eyes, in nothing but a black bra and panties. Drool at the corner of your mouth, begging for my cock.”

She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Begging, how?”

“Well, you know… all desperate, maybe,” you offer.

“Please,” Chaewon murmurs in the filthiest tone she can manage, “stuff your thick cock in my mouth. I can’t live without it.” Her eyelashes flutter a faux pout. “Something like that?”

You nod. “Yeah. Yeah, something like that.”

“Continue.”

“Faced with begging that persuasive, I’d have to give in, right?”

Her palm presses firm against your crotch. “Obviously. Suspension of disbelief can only go so far.”

“So I wrap my hand around the back of your head, clutching your hair. In the movie, you like it rough. I push your mouth onto my cock in one go, make you swallow all of it.”

She bites her lip. “In the movie?”

“Uh-huh.” You gulp, flicking through your mind for more. “In the movie.”

She helps: “What about the camerawork? A nice angle of the spit dripping down to my tits would add texture.”

“A visual of said tits would help first.” Your hands snake back to her dress's zipper. “Bathroom? Anyone could walk in on the shoot here.”

Chaewon shrugs, lazy and amused. “Wherever you want. I don't care.”

One more cut. This one runs longer. Finding a bathroom at a party without puke all over it is about as hard as you’d expect, but you manage.

“Like I was saying—visual.” You bring down the zipper in one smooth go, and her dress falls to a puddle at her feet. There’s something ironic about a classy dress crumpled on a grimy bathroom floor, but no one’s here for the symbolism. Not your department.

Her boobs present themselves, perky and tight. The soft, creamy bits spilling from her bra make you want to lean in, nibble already. Her nipples are taut, showing faintly through the red fabric. You slide a lazy finger over one, brushing the nub.

“Good enough?” She tilts your chin up to meet her eyes.

“That works. More than, actually.”

Let your palm wrap around her boob, a mere thin cloth preventing skin contact, and squeeze—a soft moan escapes her lips.

“So, what's next?” Her tongue slips out and runs over her lip.

“Where were we? Oh yeah, the angle of spit dripping down onto your red bra—”

“Wasn't it black?” she cuts in, impatiently tapping her fingers on her thigh.

“Was it?”

“Last you said, yeah. Can't have continuity errors.”

“Definitely not. Post-production’ll have to take care of that.”

A flick of movement draws your eyes downwards—her fingers already slipped under her panties, rubbing slow, deliberate circles. Soft, wet sounds rise as her fingers slide against her pussy.

“What? Couldn't wait for the scene where we fuck?”

“You're stuck on the blowjob intro for half a fucking hour,” Chaewon snaps. “God forbid a girl gets herself off.”

“I wasn't the one pointing out continuity errors in a porno.” You blink.

“Can't we skip to a part where you eat me out or something?”

“No can do. Script says blowjob, then fucking.”

She sighs. “Of course, made for a specific gaze.”

“Maybe. But the director's strict on the vision. No going off-script.”

“Sounds very pretentious. Nobody likes pretentious movies.”

“Only if they don’t pull it off. And, well, after a while—when you see the filth people clap for, it's hard to take their opinions seriously.”

She exhales, amused. “Then at least get a move on.” With a quick twist of her hair, she drops to the floor.

“It was very specific about having you against a wall.” You take her wrist and guide her to the sink, pressing her down to her knees.

Just her knees on cold tiles, bathroom floor. Wall behind her.

First, she gets your zip undone, and you help her slide your pants and underwear down.

She spends a couple of seconds just looking. Not stroking, licking, slurping—all that will come in due time. For a few moments, her eyes stay locked on your cock like it’s the prettiest thing she’s ever seen.

Her fingers wrap around your base. She spits—a sharp, wet sound—then uses her palm to smear it over your length, slow, firm strokes from tip to base, then back again.

Not wanting to miss out, her other palm slides up your thigh, grazing your balls. It’s gentle; massaging softly as she continues stroking you up and down.

Chaewon—her dress crumpled beside, in underwear too expensive for a setting like this—is someone who shouldn’t be sucking you off in a dimly lit party restroom, blown speakers pounding stupid bass through the walls.

But that’s exactly what she does next: parts her glossy lips, swallowing your tip first, her tongue flicking out to lap along your length. You trail a finger down her cheek, down the delicate line of her throat.

She’s one of those modern artworks—the kind that actually looks like art—marked Do Not Touch. But you’ll touch anyway. You let your fingers rest right at the hollow of her throat, cradling it between your index and middle fingers.

You tug her upward slightly, and her pupils dart up at you as she slobbers around your tip. She’s agonizingly slow, dragging her tongue in lazy licks, lathering you up even more. She keeps her gaze locked on yours, mouth working leisurely, her plush, pillowy lips rubbing all over your head.

Agonizingly slow. You’ve waited long enough. Your hand tightens in her hair, and you push her mouth down onto your cock. She’s the one who wanted to get a move on—it’s alright.

Chaewon’s mouth is soft and warm. Wetter than you could ever imagine. Drool spills down the corners, streaking her chin, smudging her makeup. Her tongue flattens and swirls around you. Eager. Precise.

You grip the sides of her head and press her upright against the wall, angling just right to thrust into that warm, tight hole.

It’s hard to tell with how busy they are multitasking right now, but you swear you catch the faintest curl of a smile on those spit-slicked lips. Oh, she’s planned this alright. Planned to get that cute little mouth fucked senseless. And who are you to deny her?

Her eyes flutter shut the first time you push, your tip pressing into the back of her throat. A sharp gag—but she steadies herself with one hand on your thigh.

She tilts her head back slightly, sinking deeper and deeper into the feeling of having her mouth fucked. Her fingers slip back below, a trail of slick stretching all the way to where the dress lies on the floor. How’s that for recurring symbolism.

Oh, it’s distinctly pornographic how she rubs circles under her panties while her mouth is getting thoroughly used. Those eyes tightly shut as she gives you moans that only grow louder—vibrating all over your cock. You'll give her artistic credit for that one.

There's already slick dripping down from your cock to your balls, but she's not satisfied with it. Not when she uses a free hand to catch the spit spilling from her chin and uses it to rub your balls, all soft and fondling. Like it’s the most important thing right now that you're properly pleasured.

You’ll give her credit for all of that.

Her knees shuffle around on the cold floor, one hand bracing against the sink, adjusting her height so that it's convenient for your cock to keep thrusting into her mouth.

An interruption: the set lighting gets dodgy. The yellow bulb behind you dims further—then stutters. Chaewon’s eyes glaze, a thin film rolls over her pupils as her face freezes momentarily.

You pause, getting on the floor beside her to ask what’s wrong. She blinks twice, says she’s okay, and once the light steadies, she’s back to leaning against the wall like nothing happened. And asks you to fuck her again. That, you'll do.

You’re lucky the thrum of the speakers makes it impossible to hear anything, with the rising sounds of a number of things—moans from the pair of you, wet, filthy gargles of your cock in her mouth, and the slick noise of her fingers on cunt.

You find your rhythm—faster pumps—and Chaewon matches it.

“You wanted this all along, didn’t you?” You tilt her chin up, forcing her eyes on you again. “Wanted to get your—”

Another push deep inside, her nose brushing against your waist, before you pull back to thrust again. “—mouth fucked by me till my cum is all over you.”

All she can give in response is a moan tinged with indignation—it’s crystal clear what the accusation is: as if you didn’t.

Her fingers rub faster, leaving you with no option but to match her pace. By now, she's basically using her pussy as throttle; speed control for how fast she wants to be fucked, knowing you'll follow without hesitation.

And when she drives it up to 11, there's no way you're lasting much longer.

“Fuck—Chaewon, I'm going to cum,” you tell, and she nods with a vigor that can only mean that she’s right there with you.

A soft pop, and she pulls her mouth off, lips glistening. Her palm takes over, stroking you with the same relentless pace, the tip hovering just over her face. Driving you closer to your edge—“do it on me,” she says, breathless, and you're not about to argue.

Those soft thighs clench—a trembling mess—on the floor, lips curling into an ‘O’ as she moans, louder than you thought was humanly possible. It gets completely drenched, her panties leak and spill a visible wetness on the tiles. That's when you release too.

Thick streaks land all across her face—cheeks, lips, hair. Her mouth, open and waiting, catches a good few too.

She smiles, panting, as her tongue flicks out to taste more from her cheeks. You collapse next to her on the ground, leaning against the wall. Spent.

“Tell Heejin the script feels screen ready,” she breathes.

The dim yellow light spreads softly across her hair, casting long shadows on her face—hiding, blurring her features—as she leans back with you, dazed. Cock-drunk dazed.

You can mark “getting a room to smell like sex” as done.

Another cut: the cleanup is of little interest. You also dumped your thoughts about definitions on her while helping wash her hair off. It was kind of an accident; you don't really want to talk about it.

Once you're done and the tap’s turned off, the bathroom settles into an eerie quiet. Sure, the party music still thumps faintly in the background. But it’s just that: background. Second nature now. What matters are the layers above it. And those are gone—until her dress, crumpled in the corner, starts buzzing like her juices just brought it to life.

“Look,” you say, “I thought we had a symbolism thing going on with the dress, but this is taking it too far.”

She brings her dress over to where you're sitting—a couch make-shifted out of a bathroom tub: you on the corner, her on the floor. You weren't the one who suggested this particular seating arrangement, but you’ll surely accept it.

“Relax. There’s a phone in it. Thought it was dead already, though. Dress with pockets—greatest invention of the 21st century.”

“Think the 20th century already got there. Probably even earlier.”

“You’ll be fun at parties.” Her eyes flick through her screen.

“I’d actually be a little offended if you don’t think that after all this.”

She closes her phone and puts it back in, shaking her head. “It’s a news notification.”

“Why don’t you turn those off?”

“Never bothered learning how to. Staying away from the settings app is one of my definitions.” The last word she says in a cheeky tone you're not sure you're a fan of.

“You don't have to use that word,” you offer, sheepish.

“I like it. I want to say it.” There's a twinkle in her eyes—sarcasm dressed up as something nice, you’d guess. “What's the story behind it?”

“Don't know. Found it gives me some semblance of a structure,” is what you'll say, and she'll believe you.

“That's no fun.” Maybe not agree, but she'll believe you.

You nod to the phone. “What breaking news was so important it had to interrupt our post-sex-pre-aftercare session?”

“Guess. If you get it in 2 tries, you can have my dress.”

“Why in the hell would I want your dress?” Never mind the part where she’d have to walk home naked. That's her problem.

“You were practically worshipping it earlier.”

“Doesn't mean I wanna keep it.”

Chaewon sharply taps her wrist. “Time's ticking.”

“I dunno. Two politicians having a dick measuring contest? Planet’s still on fire?”

“Our grandchildren will be married to…” She pauses, hoping for some show of interest. When it’s clear she's not getting any, she continues: “AI, apparently.”

“Like bots with AI?”

“The whole shtick. Marriage licenses and all.”

You scoff. “Yours won’t have to, with those genes. Mine might.”

“Not if I have any say in it,” she blurts, then looks down immediately.

“What?”

“Nothing. Would you marry an AI?”

“I’m not clinically insane, so no.”

“Why not? Imagine your favorite food cooked fresh, anytime you want. Can do a lot of things girls can’t.” It’s kind of hilarious the first thing she wants from a partner is instant food. Or worse: that she thinks you would.

“And girls can do a lot of things AI can’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like being able to kiss me without tasting like silicon.”

“Depends on what she’s been drinking.”

“Or not collapsing when she runs out of compute.”

“Humans need sleep, too.” Her hands pick up the rubber ducky next to you. “For what it's worth, I'd marry a bot. AI-powered fucking would go so hard.”

“What—I wasn't good enough?”

“You were. But not AI-optimized.” She squeezes the ducky on your face—squeak. The image is ridiculous.

“You're like, disqualified to be a human being.” You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “Do you even think before saying stuff?”

“All my decisions are well thought out.”

“Like wearing that dress to this shithole?”

“Probably made it so hot for you.”

“Fluke,” you wave it off.

“I stick to it,” she volleys back. “What if I’m a bot? You wouldn’t even know.”

Your hand brushes the line of her neck—soft, sharp. As your finger drifts lower, she reaches behind and unhooks her bra with a snap. It slips off and lands on the tub floor. She takes your hands and presses against herself, filling both palms with her boobs.

“Well?” she asks. “What’s the conclusion?”

“If you’re a bot, whoever made you deserves a hell of a raise.”

She laughs. “All me, darling. Self-replicating AI.”

“Some human would have had to start you.”

“After enough copies, does that matter? For all practical purposes, I'm the maker of myself,” she says, indignant. Like you're robbing her of credit she's earned fair and square.

“That's like saying the mom's the only parent because it's been nine months since the dad was involved.” You grab the ducky from her hand and squeeze it in her face. It makes a different sound for you. Deeper, a little ragged.

“No, it's like saying your great-great-grandfather doesn't count—because you probably don't even know his name.” She snatches the ducky back and presses it again; her old sound returns. Her head tilts, trying to make sense of it.

“So somewhere along the way, the start stops mattering.”

“Like somewhere along tonight, you stopped resisting and gave in. After that, didn't matter what you were before.” Her hands shift grip, closer to how you held it. Your version of the sound comes out.

“You didn't have to point that out.”

“I know.” Her lips curl into a smile, little puzzle solved. “I just wanted to, it's like a modern version of Ship of Theseus.”

“How so?”

“I mean, how far can you replace and reinvent until the original just doesn’t matter? Same dilemma, new packaging.” She tosses the ducky aside, irrelevant now.

You squint an eye. “I can kinda see it.”

“Maybe I’m reaching,” she adds, softer.

“This whole night's been reaching.” You throw your head back against the wall.

“Cheers to that.” She lifts an imaginary glass and clinks it gently against yours, just as invisible. “I could go for a drink.”

“Drink me.”

“Any more and I'll be less me and more you.” A flicker in her tone; something undiscernible.

“What's even you?”

Her voice tightens. “What do you mean?”

“We've been talking a while, and all you've done is play one role or the other. Porn muse. AI evangelist.”

“Isn't that what everyone does, play roles?” She forms a little circle with her thumb and index finger, spinning it through the air in slow motion.

“Maybe. But I think I know less of you now than before we met. And what gang signs are you throwing?”

“You've not been paying attention. I’m swirling my glass,” she says, mock-offended. “It’s almost empty—go fetch me a refill.”

“Enough pussyfooting. I want to know the real you.” You mime grabbing her glass and smashing it against the tub. “Surely you don’t talk in riddles 24/7.”

“Ouch.” She rubs her hand, as if something stung her. “Seriously, I’ve been real all night. I'm an open book, ask whatever you want.”

You pause for a second, thinking. “What do you… do for work?”

She snorts, like that question personally insulted her. “Come on. That’s like, the worst way to get to know someone.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You used a nice word earlier: definitions. You think the least interesting part of someone's day is one of those?”

“That's the part that keeps you alive.”

“But the rest is what you stay alive for.”

“Not everyone hates their job.”

“Not the point.” She crosses her legs, resting her hand on her knee. “It’s an obligation; would you do those eight hours if there wasn’t a paycheck waiting?”

“No,” you admit. “I have to meet metrics at my job.”

Her shoulders rise in a shrug. “These metrics, would anyone give a shit about them in a vacuum?”

“Maybe it’s not a definition, more of a side effect.”

“Yeah. And even if the passion’s there—buried under all that overhead—there's better ways to reach it than that question.”

“Try this on for size: you like parties?”

She smiles. “Do you?”

“You said I could ask anything.”

“You can—and I’ll answer. But you first.”

“Not really,” you tell. “People act like decency’s optional the second the lights go out.”

“That much was clear the moment I saw you.”

Unnecessary pretense, you think. “Then why ask?”

“Curious how you’d frame it. You chose to put the blame outside. And if I may, we're not being so decent ourselves.” Chaewon dramatically motions to the various states of undress you two are in.

“My bad for asking.”

“Not a dig. Just saying—this actually says something.”

“Point taken. So I asked, and I haven't gotten anything out of you yet.”

“Parties are okay.” She unhooks the handshower from the handle and points it at her wrist, thoughtful. “But I could do without the striking lights.”

“Really? You seemed fine out there.”

A soft breath. “Not paying attention isn’t new to you, is it?”

“That one’s a dig.”

“Not really. Not being hyper-aware isn't a character flaw. Most people aren't.”

“Yeah, not everyone’s wired like you, huh?” Your case is only helped by the way she's fixated with the shower head streaming water at her wrist.

“You can put it that way, but I'm not sure you're anyone’s poster child for normal either.” Her other hand lands on your thigh, as if to ground you from any delusions.

You’ll kick yourself in the shin every time you remember you told her about definitions.

She poses: “My turn. You like your friend?”

“What do you mean—like?” You raise a brow, suspicious.

“As in, like them as a person. Not in a funny way—just, you think they're cool. Sort of.”

“Heejin’s fucking intolerable. At times. Most of the time.”

“Why hang out with her then?”

“Dunno. She's my friend. You don't ditch your friends just because they're annoying.”

“You totally can, actually,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “I have, plenty of times.”

“Yeah, who am I kidding—I probably have too.” You point the shower down, and water spills onto her legs, sliding past her ankles on the way out. Somewhat of a ritual. Just not a clean one. Chaewon’s probably the kind to think none of them are.

A ritual needs some truths too, and you'll supply them: “But it’s not all bad. She dragged me out to this party, and now I'm here. Would probably be holed up with a movie otherwise.”

“Doesn't sound too bad. That's my preferred way of spending Friday nights, too.”

“Why here, then?”

“Active effort to put myself out there—whatever that's supposed to mean.” She exhales sharply. “Thought I’d done enough of that in college.”

“If you did, you wouldn't have to now.”

“Well, enough for me. Couldn't be arsed to do more.”

“Fair,” you offer, soft. “Was expecting your question to be how I knew your name.”

“Saw Heejin talking to the only person I knew here earlier. Wasn't too hard to figure out.” She flips through the shower settings, going through her post-sex-pre-aftercare-waterplay-ritual in different flavors. “Besides, would've been a little hypocritical of me. After that whole rant on bad questions.”

“Don't like getting caught being two-faced?”

She shifts on the floor slightly. “Nobody does. I'd like to think I'm consistent.”

“Sure. Though you can never know that for a fact.”

“Says who?”

“God—”

Chaewon cuts in: “He isn't telling me anything.“

“Gödel.”

“Who? Actually—scratch that, don't wanna know.” She raises her palm at you, like a stop sign.

“That won’t make it any less applicable to you.”

“Uh-huh,” she says and squints her eyes at you, considering if your next words are worth the trouble. “Fine, I'll bite. Who is it?”

“A math—guy. Proved no system can show itself to be consistent (among other tragic facts about math; they hated him). If math can't know it’s consistent, what luck do you have?”

“Shoot for the stars, land on the moon. Yada yada.”

“Wasn't it the other way around?” You glance at the wall—squiggly green patterns ripple across a blue background. “Shoot for the moon, land on the stars.”

She shakes her head. “That doesn't even make sense—the moon’s closer.”

“A lot of sayings don't make sense.” You point the water towards your own feet. The soft flow on skin feels quite relaxing.

“Like what?”

“Like… rules were meant to be broken. I think that's the last thing the folks making the rules had in mind.”

Her lips curl into a half-smile. “You're breaking your own rules by being here.”

The water suddenly turns harsh. “Thanks for the second reminder.”

“Your turn—go.” She flicks the nozzle, switching it to a concentrated burst—no warning.

You flinch, fling the head away, and kill the tap. “You know what? I think we should get going.” You don't think that—not yet—but two can play the game of saying things just for the reaction.

“It was just starting to get fun.” Her lips pull into a fake pout.

“You'd say that.”

“You’re dying to ask something,” she clocks. “Go on.”

You grip the tub edge, moving around a bit. “Did you actually, uh, mean what you said earlier?” you mumble.

“Darling, I said a lot of things tonight.”

“About being into physical violence.”

“Oh god, no,” she says. “That was a little two-for-one special: say something clever and fuck with you a little. Couldn't pass it up.” That twinkle in her eye is back again; you hate it.

“You should be careful going around saying stuff like that,” you warn.

“I know who to say it to. The kind that’d flinch harder than myself.”

As if right on cue, the light behind you flickers again—hitting her right in the eye. She flinches—barely. A jerk you can miss if you blink. Her eyes quiver for a split second, teetering between shut and just open.

You raise a hand, shielding her eyes. She freezes. Only when the light settles do you lower it.

“Could barely tell it affected you, to be honest,” you admit.

“I've had practice. Only changed my reaction on the outside, though.”

“Let’s switch places.” You get up and offer her a hand. “It’s worse on your side, when it happens.”

“We don’t need to.”

“Just come here.” You grab her hand, palm and fingers smooth against yours—cold to the touch—and she stands up. After helping her to the tub's edge, you drop to the floor. “You could raise a hand, block it, y’know?”

“How would I have practice then?” Chaewon pauses for a second. “It’s not worth it.”

“Lights always do that to you?”

The tub floor is gross, you think about pointing it out—but she's been sitting on it for the better part of the night without any complaints. So you keep it to yourself.

“Ever since I remember.” Her gaze wanders up behind you. “Went to a doctor once. Got some tests done. Said it’s inherent and just something I should avoid,” she says without missing a beat. Like a script, rehearsed—an actress playing her part. Not too well, not too convincing; you can’t buy in totally yet. It’s a written line, meant to be heard, maybe even pitied. But to be believed, it needs more practice. Or less.

“None of that’s true, is it?”

“It's partly true. That’s the trick.”

“Which part?”

“I did go to a doctor. And they did say there’s nothing they can do about it.” A darkness pools in her eyes.

“So it wasn't always there.”

“No.”

“Since when?” you press.

For the first time all night, her replies aren’t so quickfire. “It’s not that interesting,” just doesn’t have the same wit; the cleverness you’ve gotten used to.

“You wanted good questions. This feels like a definition; the making of one.”

“It’s really not,” she insists.

You'll try a hail-mary: “You know another, timeless packaging of Ship of Theseus? Lying about yourself—so well, so long—you forget who you were to begin with.” You lean back, giving her space to think. “When do you reach that point?”

She stares at you blankly. A pause, a sigh, and then:

“You know you’re kind of an asshole, right? I used to like them, actually. The lights. My family thought I was nuts.” She laughs, dry—there’s no humor in it. “But they didn't mind it too much; it helped me sleep. At our old place, when I was young. I used to lie on my bed at night, watching the lights flickering from sirens through the window.

The sirens used to zoom past, lights entering one way—draping my room in a faint blue—and leaving from the other, as fast as they came. Used to have the best fun counting them, too. See, life was just that simple back then. But I could never get past 40 without falling asleep.”

“Of course,” she adds, quieter, “that was before that night. When the blue sirens just kept going. Crossed 40, and I got so excited. Clutched the pillow so hard it almost tore—I’d never made it that far. It kept going. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. My heart picked up with the numbers.”

A small, uneasy shock crawls up her legs—they start shaking.

“Then I realized they’d stopped at our house.”

A piercing banging on the door interrupts whatever she was going to say next.

“Occupied?” shouts a sharp, annoying voice. “Ugh. Just puke and fucking weirdos jacking off in here, I swear.”

“Is that—” Chaewon starts.

You finish: “Yeah. Heejin herself, in the flesh. Who else could it be?”

She presses her palm to her forehead. “My head's spinning. I’m getting dizzy.”

“You okay? Need some water?” The pupils in her eyes go grey, and slowly go deeper in the white. “Or meds?” you add, concerned.

“No, no, I’ll be fine.” Her voice says otherwise—faint, fraying. Like she’s losing control of herself. “I just thought—the headaches were quiet for a while.”

“You’ve had them before?”

She nods, slow. “Headaches—noises—visions. I need to leave.”

“I'll come with you,” you say, and her eyes dart up at you, an uneasy look surfacing. “Till you're okay, if you'd like.”

A soft breath escapes her lips. “Alright… thanks.”

“If I don’t hear a response, I’m kicking the door down,” Heejin barks from outside.

“Is she gonna be a problem?” Chaewon picks up her dress from the floor, trying to straighten it out.

You grip her shoulder, steadying. “Get dressed, okay? I’ll deal with her.”

Your fingers graze the doorknob. One last look behind.

Her hands are gripping her head tightly, knees drawn in. Curling inward, like she wants to disappear. Unfortunately for her, she’s still here…

Closing the door behind you, you step back into the filth of the party on its last few breaths. The bathroom, somehow, felt cleaner. Music’s back to head-pounding loud; you miss the softer hum inside.

Heejin’s eyes widen on seeing you. “Thank fuck. I was looking—”

“What do you want?” you ask, words rushing out.

“What were you doing in there?” She squints, suspicious.

You let out a long sigh. “I was with her.”

“So I was right all along—bathroom floor, knees, everything—”

“Whatever you want, make it quick.”

“Someone fucking smashed my car’s rear view mirror. We need to leave.”

“Then go, take the car and go. What the hell are you calling me for?”

She takes a step back. “You’re a dick. I came with you. Figured I should be the one getting you back.”

“No. Tell the truth: you’re too fucking drunk to drive.”

Heejin presses her lips together, frowning. “What are you being such a dick for?”

“Because Chaewon’s—sick. In there.” You jab a finger over your shoulder. “Do you mind?”

“In where?” She leans in to look past you, brows furrowing.

“In…” You turn around to find—

The bathroom door hangs wide open, creaking. Your eyes sweep the room—tub, sink, toilet, floor—there’s nobody inside.

There’s nobody inside.

One last cut: It's something you’d rather forget. (You can't.) You roam the dance floor, hallways, drinks tables; they’re all dead—of what, you're not quite sure. Searching.

Music's replaced by a high, unbearable ringing. Lights burn brighter, sharper, piercing—you can feel them enter your eyes. Yes, they enter from your eyes, boring through the soft flesh of your brain, then drilling a hole through your skull on the way out. If you place a hand behind you, you swear you can catch it in your palm and stop the light—but you're wrong; it cuts through your hand, too. 

You can't stop it.

People look different, look like nobody. Faces—aren't. Faces aren't—anything. The lights turn every expression into the same; everyone looks like everybody. But none of them are the one you're searching for: hers.

The only one you wanna see. The only one missing.

This is the longest cut of them all. Time stretches, snaps, folds. You couldn’t put a number to it if you tried. All you know is: it’s long.

It ends out on the lawn, between wet, scrunching blades of grass.

Sit down and look up. There are no lights here; not for others, that is. But in your eyes, they're more striking than ever. Dancing in the front of your eyes when open, etching themselves in the back of your eyelids when closed—you have no escape, no solace. They’ve made themselves home, manifesting vivid shades of the feelings curled deep in the folds of your mind. If anything, the visions have to be them. If anything.

Someone did say the color of dread is blue.

They’ll be your stars tonight; they’ll be your muse—what you look at to feel things you can’t elsewhere. A cocktail of emotions—mostly dark, base being a stunning flavor of regret.

If you did a post-mortem, you’d trace it back to the first mistake: coming to this party. You'll need to do some re-defining—stop listening to Heejin’s suggestions. Fuck it, maybe push her out of your life once and for all. You knew this night was a bad idea.

Ask her and she'll say you're living life like a lunatic, chained to your concepts. (About that? She might be right.)

The second misstep: breaking your own rule. Maybe it was the drink forced on you; maybe she was so magnetic that man-made barriers stopped mattering. But something, something, made you lose control. Like Chaewon said. She was right: she said a lot of things. Deflections, quick wit, smoke and mirrors. Until the first time she said something strange.

She'll be less her and more you. What if the reverse was true, too?

The excuses can go on. So, when you wake up tomorrow, cut out the part that said it's okay to break your definitions, because that's what started this. Make that a definition.

But—if you were willing to break one definition… there's nothing stopping you from breaking another.

Then what? Make a new one? Swear it'll hold? Swear you will?

You can draw one more line in the sand. You'll end up watching yourself step over it.

If you can break one, you can break them all. The underlying assumption doesn't hold.

It's not consistent. Not anymore.

It has collapsed.

And whatever you’ll face is punishment for the same.

—

“Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect, he ceases to love.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky

To be continued.

Part 1 of definitions - Ultraviolette

—

Heejin’s bloodshot eyes stay locked ahead, her palm clenched around the top of the steering wheel. A glance at the cracked rearview mirror—there’s a police car tailing, signaling her to pull over. She groans loud, annoyed, and steers to the side.

The cruiser stops behind her. A cop steps out, mutters something under his breath, and trudges up to her car.

“I swear I’m not drunk,” she protests as she rolls the window down. “I wasn’t even supposed to be driving. I had a partner—he just disappeared. And I spent a fucking fortune financing this car. I’m not leaving it at a party where it'll get trashed six ways to hell by tomorrow morning,” she finishes, flippant.

The officer reaches into his bag to pull out a breathalyzer. “Ma'am, I'm gonna need you to blow into this.”

It takes roughly three warnings. Each one a little sharper: “Last chance. Refusal to take the test will result in arrest and license suspension—I need you to breathe into this now.”

Only then does she sigh, roll her eyes, and finally blow into the device.

Nothing is said when the machine blinks with the result; he just flashes her the screen. She doesn't understand the numbers, but the implication’s obvious. So she sighs again, and steps out of the car.

A cold breeze stirs her hair. She turns—nearby, a woman hurries past, head low. Deliberately hidden, like she's trying not to be there. Which, of course, only draws Heejin’s attention more. The way she's dressed doesn't help.

A soft, elegant—though slightly crumpled—dress hangs off one shoulder, flowing down to her knees. It looks familiar. Heejin’s definitely seen it before. Where exactly? She’s too drunk to recall.

Tucked in the dark corner of the street, a phone booth sits waiting. Behind it, a shop. Or at least, what she thinks is a shop. A sign reads Sweet Decorations.

But there’s no cashier. No counter. In fact, there's only one shelf standing between the place being a shop—or just an empty room. All the walls are glass, the door too—like it’s saying: look at me, I’ve got nothing to hide.

The light inside is a dim, sterile white. It's not flickering; steady, actually—but it feels like it might go out any second and take the shop with it. It's been on too long. Far too long.

The shelf is clear, like everything else. Just big enough for two teddy bears. Still in plastic. Unused.

Her eyes dart back to the phone booth. It’s occupied now. The woman slips a coin into the receiver, dials a number, and presses the phone to her cheek—gripping it like she’d die if she let go.

One ring, two.

Two slim fingers lift from the receiver, brushing her hair back. For a moment, a sliver of her face is visible—before the strands fall forward again.

Heejin catches a glimpse—and lurches forward. She tries to run to her, but the cop’s hand clamps down hard on her shoulder, locking her in place.

“Hey—you,” she shouts into the wind.

Three, four.

The next motion unfolds in three acts, but feels like one, really:

Chaewon’s grip on the phone slowly loosens, till it slips from her grasp and is en route to a free fall to the floor. The cord is too long to matter.

Her eyelids flutter, and she collapses into a heap on the floor, cheek pressed flush against the cold concrete.

The phone hits the ground—a blunt thud. It rattles once, twice, then settles right beside her ear. She stares into the distance; eyes—lifeless.

Five, six.

An ambulance has been dispatched to your approximate location. Please look for the blue sirens.

—

[arinapop]

1000 notes in 2 days is insane for me. Ty all for the <3

[arinapop]

Very unique. I don't think ive read a smut like this before. And very well written too.

I actually read it twice to understand properly and it was even better when I read again. Looking forward to what you put out.

Thanks for reading, and I'm glad you liked it <3

That was feedback I received from my beta reader as well regarding certain parts, and I'm fine with that. Just like some movies are better on a second watch - some stories can be too.