helloo, my name's Moss. I write mostly fluff and smut and my ultimate bias is Sullyoon, but feel free to ask and request stories for any other idols if you take a liking to any of my works that Iâve planted here :)
I know youâre gonna need this in the future, so Iâm writing them down.
October 4
She ordered the barley tea again, sipping from the cup with both hands wrapped around it as if it was going to escape. The cafe was as loud as usual, but she had a way of making noise irrelevant. All you noticed was her.
On the way out, she said, okay, okay â next we should â then grabbed you by the wrist, pulled you towards the river and sat you down for an impromptu picnic. She started pointing at the clouds and made up stories on the spot, found one that looked like a rabbit, then one that she swore resembled you. It definitely didn't, but all you did was stare at her, watching her look at the sky, taking it in like the world was still offering her something and she intended to accept every bit of it, so you just agreed.
October 7
Bukchon today, and she walked ahead of you, same as always, turning back every few steps â look at this, look at that one! â a fat cat purring, a big red door, a bicycle mural on the wall with a rideable seat, a vendor selling keyrings she decided you both needed immediately. She looped yours onto your bag.
I want to come back here in the winter, she said, looking up at the roof lines. Everything's going to look so different in the snow.
You said yes, then took a photograph in your mind â her coat, her breath in the cold air, the keyring swinging from her fingers as she danced across the street, turning back to look at you.
Before long, she started moving again. Okay, okay â next we should â
So you follow. You always follow.
I hope you can read this later, photograph still fresh in your memory. Please don't forget it for me.
October 10
The cafe in Mapo. She's become obsessed with trying out every flat white the city had to offer. So far she's twelve cafes in and every single one has been given full marks.
She was quieter today â not much, just to a degree. Usually she'd be talking about how good the last show she watched or the last book she read was, but today she just looked out on the street, her hands wrapped around her warm mug, and you watched something move across her face. You didn't really have a word for it. The expression of someone doing arithmetic.
She caught you staring. What? she asked, then melted into a smile.
Nothing, you said, and grinned back. You stared at her, and she looked back at you. Then you both cracked, her infectious laughter pulling you in as you chuckled.
Her cup went cold, so you ordered two more. She moved to sit next to you, leaning on your shoulder. You took her hands and wrapped yours around them, then took another photograph.
I really hope you're not forgetting these any time soon, because they're not taken on phones. A phone couldn't do it justice â her breath against your skin before it grew more regulated as she dozed off, her head resting on the crook of your neck, your hands taking in the daintiness of hers.
Before she knocked out completely, you heard her murmur the faintest of thank yous and I love yous. And that was all you needed to keep everything from cracking.
October 19
You would've met up again sooner, but she had to reschedule. Of course, you understood why, and wanted to visit. But her mother refused, so you waited, painfully, for a week.
This time it's the flower garden, the one next to the zoo â which you suggested at first, before she broke down crying. You asked what happened.
They took Rocket away, I don't want to go.
Rocket, her favourite monkey at the enclosure. You couldn't bear her crying, so you settled for the next best option.
The day didn't last as long as you wanted, but you pushed that selfish thought away for her. She's getting tired more easily now, and you've slowly learned how to walk slower without appearing to. To choose the closer seat. To carry everything. If she noticed, she didn't say anything.
October 20
Tonight she said, I don't want you to be sad.
You told her you wouldn't be, lied straight out of your teeth. She looked at you the way she looks at things she's deciding whether to believe, then she nodded, and tucked herself to your side.
I am writing this down for you even though we didn't go anywhere today because I know you will have forgotten, by the time you read this, how to do anything other than be sad. So I'm writing it here: she asked you not to be. Try for her.
October 24
The Han River again, her choice. This time you came better prepared for the picnic. You spread the snacks out on the mat and lay down next to her, where she was staring at the sky again, though she wasn't narrating this time. She stayed quiet, the way she has been for the past week or so, blinking slowly, fatigued.
You stare at the sky with her, and she says, in the softest voice possible, I'm glad it was you.
You take it in. Not trusting your voice, you didn't speak for a while. Then, me too.
More so than any time she ever uttered the eight letters, that moment was worth infinitely more.
December 19
I don't know how else to write tonight so I'll just write what happened.
I spread the snacks on the mat, the same ones as last time, her favourites. Sitting next to the triangle kimbaps and Market O brownies as they lay there untouched between me and the water, all I could think about was how we shouldâve been back in Bukchon now.
The sky did nothing in particular. I looked for the rabbit cloud, and the cloud that looked like me, but I think they drifted away a long time ago. I took photographs anyway, the dark water, the empty space beside me, both keyrings. I took them on my phone this time. Maybe that's why they feel different.
After a while I reached for her hand.
I didn't feel anything there, but I opened my mouth anyway. Okay, okay â next we should â before I lost it completely.
I stayed for a little longer before I couldn't bear it anymore. I packed up the snacks and both keyrings and took the long way home.
I visited her parents a week ago. Her dad consoled me with a hug, but when his arms wrapped around me all I could think of was her, and how she felt the same. Her mom invited me onto the balcony for a smoke. I think neither of us knew what to say, so we sat in silence. Eventually she said, God can be so cruel, huh?
It took all of my self-control not to scream out at the skies before I told myself she wouldn't have wanted that.
But she would've wanted me to remember. That's why I wrote all of this down in the first place. You, when I read this in the future, need to remember her. How she smiled with her entire face. How excited she'd get over her favourite movie, or spotting a stray dog on the long way home.
And so I'll say the thing I've been wanting to say across all of these pages:
It was good. Every single moment with her was so unbearably, completely good.
And she was glad it was you.
Remember that. Hold it with both hands, because it might escape.
Friend I need another one of those like that with Choerry PLEASE
(Specifically the last tag)
hmm i can't guarantee it, sorry! i have a few works planned out right now, and one that'll take especially long to be completed. maybe in the future when i finish most of my drafts :)
You have a crush on Seol Yoona, let's start with this fact first.
She's deadly gorgeous â her eyes, her nose, her lips. You're as tall as she is, but the aura she emanates makes you feel like you're five centimeters shorter. She's a year above you, and that just makes the entire ordeal better for you. It's your thing â being dominated at everything by a woman. Therefore, Seol Yoona, or Sullyoon, is just flawless in your eyes.
You don't even dare to look at her when you walk past each other in the hallway. You just hide behind your friends cowardly, and you hope that she'd notice you amongst the crowd one day. There's a conflict between your actions and your desire, apparently, but you just can't help getting flustered and becoming mute when she's in your proximity.
The chance presents itself eventually. It can't be more of an open chance than this one.
"Have you seen the pair list for the trip yet?" Taesan asks you. His hands are on the steering wheel, driving you to the faculty as usual. You help him with fuel costs from time to time.
"Not yet. I probably got paired with someone I don't know." You shrug, scrolling through your Reddit feed. There are a few memes and a few posts about the games you're still playing in your freshman year. "We'll forget each other in a week, so, like, what's the appeal of knowing it now?"
"You're fucking pessimistic, dude. Maybe you have one of those pretty sophomores as your partner!" Taesan encourages you as the car enters the campus. "What's her name again? Yoon?"
"Sullyoon, and what's the chance? Two? Three percent? What's one hundred divided by thirty-eightâ"
"Sometimes you just gotta believe, man," Taesan cuts you off cleanly. He's like a lighthouse for your sailboat in a thunderstorm. "And it's over ten percent. If you get one of the dance club members, they might help you get to Yoon as well!"
"Sullyoon. Yoon is the debate club president," you correct Taesan, though you're opening the group chat now. The trip's main document is the latest message.
"Yeah, Sullyoon," and he pauses to make a turn before continuing. "Anyway, the key point is: you have to trust your luck. I'm sure you'llâ"
"Holy fucking fuck."
"Told ya, is it one of theâ"
"It's Sullyoon!" you shout into the small confines of Taesan's car, seeing your name to the right of Seol Yoona on the list. You examine again to make sure that you didn't hallucinate, and it's really you and Sullyoon! You're being paired together for the trip this summer break!
You can barely comprehend the notion of you actually conversing with her â the topic, the tone, the personality, her eyes, her nose, her lips. Fuck, even the idea of you being close to her felt so far-fetched just mere minutes ago, and now, you're finally going to get to know her!
"I'm gonna cum."
"At least get out of the car first."
---
"Aren't you gonna go sit with her?" Taesan asks you, and you open your eyes from the attempt to get a pleasant sleep on the way to the destination. "The middle of the bus is also, like, the safest place?"
You blink a few times to get yourself back to your senses before replying, "We die together!"
Taesan gives you a look that makes you rethink your decisions, and the courage starts to flow in, even if it's just a bit. "That's probably the worst excuse you could've given me. I'm kicking you out of this seat."
"No, you can't."
"Your loss, then," Taesan scoffs, and he gives you another decision-altering look.
"What if she says no? That's gonna ruin the whole trip for me!" you whine, and you know that you're just delaying the inevitable of actually talking to her for the first time at this point.
Taesan purses his lips for a while before answering, "You don't know the outcome yet." He shrugs, looking for Sullyoon, who's still sitting by herself in the middle row. "Don't live to regret this."
You look at Sullyoon sitting a few rows in front of you like Taesan does, and to be frank, his words are pretty damn reasonable here. It's a slim chance against no chance at all to sit next to her for the first half of the trip.
"Fine," you concede, and you get up from your seat.
Each step feels too heavy than it should be. Your eyes lock onto the back of Sullyoon's head. Her hair is done in a ponytail today. She looks pretty like this. In fact, she looks pretty in every hairstyle. You trudge towards her row slowly, trying not to let her out of sight. Each second feels awfully long and tormenting, and you just reel through the possibilities of your first conversation with her. You keep reminding yourself that you have to ask for the vacancy of the seat beside her.
Until you're right beside her.
"Uh," you manage with all of your consciousness and energy. Sullyoon turns to you. "Hey, Miss Seol."
"Hey!" she greets you with a polite smile. "What's up?"
"I was gonna ask," and a pause. You can't believe you're having a conversation with her like this. With sheer willpower, you continue, "If I could sit here, since we're partners for the trip."
Sullyoon's eyes widen. "Oh, you're my freshman! Sure!" and she pats the seat beside her invitingly. "I'll tell Bae to sit somewhere else."
"Oh, I can justâ"
"Please, and we've never talked prior to this, right? We can get to know each other here!" Sullyoon persuades, and her eyes give the impression that she wants your company. You just cannot decline the heavenly offer granted by the stars.
"Uh, okay." You settle yourself beside Sullyoon cautiously, trying not to humiliate yourself with your awkward movements. "Can Miss Bae sit with my friend?"
"Sure thing! Where's your friend?"
"Uh," and turn back to Taesan, who's watching your shenanigans happily. "He's there." You point at him.
"Alright, I'll message her."'
You keep thinking of ways that you can fumble this, and you just can't seem to stop it. Still, having Sullyoon this close to you after just a few words makes your heart flutter, and you have to hold back your smile for the entire trip.
---
"What's that on your phone?" Sullyoon asks. It's about half an hour into the ride. You appreciate the fact that she takes interests about your phone's background.
"The wallpaper?" and you tilt your phone to her a bit, making sure that she can see your screen.
"Yeah. Is it a movie poster?"
"Aftersun, yeah. I watched it a few years ago, and it just stuck in my head ever since."
It's an honest answer. Aftersun is an influential film to you. You saw it at a theater when it was initially released, and you just can't get it out of your brain somehow. It's a five-star film, really.
"Never heard of it before," Sullyoon says with a chuckle. "I'm not good at movies, to be honest."
Bravely, you reply, "I can help you with that if you want," and you chuckle a bit, diluting the seriousness of your words. You're trying not to look too cocky with your cinema knowledge here.
"I'd say yes if I had time," Sullyoon answers. "Please don't take it to heart. It's just that: I have so many fucking things going on in my life."
"Sorry to hear that," you respond in an attempt to empathize. "I don't take it personally, don't worry."
Sullyoon smiles before showing you her wallpaper. There are some Japanese letters that you can't translate and a few cars that you find cute. The overall image looks rather green-tinted. "I took this myself."
"With, like, a camera?"
"Yeah, it was from my trip to Tokyo," and Sullyoon pulls her phone back, seemingly searching for something. "Let me find the album, uh, here!"
You look at a bright image of the buildings of Tokyo. The composition and the lighting look good to you.
"Wow," you utter. "It's gorgeous."
Sullyoon smiles again. "Thanks. This is one of the better ones. I'm, like, really proud of it."
You can't help but smile along with her. Sullyoon continues to show you the images from her trip, and they truly are eye candy. You shower her with praise for her photography skills. You learn about the camera she uses. She learns about your love for Aftersun a little more. The conversation goes back and forth throughout the ride, and you're so fucking proud of yourself that you asked for this seat in the first place.
You're winning Seol Yoona's heart.
---
The bus stops at the mandatory resting point for lunch. You've been here a few times with your family before. It looks a tad different from what you've remembered, though you appreciate the fact that you get to use the bathroom and have a few pieces of pizza.
"So, how do you guys know each other?" Bae asks, biting off a piece of pepperoni she's holding. Sullyoon is sitting beside her, munching on a piece of double cheese.
"We live in the same dorm. He was searching for someone who lived there in the group chat, and I contacted him," Taesan answers, and you're nodding along with his words to confirm the legitimacy of the story. "And I drive him to campus on the days that we don't skip our classes," he continues with a chuckle, earning a boisterous laugh from Bae.
"You're skipping classes as freshmen?" Sullyoon quizzes.
Not wanting to look like a pair of irresponsible students in Sullyoon's eyes, you hastily refute his claim, "No, no, no, he was just joking."
Sullyoon nods approvingly before biting off her double cheese again. "I wish I had the fire like you guys," she says. "You kinda lose the energy with time, you know."
Not knowing how to answer, you just smile back at her. Then, you go back to the piece of pepperoni in your hand again, hoping that when you and Taesan become sophomores, you can be good examples for the future freshmen.
"Taesan, you have a, uh, sauce?" Bae starts, then she pulls a piece of paper out of a box for him. "Left side."
---
"So, why do you like photography?" you start at some time into the second half of the ride. It has been a while of silence playing on your phones, and you don't want to look too antisocial here.
"It's my mom," and Sullyoon looks up from her phone. The afternoon light from outside the bus is making a good angle with her face. She just looks gorgeous like this â her brown hair, her eyes, her voice. "She's a photographer, and she taught me about cameras and how to take photos."
You nod along with her words. "Cool. My mom is a chef."
"That's cool, too. Does this mean you can cook well?" Sullyoon asks. Her head is tilted a little in curiosity.
"I can make aâ Thai omelette. Is that enough?" you joke back, eliciting a chuckle from Sullyoon.
"Not a very suitable set of skills for today's dinner, I'd say," Sullyoon says, and she leans in closer to you. Your heart races at the unexpected proximity, and you use all your willpower to stay still. Though it turns out that she's just whispering you a spoiler for today's dinner. "I'm not supposed to tell a freshman, but we're having barbecue tonight."
You can smell her perfume â summer.
Your muscles relax once Sullyoon pulls her mouth away from your ear. You take some time to process her words. It's a barbecue. There'll be a grill. There'll be fire.
"Will there be beer as well?" you ask, only to realize how much of an alcoholic you're being in front of your crush. Fuck.
Sullyoon laughs. Her voice dips a tad deeper than usual, but it's devastatingly attractive to your ears. "Isn't that, like, the whole point of this trip? Getting wasted together and floating around in a pool?"
"Fair point," you reply, and the image of a drenched Sullyoon plagues your mind in an instant â clothes clinging to her skin, wet hair, her curves. Maybe you'll be making out with her in the water with your breath smelling like wheat and rye. You'll hold her close to your body as you kiss her with need. You'llâ
"I still have to make sure of your safety, though, so don't drink too much. I can't deal with the faculty and your parents," Sullyoon half-jokes and half-pleads, pulling you away out of the fantasy. You understand her burden, of course, and you're going to be taking care of a freshman next year as well. You don't want physics-bending karma to come back and bite you in your ass.
"Sure, Miss Seol."
"Please, just call me Sullyoon," she urges. "Seriously, I feel like a fucking historical artifact being called Miss Seol, and I think I trust you enough now."
You get confused a bit at the idea of Sullyoon trusting you. Alas, it has been only a few hours since your first conversation. Nonetheless, you can jump out of this bus onto the road and ruin a car's windshield with this level of ecstasy. Seol Yoona trusts you, and that's probably another quest completed on the way to being her younger and slightly shorter boyfriend.
"Yeah, uh, okay, Sullyoon," you manage, doing your best to hide the joy inside your heart. It works for a while. At the moment Sullyoon turns away, you ball your hands into fists to celebrate the worthwhile event quietly out of her sight.
---
After a while, your view of the side of the bus becomes stores and houses planted along the road. There are some traffic lights on the way to your accommodation, as opposed to none on the highway earlier. You've just entered the metropolitan area of the town.
It doesn't take long before the bus turns into a small street. In the front, there are a bunch of rest houses sitting beside the alley. You see pools behind the wall of a house. Your bus stops eventually, and being nearest to the exit, you're the first to get off the vehicle.
"Hey," Sullyoon calls, and you turn back to her, not forgetting to leave the walkway space for a few people to walk past you towards the exit. "Can I have your number?"
Your mouth hangs open slightly in shock as Sullyoon locks her doe eyes with yours. Seol Yoona just asked for your number, and you can't fucking believe this. Your hands are still operating, at least, as you just whip out your phone from your pocket and touch the top of it with Sullyoon's.
Your phone vibrates slightly as her contact appears on your screen. The profile picture is her ID picture, you think. It looks so formal, with Sullyoon as her display name.
"Great, I'll message you when we're ready," Sullyoon says with a nod. "Or you can just come by and hang around first. Either way works."
"Sure, I'll put my stuff in my bedroom and go to you guys," you assure her, and she seems to be happy with that.
---
Sullyoon's house looks just like yours. It's not even mirrored. There's a pool table on the left side of the entrance. You can walk into the house a bit to find a pool filled with water on the right. The television is in the same position. There's a fridge beside it. The clock says that it's about four in the evening. Still, Sullyoon is nowhere to be seen, so you just settle yourself on the couch in the middle of the room meekly.
After a while, a door beside the television opens, and someone comes out of it.
She's not Sullyoon, though â a bit shorter, sharper face. It's Oh Haewon, still in her bus clothes of a Hawaiian shirt and jeans.
In Sullyoon's social circle, she spends most of her time with five women: Lily Morrow, Oh Haewon, Bae Jinsol, Kim Jiwoo, and Jang Kyujin. They're in the engineering dance club together, after all. You've seen their performances at a number of events: the orientation day, the international night, and now, the house trip. In your humble opinion, they're deathly beautiful in their own styles, and in reality, so many people have crushes on them. Though none of them have ever made a single move out of fear and anxiety.
In the group, Sullyoon is the most popular, with Haewon coming in a close second ranking. It's more of a preference whether you prefer the cute, innocuous vibe of Sullyoon or the tomboyish, vulgar vibe of Haewon. You find yourself more fitting to Sullyoon's energy, though it's not that you find Haewon any less gorgeous.
"Hey," Haewon greets you with a small nod. "Sullyoon's partner, right?"
You gulp. "Yeah, I, uh, she told me that I can be here, so I'm here."
Haewon nods again receptively before walking towards the couch. She sits down not too far from you, and she grabs the remote to play something.
"Oh, there's Netflix," Haewon mutters, and she clicks on the icon. It brings her to a login screen, however. "Damn."
"I have Netflix," you blurt out in an effort to help Haewon.
"Aren't you staying at that house?" Haewon asks, pointing back to your villa. "What? Are you and Sullyoon secretly fucking or something?" She shoots you a suspicious look, seemingly piqued by the notion of your trysts with her friend.
You can't say a word as your eyes widen and your mouth hangs open. Your body freezes in your seat, unsure of how to respond to the fuckery Haewon just uttered. It's as if your heart just stops for a few seconds just to process Haewon's awfully forward question.
"What?" you manage, utterly and completely shocked. "We're notâ"
Suddenly, Haewon bursts out into a boisterous laugh, moving from side to side in her seat. "Fucking hell, I'm sorry," and she reaches out towards you, pacifying the situation. "I know you guys just met. I was just fucking with ya, sorry again."
Your expression dissolves into a shy laugh along with Haewon. "Oh, well," you mutter between chuckles. "That's quite a welcome."
"Yeah, I shouldn't, no, I wouldn't do it if I had known," Haewon says as her laugh softens into a smile. She then hands you the remote in her hand. "Here, log in with your Netflix."
"Thanks," and you take the remote from Haewon. Your heartbeat slows down a bit, and you start working on logging into the pool villa's Netflix with your account that you're sharing with Taesan and a few of your friends.
"Well, with that out of the way," Haewon restarts the conversation. She scoots a little closer towards you, and you tense up again. Your fingers tremble slightly on your phone while trying to access your Netflix account. "Do you like Sullyoon? Like, as your senior match or whatever."
"She's wonderful! I like her vibe," you answer honestly, alternating your eyes between Haewon, your phone, and the television. It's quite a sensory overload here. "She's so kind to me."
"Yeah, she's lovely all around. It's her expertise," Haewon says, sinking herself into the cushion of the couch. "You two will get along, don't worry."
"I hope so."
You finally link your account to the television, and Haewon claps merrily at the success. The screen shows a few algorithmic suggestions, and it's clear that you're a film buff.
"Do you have any hate-watching suggestions while we're drunk?" Haewon asks.
"The Room, I think?"
"I believe you," and Haewon does a finger gun pointing at you. You just smile at her.
---
The sizzling from the grill fills the night air along with the splashes of water in the pool. The outdoor area of Sullyoon's house smells of cooked meat and beer. You're sitting in a chair shyly, scrolling Twitter as alcohol begins to set in. There are a few freshmen, including Taesan, and sophomores, including Bae, playing in the pool together. You and Sullyoon remain on the land still, talking about tedious topics and interests that become interesting just because it's Seol Yoona you're talking to.
"How has your freshman year been?" Sullyoon asks, swirling the contents of her can around a bit, and she takes a sip.
"It's fine, I guess," you respond without looking up from your phone. "Took some time before I settled in, even with Taesan."
Sullyoon chuckles. "I get it â new environment, new friends, yadda yadda." She takes a bite off her barbecue stick â green pepper â and Sullyoon asks you more with her mouth full of food, "Did anyone come with you? Like, from the same high school."
You look up from your phone to meet Sullyoon's eyes before answering, "Nope, I'm alone here. Was really lucky I met him in that dorm group."
Sullyoon nods at the same time a splash of water lands on her feet, and she flinches a little. You look at the pool to find Bae and Taesan smiling apologetically.
"Sorry," Bae says from the water. Sullyoon just accepts her apology with a nod.
"Anyway," Sullyoon restarts, turning back to you. The can of beer is still staying in her hand, and she takes another swig. "Let's talk about something more personal."
You look at her, puzzled by her statement. "Wasn't that already personal?" and you let out a chuckle to lighten the seriousness of the statement. You don't want her to feel intimidated by your words.
Sullyoon laughs, seemingly a little drunk now. "There are more personal things than you settling into college life, you know?"
You're still too shy with two cans of beer in your veins. However, you really want to get to know Sullyoon better than this. You can feel your vision getting a tad blurry, but she remains as gorgeous as ever â her eyes, her hair, her lips. God, you just want her to pin you against the wall and start whispering dehumanizing insults into your ear.
"I don't have a girlfriend or a boyfriend, if that's what you wanna know," you declare, picking up the can to take a sip out of shyness. You wonder how and why the hell you said that. It's not like you look good enough to have a romantic life.
Sullyoon chuckles, fidgeting with her almost-empty can. "Me too." You register the intoxication in her eyes and tone, eventually. Her off-the-perfect-cadence giggles ring in your ear canals against the noise from the pool and the grill. "I've been on a few dates in college, and they're all just fucking boring."
"Boring?" you probe her a bit.
Sullyoon stands up from the opposite seat, and she sashays towards another chair next to you. The act makes your inhibitions drop slightly â proximity and all. She reaches for the can of beer back at her seat, and you see how defined her arm muscles are â curves, veins, and strength. You'd really like her to lock your head with that.
"Yeah, they're" â she takes another sip â "they always try to please me, and I can see through that."
"Like, uh, what usually happens?" you ask more questions without much self-doubt. The tendency to second-guess your words seems to disappear bit by bit.
Sullyoon scoffs, then there's another sip before she answers, "They act weird. I don't know how to describe it." Sullyoon looks up into the sky, reiterating her thoughts, and you follow her vision to see the stars flickering on the pitch-black blanket of the nocturne. "They just don't stay true to themselves! Yeah, that's the word."
You ponder her words. Not staying true to oneself is something that you oppose, obviously, but you also have some concern if you're falling into that category by falling for her as well â agreeing to everything she says and pretending to be someone else.
"Do you think I act weird?" you blurt out in your drunken stupor. You're a tad concerned about dishonesty, and maybe you'd get a free compliment from her for being yourself for the last 12 hours since the first encounter.
"Do you have a crush on me or something?" Sullyoon teases, looking at you with playfulness in her eyes. That smirk is killing you. "Why the fuck would you even ask that?" and she chuckles lightly.
Your eyes widen as you regain your senses for a few seconds. Her words are powerful, and you just can't answer the question she's using to interrogate your heart. All that you can do is take a sip from your can to hide the color on your cheeks.
You don't register Sullyoon's hand on your shoulder for the first second of contact. Again, the alcohol is setting in hastily. Still, your heart beats faster when her body scent reaches your nose â sweat, perfume, and some beer â and you almost choke on your drink. Your hands tremble under the weight of reality and closeness. Her mouth is agape, as if ready to do something unpredictable. You look into her eyes. There is a lot that's going on in her pupils â energy, mischief, and perhaps some desire.
You stammer out, "Come, come again?" She smells so fucking wonderful, and you wouldn't mind one bit if she calls you weird as an answer.
Then, Sullyoon just chuckles in front of your face, and you just look at her, confused.
"Just messing with ya," she utters with a smile before pulling herself away from you. Sullyoon then clinks her can with yours gently. "I'm drunk as hell now, so please excuse me."
Shakily, you bring the can to your mouth again for another sip while chuckling awkwardly.
"And no, I don't think you act weird around me," Sullyoon says.
Your heart flutters at her answer. The urge to jump into the pool out of joy is strong, but you remain mostly still as you ask her, "Really?"
Sullyoon shrugs. "Yeah, at least from what I see, I think you're often honest."
"Often?"
Another splash of pool water finds your feet and Sullyoon's. Both of you jump at the coldness, and Sullyoon goes a little further than you by hissing at the swimmers.
She turns back to meet your eyes. "I think we're gonna get all wet by the time I finish explaining this frequency adjective to you," Sullyoon states, tilting her head slightly towards the sliding doors, and you get the notion in that instant.
"We're just gonna sit on the couch and watch The Room, right?"
"What the fuck is The Room?"
"I did not hit her, it's not true! It's bullshit! I did not hit her!" Tommy then throws his water bottle away. "I did not. Oh hi, Mark."
"Oh, hey Johnny, what's up?"
Sullyoon nods beside you on the living room couch, a different can of beer that's almost full in her hand. "I see the appeal now."
"There are a bunch of weird dialogues like this, by the way. This is just one of them," you add, taking a chug off your can. "It's a fucking goldmine."
Sullyoon smiles back at you. "Splendid."
---
"Do you actually smoke?"
"This is Haewon's."
"Where are yours?"
"I don't smoke."
There are two cans of beer sitting idly on the marble sink. The area of this room is generally too small for two people, but with this amount of distance, you're fitting into it perfectly. There's the smell of scented candles that reminds you of serenity, but again, the ecstasy you've been chasing is already in front of you.
"I'm not trying this," you decline with a profuse shake of your head.
"Weren't you chugging beer like crazy earlier?" Sullyoon scoffs, breath smells of fermented wheat. She picks up a lighter to ignite the cigarette in her hand. A line of smoke rises from the opposite end from where her fingers are holding it.
"It wasn't that crazy, to be fair," you whine back. "This is, like, my, uh."
Sullyoon laughs in your face with visible signs of late-stage intoxication: lack of balance, unfocused eyes, shaky hands. "It's your eighth can tonight, by the way," and she points her thumb to the side, to the cans on the sink.
She keeps track of your beer consumption history, apparently, and you tease back, giggling, "You like me enough to count?"
"What do you think?" she plays coy, bringing the stick closer to the mouth. She doesn't take a drag yet, and you just observe the light at the end of it flickering in a slow rhythm. "Am I being a responsible sophomore, or am I having a crush on a person whom I've just met this morning?"
And you're snapped back into reality for a heartbeat. Within that timeframe, it's clear that you need more time and familiarity with Sullyoon to build her trust. You're a bit gutted that it's not so soon, to be honest, but you just hide any trace of that feeling with a small laugh.
"A person can dream, I guess," you blurt out, so unaware of how cocky you look.
"Yeah, I know I'm hot," Sullyoon scoffs, and her lips finally touch the cigarette. You watch her suck in air through her mouth. It's devastatingly attractive. Then, a puff of smoke hits your face, eliciting a few coughs from you, and you wonder how the hell she doesn't struggle with taking a drag.
"That wasn't" â and there's another cough â "hot."
"You're being obtuse," Sullyoon scoffs again. You're irked by her confidence a bit, but a part of you also finds that, in a sense, hot.
"I don't wanna get cancer," you deflect, trying your best to look strong in front of Sullyoon. Still, with this shorter height and younger age, you probably look deathly cute to her instead of intimidating. To make matters worse, she's ruffling your hair with a smile that's just making your muscles go wobbly against the bathroom door.
"You're a terrible liar," Sullyoon jokes. "I'll show you something."
Sullyoon takes another drag â soft, awfully quiet, glittering at the tip of her stick. She brings her other hand up to your mouth, and you flinch a bit out of the last remnants of your humility. Still, Sullyoon's thumb chases your lips and pries your mouth open gently. You loosen your jaw as her face moves closer towards yours.
A puff of white cloud leaves her mouth with a small push of air from her lungs, and you close your eyes once it reaches you. You block your trachea. The gust just rages in your mouth, and you let it stay there for a bit. You think you've seen this before â Joachim Trier's lens. And if your memory isn't too fuzzy and altered, what Sullyoon is doing to you right now looks stunningly ethereal.
Her breath is hot against your face. Her thumb burns your lips. Her smoke scorches the inside of your cheeks. It's one chillingly gorgeous spectacle if someone happens to stumble into this bathroom â the closeness, the white curls, the cadence of her chuckle afterwards. Seol Yoona is blowing smoke from her mouth into yours.
And you're pretty sure that Renate and Herbert are going to be ecstatic seeing you and Sullyoon reenacting their image.
A few heartbeats later, you blow a gust out of your lungs and open your eyes again. You're greeted with the sight of the dissolving vapor in front of Sullyoon's angelic features. She chuckles heartily, and she doesn't make a scene of brushing the cloud away. Her thumb is still on your lips, prying your mouth open with minimal force. She looks dreadfully pretty under the bathroom light and a layer of white puff.
"It's called shotgunning, I think," Sullyoon finally breaks the silence, and you just hum back at her as an affirmation. "I like it when we just stay like this."
"Like what?" you utter dumbly. Your brain seems to be completely fried from that puff, and you can only repeat her words and express agreement at this point.
"Close, but not too close," Sullyoon huffs before taking another drag, then there's another shotgunning. The cloud spins in your mouth, and you push it out softly. The whiteness dissipates into Sullyoon smiling in front of you and continuing her answer, "It's thrilling."
You're all dazed and enchanted by her spell â smoke and perfume. Your heart is yearning for more of her touch than just the thumb on your lips and the white puffs. You want to chase her lips, but the threat of losing her wholly looms over you. This entire thing is a thriller, honestly.
You gulp. "We're going to do this untilâ"
"It burns out, yeah," and Sullyoon winks. "Fun, isn't it?"
You rest your back against the door. "Then what?"
Sullyoon scoffs, and she ruffles your hair again tenderly. You just melt without an ounce of resistance â wobbly legs, slack arms. Her other hand is still holding the stick between her fingers. There's a line of smoke floating from the bright end.
"I don't know, really," Sullyoon answers your question, hand leaving your hair and reaching for her beer on the side. Your eyes are locked on the light from her cigarette, only to be told, "Look at me, pretty boy."
The name sends a shiver down your spine, obviously, and you shift your gaze back to her. She looks gorgeous as always: eyes, nose, lips. Now, with the label, you'd really love to just let her do whatever the hell she pleases with you.
"You look like a delicacy," Sullyoon says, and she takes another sip off her can. The alcohol helps your heart from beating too fast from the notion of you being her metaphorical dinner to satiate her apparent lust. "I wanna fucking devour you, to be honest."
Her eyes are still locked on yours. The duration of the prolonged eye contact should make you feel uneasy under sobriety, but you're leaning in closer towards Sullyoon as she puts her can away from her mouth. You're met with the sight of her wet lips glistening in the low light of the bathroom. Suddenly, however, Sullyoon pushes you back with her beer can against the door, eliciting a moan out of your mouth, knocking the air out of your lungs.
"Do as I say, pretty boy," Sullyoon commands, moving so awfully close to you that her lips almost touch yours. She doesn't make a show of smoking into your mouth anymore. The distance is gnawing at your heart, but with that assertion, you don't dare closing that gap.
You smile weakly with the surmounting excitement running in your veins. It's really happening right now â the golden, clear-cut chance with your crush. Your heart is hammering inside your chest. Your fingers quiver incessantly. Your pupils are certainly dilating.
Still, the playful edge in you emerges for a bit. "What if I don't?"
Sullyoon smirks, and a scoff leaves her mouth. "I'm sure you're not that stupid, right?"
"Definitely," and you chuckle in her face. It's disgustingly brave. "Maybe."
Sullyoon tilts her head a bit, then she faux begs, "Take off your shorts, pretty please?"
There's a certain kind of teasing in your movements as you remove the garments from your waist. It's to your best knowledge from being an engineering student. It's to your utmost ability to move when having a beer can on your chest and the bathroom door on your back. You don't really expect her to be more aroused by the swaying of your hips or the sultry-drunk expressions from you.
Sullyoon smiles at your enthusiasm, at least. You're elated with that. Then, she peers down to see your lush hair seeping from under the shorts.
"You don't even trim it," she states, still pinning you against the door with her beer can. The force lessens a bit, though. "Fucking disgusting," and she completes her insult with a devilish smile.
You push your boxers and shorts down further, lifting your legs to help with the removal. At a certain point, your cock springs out with eagerness, spreading precum over her casual clothes. Your body is shivering with anticipation and anxiety, while Sullyoon observes the entirety of you, taking a few drags and blowing the smoke onto your face.
Eventually, your bottom half is free of clothes. The vulnerability is terrifying under Sullyoon's impish expression. Her eyes scan all over your exposed body just to elicit some more goosebumps on your skin. You're smiling weakly out of intoxication, regardless. Your affection for her is running deadly deep.
She takes a drag, removing the can from your chest. You feel you can breathe properly again. There's this slightly numbing pain in your ribs, but you're too drunk and lusted-out to give any fucks about that. She's taller than you are. She's older than you are. She's stronger than you are. This is nauseatingly perfect.
"Go to the toilet," Sullyoon issues another order, and she moves out of the way to let you walk with boxers and pants on your ankles.
You take a few clumsy steps to the toilet, feeling Sullyoon's eyes on you. It's probably the natural response for you to feel the need to pee upon seeing the ceramic bowl. So, you aim your hard cock towards the water body. It's difficult with an erection, butâ
"I've always wanted to do this." Sullyoon's chest is pressed against your back. Her left hand slides all over your abdomen, while the right is still holding the borrowed cigarette and the beer can. Of course, you moan with pleasure and her warmth. She stops around your lushness above your cock, eventually, and she gives it a soft press.
"Fuck," you whine whorishly. She gives it another press, and the tingle in your bladder becomes stronger. You can barely stand right now.
"Piss for Mommy, pretty boy, piss all that beer out," Sullyoon coos, and you feel her chin on your right shoulder. She takes another inhale of the nicotine, and you can only watch the smoke flying out of her mouth from beside you. Her left hand moves down a little more to help with the aim under the state of erection. She wraps her hand around your cock, bending it down a bit more.
That's when it starts for you.
There's the sound of your fluid hitting the water body in the toilet â slightly yellowish. Your body loosens up a bit. Sullyoon hums approvingly as a response, then, "It's so hard. I'm sure it's because of me, right?"
"Yes, Mommy," you speak, the moniker slipping out too easily. Your eyes are locked on your firmly held shaft that's still leaking.
Sullyoon takes another drag, blowing the smoke below her. The cloud envelops your cock, and you find the image somewhat cinematic, to be honest. You keep your piss consistent, forcing it out of the bladder in a powerful stream against the ceramic and the toilet water.
"Mommy's pissy boy," Sullyoon whispers, prompting a moan out of your mouth. Your pliability has never reached such high, and it's Seol Yoona â your crush â who helps turn your brain into a mush. "You're such a nasty little slut."
You repeat mindlessly, "I'm Mommy's pissy boy. I'm Mommy's little slut."
Sullyoon puts the cigarette into your mouth, blowing a puff into your right ear. The cloud is warm on your lobe. The drag is warm between your lips. "Take a drag, pretty boy."
You're too stupid and wasted right now to resist. There's a cough when the smoke hits those tiny bags in your lungs, and puffs leave your mouth. The stick doesn't fall, still. That's your first time smoking, and being held by the cock by your crush while pissing does elevate the experience by a margin.
Down below, your stream goes down in its intensity. A straight line becomes a curved one, and a curved one becomes droplets. The noise coming from the ceramic becomes quieter, and Sullyoon helps you shake the last few beads out of your slit. Your body can barely stand up now. You can just collapse within Sullyoon's embrace, really.
She holds you like that for a while, letting you bask in her warmth and your own vulnerability. You let out a few whines from between your lips as the drag remains in your mouth. Every breath is punctuated with a puff leaving with the moans. Then, Sullyoon sways from side to side languidly, and you follow promptly. She's humming some tune that you don't recognize â perfect cadence, almost somber tone.
"Such a good boy for Mommy," Sullyoon praises you, chin still on your right shoulder. Your heart jumps at the compliment, obviously, as you dance along with her.
"Thank you, Mommy," you say feebly, a bit muffled by the cigarette. Sullyoon reclaims it from your mouth with her fingers, eventually. Another puff is blown out of her mouth.
"Almost burned out," Sullyoon says.
Your eyes are still looking into the wall in front of you, mostly thoughtlessly except for the movements and her care. "What's burning out?" you ask, shifting your weight between the legs for the nocturnal waltz.
Another exhale, another white gust, another hum â Sullyoon answers, "The drag â this is my only one."
"Ask for one more from Haewon, Mommy."
But Sullyoon just stays there, hugging you from behind, lingering with you. Her left hand is still on your hard cock. A few more puffs pass by your ear as you two move from side to side. The room smells of scented candles.
"I wanna stay like this," Sullyoon finally says, and she presses the cigarette against the wall in front of you. There's an inky mark on the vast whiteness of the bathroom wall. "You smell like beer, by the way," and she finally takes a deep breath from something that isn't a cigarette: you.
The exposure to Sullyoon's proximity just pierces all of your defenses. Just this morning, if someone told you that you'll be in this situation â your crush holding your dick while you're peeing â you'd tell them to fuck the hell off. Right now, you don't know if it's the alcohol that's doing the talking, but you think it's real â her affection, her body against yours, her words.
Within her embrace, you've never felt weaker than right now.
After a few seconds of no response, you tilt your head up to look at her. If she heard you, she's showing no indication that she did. She's still cleaning the window like she has been for the past minute or so, wiping with a cloth in one hand and a Windex spray bottle in the other.
It takes a while before she finally asks. âWhy?â
âBecause⊠they say youâre a vampire.â
âAnd?â
âBut I know youâre not.â
The wiping stops, she lowers her arms. She doesnât turn to look at you, just stands there looking at the window. It doesnât seem like sheâs going to respond, so you continue.
âI know you better than they do, Heejin. I know that the reason why you donât go out in the morning is because you work the night shift and you're sleeping."
She doesnât say anything in return.
âI know the reason why you always avoid garlic is because you donât want to have bad breath. Which is considerate, honestly.â
She drops the soaked cloth onto the ground, hitting the floor with a wet slap.
"And okay, yes, I've never actually seen your reflection in the mirror, but that's because⊠uh, of the angle in my room?"
The silence that follows isn't really reassuring anything for you.
"It's a small mirror," you add quickly. "And, like, the lighting's always weird. You almost never stand in front of it too, which, now that I'm saying it out loud, is its own explanation. So it totally makes senseâŠ"
You clear your throat and continue, âAnd the whole asking for permission before coming in thing, Iâve always found it really cute! And really sweet. Like, it was a little weird when you just stood there for four minutes refusing to come in that one time I said no as a joke, but I figured you were just being ââ
The spray bottle follows the cloth, hitting the floor, this time with a louder smack. You wince and let out an embarrassing eep out of reflex, "âŠrespectful? You were being respectful, just to an extreme degree. Which is a great quality!"
"And, yeah, it's true that I've never seen you eat in front of me. Not once in two months. But you've also never said that you were hungry, so clearly you just â you have a small appetite, and you're also very private about it, which is completely normal, even though I don't support intentionally skipping meals but clearly you're still maintaining a very healthy â"
You realise now that you're just talking. You stop yourself before you offend her, then start again. "The, uh⊠The thing about you looking young for your age⊠It's true that Mrs Park downstairs thought you were my younger sister, but she's also like eighty years old with eyes so bad she probably couldn't even â"
Heejin turns around. She stares at you, expression indifferent and unreadable, as she slowly takes one step after another, inching closer to you with no particular rush. You continue with your rambling, because you're not sure what to do if you stopped.
"And the⊠ah, the thing with the dog. Most dogs just don't like â some dogs are just weird about people, y'know, so it's not entirely â" She's almost face to face. Two, maybe three feet away, and close enough that you lose your train of thought completely. "⊠dogs are weird." You finish weakly, barely even getting the last few words out. You can practically feel her breath on your skin, ice cool where it touches you.
She stares at you for a long while, and something in her look shifts just barely, just at the edges, like she finds you a little funny, and finds that she doesn't mind. The look sends a shiver down your spine, and suddenly your knees feel embarrassingly unsteady.
âThose are good guesses, butâŠâ she starts, and the indifference in her face gives way to something else, the first crack in her stoic look that you've seen since meeting her two months ago. It's something almost hungry, a hunger she isn't bothering to keep in check anymore, and somehow it's the most unsettling thing you've seen.
âI am a vampire.â
You blink. Her skin seems to be, somehow, even paler than usual. Thereâs some sort of glow around her, almost luminous as the light from the window catches her skin.
âOkay,â you say slowly. âBut like, metaphorically, right?â
She doesnât give you an answer, so you keep rambling, âBecause people say that all the time. Like, âI could eat a horse!â when theyâre hungry, but they donât actually â"
"I wouldn't eat a horse," she says. "They aren't my preference."
You stare at her, blinking deliberately and slowly, "âŠWhat is your preference?"
She doesn't answer that either. Instead she reaches up and draws her fingers slowly across your collarbone, and the cold of her touch hits you so suddenly that your breath catches and you almost drop to your knees. Her fingers find the collar of your shirt and she plays with it, before moving it aside, her eyes dropping to your neck. The focus in them has shifted, even you can tell, because they look like they've sharpened into something fixed and singular, like everything in the room has stopped existing, apart from you.
Her hungry look morphs into a slow smile, and for the first time since you've known her, you get a good look at her teeth.
Huh. You never noticed that her canines were so sharp.
"Hold up, are those fangâ"
She cuts you off with a kiss.
Except you canât really call it that. For one, itâs not on your lips. The second thing is that sheâs really only just placing her lips onto your skin. On your neck.
Then her fangs sink in.
The pain shoots through you, sharp and invasive, a puncture that's making your body scream in protest. But threading through it, impossibly, is a wave of pleasure. A deep and pulling ache that feels like the core of your being getting drawn out through the single point on your neck. Her lips are sealed air tight like a vacuum against your skin, cold and firm.
And you can feel her sucking. You can feel the rhythmic, gentle suction as she drinks and feasts on your blood. Your knees finally give out, buckling against your will, but she holds you up effortlessly. One hand anchors in your hair, pulling you up, and the other wraps around your waist, pressing you against her impossibly cool body.
Through all this, you can't find your voice. You feel yourself go limp and dazed, and your energy seeping away, rendering you completely unable to make a sound. But you're aware, utterly conscious. You don't have the strength to push her off, but somehow in the back of your mind, a part of you is saying that even if you did, you wouldn't choose to. The pain is immeasurable, yes, but the pleasure of having her hold you up by the hair with her freakish strength, the fact that she's got her arm wrapped around your waist as she's literally sucking your blood, it's sending signals down there that you're not sure you can control.
Yes, you're getting a hard on from your girlfriend manhandling you and sucking your blood.
You're not sure if it's the sensation of the icy pressure of her mouth on your neck, or the warm trickle of your own life flowing into her, but somehow someway, you're getting more and more turned on by the situation.
She makes a noise. A soft, satisfied hum that vibrates against your throat. It's the most erotic thing you think you'll ever hear.
Then she finally pulls back, her fangs sliding out with a slick, wet sound, akin to a blade being pulled out of a wound it just made. You slump down with your back against the wall, your knees completely giving up. You finally find your voice and gasp, a ragged intake of breath as the connection between her teeth and your neck breaks. A drop of blood, your blood, beads on her lower lip, and she licks it away with a slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue, and her eyes, now darker than you'd ever seen them, locking onto yours. She looks alive.
"Still think I'm metaphorical?" she murmurs, her voice lower now, thicker.
"Fuck," is the only thing that comes out of your mouth. Perhaps it's the fact that she just sucked away a considerable portion of the blood in your system causing your brain to malfunction, or that another large portion is going straight down to your cock and empowering your boner, or the combination of both, but now you're quite literally only thinking with your dick.
"Fuck, am I a vampire now?"
She laughs, unrestrained. "No honey, you'd need to drink my blood for that."
You sigh in relief, before the whole weight of the situation hits you. Your girlfriend is a vampire. A sexy, hot, freakishly strong, dominant manhandling vampire. You can hear your friends screaming their "I told you so's" but right now, you're not even sure if this is a bad thing.
You gather your strength and look up at her, and she's smiling. It's the same slow, hungry smile, and she steps closer, standing tall over your slumped body. She leans down slightly, pinning one hand against the wall, one on your chest, encasing you.
"You're so sweet," she whispers, her face barely a few inches from yours. "So sweet and warm and full. I've been⊠restraining myself."
Her hand goes from your chest to your neck, fingers cold and precise as she traces the bite marks. You flinch, but it's not painful. It feels more possessive, like she's claimed you with the bite, and is now deciding what to do with her food. She press down slightly, and you feel a fresh, tiny trickle of blood seeping out. She collects it on her fingertip and brings it to her mouth, sucking it clean with her eyes still locked on you.
"You rambled so prettily," Heejin continues, her tone almost conversational. "Trying so hard to explain me. To normalise me. It was adorable," she leans in, her lips brushing against your ear, "It made me want you more." She almost purrs the last line. The sheer intimacy of it makes your stomach clench, and your heart starts to beat faster. Oh, your heart is still beating, thank god, but to you it seems like the only place it's pumping blood to is your cock as the tent in your pants grows ever more noticeable.
Her hands find their way back to your chest, then she slides down. Over your shirt, under it. Over your stomach, until they reach down to the waistband of your pants, and she hooks them there. "They said you should dump me," she says, her breath still chilling your ear. "But I don't think you're going to do that. I think you're going to do exactly what I want."
You manage a weak, "WhatâŠ. what do you want?"
Her fingers dip beneath the waistband, cold against your feverish skin.
"I want you to breed me."
The words hang in the air. You blink once. Then twice. Your mind, foggy from the bite, practically dazed from having to share the little blood left in you body with your cock, tries to process it. "You want to⊠breed�"
She doesn't answer you with words. Her hand moves, unbuttoning your pants with a swift and precise ease as she pulls them down. You're left in your boxers, your erection still pitching up a tent as she starts rubbing your length through the friction of the fabric. You feel yourself hardening more at her touch.
"So eager for me," she purrs, her eyes still locked onto yours. You feel your cheeks heat up, and she laughs at your reaction, that same unrestrained sound you'd never heard from her before. "You want this too, don't you? What a naughty boy."
Her other hand reaches for your shirt, ripping it apart into shreds with ease. She focuses on your chest, licking her lips before latching her teeth onto your skin. The searing pain shoots through you once again, but this time you feel less of it, instead allowing yourself to fully take in the pleasure it's bringing.
'Fuck, I might be a masochist,' you think to yourself.
While she's busy sucking more of your blood, her other hand finds it's way underneath your boxers. She grips your member with such an intense strength you feel like you're going to burst, and not in the orgasmic way.
You let out a small whimper from the pain, your cockhead now slick with precum. 'Why the hell am I getting so turned on from the pain?' you think inwardly.
"I'm so fucked up." This time the words find their way out of your mouth. Heejin comes up from sucking on your chest, her eyes finding yours and her gaze turning serious. She lets go of your shaft and you let out another involuntary whine. She smiles and cups your face with both hands, "You're not." It sounds sincere. "You're not fucked up. You're perfect. You're such an adorable, pretty boy, and you're the perfect vessel."
She lets go of your face and starts working on your cock again, both hands this time. "Look at this, so big and hard for me. It took me such a long time to find someone like you, and you're not gonna mess this up for me. So be a good boy for mommy, okay?"
You nod furiously; the name calling was the final straw. You can feel it. Your heart has given up on your brain, and is now diverting it's full attention on your erection. You can feel yourself letting go, and giving in to her.
"Yes mommy."
Heejin lets out a feral grin, fangs baring. "Just stay still and let me ride you." She stands up and rips apart her clothes with the same freakish strength, and you get a good look at just how flawlessly pale her skin looks in its entirety. The sight of her breasts, perfect and perky, only serve to fuel your hardening erection.
She leans back down and straddles your hip, your cock now resting between her thighs. It jerks wildly at the touch of her cool skin, and she can't help but laugh. "My, you're so eager for me, aren't you? You're so pathetically helpless, so needy for mommy's pussy, huh?" You feel your precum leaking down your shaft as it twitches with every word she says.
"Shoot lots of your cum into me. Give me your seed, and you can make mommy happy." She lines up with the tip of your dick, and slams down hard. The force feels enough to shatter all the bones in your body, and yet you couldn't care less. All you're thinking is the fact that your girlfriend just told you to breed her, how she somehow feels warm and slick even though her skin is icy cold, and how fucking good it feels to be inside Jeon Heejin.
She starts riding you wildly, her hands reaching to cup your face again, her forehead pressing against yours. You keep letting out these involuntary sounds, lewd, soft noises that you can't control.
"Can you feel how wet I am for you? God, you're so big, stretching mommy's cunt just right." Her voice is no louder than a whisper. "You're gonna give me the best babies, aren't you? Adorable little mixed breeds, half human half vampire. They'll be strong like me, and cute just like you, won't they?" You nod in response. Her tightness is griping you like a vice, and the warmth only elevates the sensation. She's riding your cock, the smacks of the flesh on her ample ass meeting your hips resonating through the walls. You try to reach and grab her waist, but she stops you before you can, wrapping her hand around yours like a handcuff, the other still resting on your cheek.
"No touching, mommy's the one in control." She shakes her head at you, and she's showing no signs of stopping. You whimper pathetically, and try to thrust your hips up to meet her.
"Don't. Let mommy do all the work." She hasn't even broken a sweat. You, on the other hand, you're panting and sweating like a dog, the pure sensation of her velvety walls sliding up and down on your cock combined with the heat of her cunt proving to be too much for you.
"M-mommy, I-I'm close." You can barely get your words out, your cock throbbing inside her. You can feel her start to ride harder, rolling her hips every time she comes back down, her perky tits swaying every time she does, almost hypnotically. "Cum inside me, baby. Let it all out. Be a good boy and breed me." The bounces come to a halt, her pussy clenches tightly around your throbbing member.
Before long, you feel it coming. You explode with thick, heavy spurts of cum, groaning as you empty wave after wave of your seed into her.
Heejin lets go of your hands and leans back in, this time kissing you with a renewed vigour, like the fact that you're breeding her is fuelling her with joy. "You did such a good job, baby. Shoot your baby batter into my pussy. Make me a mommy, honey," she says as she parts away.
You feel the last few drops of cum leak out, your cock still in her cunt as she squeezes every last drop. You lean your head back, resting it against the wall, and you take everything in. Your girlfriend is a vampire. You were turned on by her sucking your blood. She said she wants to breed with you. She straddled you and rode you. You came inside her.
heavy themes, depression, epistolary novel (i think)
2k words
Dear Yuri,Â
I know youâre not gonna read this, and you donât have to. I just needed to put this on somewhere that wasnât a text message, because Iâve sent plenty of those and theyâve all just sat there left on delivered, and thereâs just something about a letter that feels different. It feels like I can write anything I want to you and not expect a response, just like how we used to talk. Maybe because some part of me still hopes that youâll be able to see this when I send this to you, but we both know thatâs not happening.Â
Iâve been listening to that song again, you know the one. Iâve had it on repeat for the past three days, which probably isnât a good thing now that I think about it. But I just canât seem to stop because every time it ends I feel like something is about to be over and Iâm not ready for it to be over so I just let it start again. It takes me back to the car, and the city going past us, and your hair flying wild up in the sky as the wind blows while your head rests against the seat. And us not saying anything at all, and it being the best time of my life. You made me feel that way, without any words. Like we could just sit in the silence and enjoy how you were there and I was there and we were there together.Â
I miss it, Yuri. I miss it in a way thatâs embarrassing to admit, in the specific way that missing something beautiful you had and gave up is embarrassing. I let that go I let you go. I thought about it a lot I think about it a lot, how I just told you to leave without even bothering to explain myself. I thought youâd understand, or I guess thatâs just what I was telling myself as I watched you go. I even had it all drawn out in my head, I was gonna tell you that I thought we needed space, and that it was the right thing, and that we both needed it, and you were going to agree and everything was going to be fine. I just didnât know that my words were so empty. I spoke them out and they filled the air, but my chest still felt so heavy after you left. The things that were actually weighing me down, the ocean I was drowning in, I kept my mouth closed around those, just like always. Just like we always did.Â
Bad luck to talk on these rides, remember? You said it once after we almost crashed and we laughed and let it become a rule, like it was the law of whatever we were. I think I was relieved when you said it, because it made the silence feel like it was right, because it made us feel like all we needed was each other and nothing else. It made us feel like we chose to keep quiet instead of what it really was. Iâve been thinking about it and I donât think it was bad luck, Yuri. I think we were just both too scared. I think we just got lucky when we found each other and recognised something and spent all the time we had together not talking about anything, because saying it out loud would make it real and we didnât want them to be real. Because we felt safe in the car, and the car let us run away. I think thatâs how we got so close, because we found that in each other.Â
I need to apologise. I need to say sorry, not via text the way Iâve been doing for the past few weeks, and thatâs why Iâm here.Â
Iâm sorry, Yuri. Iâm sorry for not asking you for help. Iâm sorry I told you all the lies about needing space instead of all the true words stuck in my heart. Iâm sorry for letting us believe that it was bad luck instead of calling it what it really was. Iâm sorry the last conversation we ever had was me performing a decision I didnât even fully believe in, while you sat there and took it in the same way you took everything in, so composed it almost seemed like you were fine. Iâm sorry, Yuri. I know you werenât fine. I just let myself believe that you were because believing it was the easier alternative.Â
I heard from Minju that you were doing alright. She said you were around, still showing up for school and looking like yourself. And I thought â I actually thought â okay, then. This is okay, this is good. Like your okayness was existing separately from mine, independently, and I hadnât smudged it by letting you go, and that it would continue on regardless. I told myself that. And I kept telling myself all throughout September, and then October, up untilÂ
Fuck I canât do this.
Sorry, the bottom partâs wet now. Itâll probably dry up by the time I give this to you.Â
It was up until Minju called. It was pretty hard to hear her clearly, she was crying with tears caught in her throat and choking with coughs and she could barely get her words out so I already knew something was wrong. It was during breakfast, I was eating cereal.
The day you died  The day you killed yourself, I was eating cereal.
I donât know why that stupid detail keeps coming back to me, like it matters or something. I donât think it Maybe it does. Maybe itâs the fact that everything before the phone call was intact and normal, the bowl, the spoon, the way the light came in through the window, and thenÂ
I couldnât bear to  I couldnât go. I know people thought it was wrong, and maybe it was, but I just couldnât face it. I just couldnât make my body go and stand in a room where you were and also werenât at the same time.Â
So I drove. I drove for three days straight, way further than we ever went. I drove until I couldnât anymore, and I swear every time I turned to the passenger seat, I saw your face  you were there lookingÂ
I canât  sorry give me a second.Â
Okay.Â
Iâve been writing this letter like youâre going to read it. I noticed that just now, looking back at the top of the page with your name up there, Yuri, like youâre on the other end of this and Iâm going to receive your response in a few days. Like this is just a letter between two people who lost touch and one of them is reaching out. I think I needed to write like that for a while. I think I needed to start there, in the version where youâre just not returning my texts because youâve gone quiet like you always do, and you were going to come back eventually like you always did. I needed to live in that version for a few paragraphs.Â
But I know I canât stay in it.Â
Youâre not going to read this, I know that. I need to come to accept it, so Iâm writing it down and Iâm telling myself that. I know that in the way I know things I havenât figured how to carry yet, this big awful factual thing that sits in the middle of every day and doesnât fucking move. Youâre gone, Yuri. You left. And I donât mean the way you left after I told you to, not in the way youâd disappear by yourself sometime, I mean youâre gone  I mean youâre no longer here. I keep trying to find somewhere to put that and I can't find anywhere it fits.Â
Iâve been thinking about what Iâm supposed to do with the things I didnât say. The true things, the words I kept locked deep down, the words that got stuck in my throat the day I told you to leave. The words I kept closed around my mouth for two years because it felt safer not to say, because I dressed my fear up as superstition and called it bad luck and drove around in comfortable silence with you and told myself that that was enough. I had chances, and even though it eats a part of me away every time I admit it, I still need to be honest with myself about it. And I couldâve asked about you too. I had chances to go into that gap, that gap that was always between us and what we didnât say. I think that gap was the silence on the rides. And I loved that gap. I knew it was there, and I was perfectly content with it staying as it is, and I never once went looking inside it because I was afraid of what Iâd find. I was afraid of what it would ask of me. So I left it alone and told myself that was respect, that I was giving you space, that I was understanding you. When really all I had to do was open up, and I was just afraid.Â
Your pain was older than me, that much I know. It had roots in places I was never invited to, that had nothing to do with me, way before you got into our car. I know that I wasnât the cause, and Iâm trying to hold onto that. My therapist keeps telling me that and I keep nodding and I think eventually the nodding and the believing are going to meet somewhere in the middle, but right now thereâs still that gap between them, which is almost funny, the two of us and our gaps.Â
I think of a version of ourselves where weâre braver. Where someone had taught us, or we managed to figure out ourselves, that opening up wasnât the end of the world. That we could share an understanding instead of silence, that you can hand someone your worst and most frightened self and theyâd still be there. I think we couldâve been something in that version, we couldâve stood up straight in it. I think I wouldâve told you how I was really feeling, and you wouldâve listened, and I wouldâve asked you how you were really feeling under that mask of yours you always wore, and I wouldâve listened, and maybe we couldâve
But thatâs not the version we were in. And Iâm learning, slowly, at my own slow speed, that I have to stop punishing myself with the versions we werenât in.Â
You told me once, and I remember because you spoke with such conviction like you truly believed in it, that you thought most people were just floating. Just drifting around and bumping into things and calling it living. I didnât push back, but I realise now that I shouldâve. That I shouldâve said, floating is fine for a little while, but you gotta ground up eventually, and that everyone needs ground, and that you deserved ground more than anyone Iâd ever known. You deserved something solid and real underneath you, more than just the silence we were floating in. I just didnât know how to be that, because I was barely standing myself.Â
Iâm trying to stand now, and Iâm proud that Iâm trying. I think if we came clean and told each other everything, youâd be proud of me now too. Iâm in therapy, and I'm not drowning anymore. Iâm saying the true things out loud for the first time in my life, and itâs the most uncomfortable Iâve ever been and I think it might be the most important thing Iâll ever do. Iâm doing it late, I know Iâm doing it late, but Iâm doing it, and some part of me is doing it for you, or because of you, or in the direction of you⊠I havenât figured out the right preposition yet, give me some time on that, Yuri. Iâll know by the next time I visit.Â
I know you knew this, even though neither of us said it out loud, but I cared for you. I care for you, still. In both tenses. And I will, forever.Â
I hope itâs quiet wherever you are. The good kind, not the kind we hid in. I hope youâre floating. I hope thereâs ground.Â
I loved you, Yuri. I loved the clouds and the way you stared at them as they drifted. I loved watching the city blur past us as we drove to nowhere. I loved the way your hair flew wild up in the sky as the wind blew while your head rested against the seat. I loved you, the whole real impossible you, the fact that we found each other, and I shouldâve said it so many more times than I did, I shouldâve said it instead of keeping it somewhere safe inside where it couldnât do either of us any good.
I'm saying it now. I loved you, I love you. Both tenses, all the way down.Â
â M
this was originally posted on fanprose (it was posted three hours ago I just forgot to upload it here) so go check it out there and follow me on there too :)
this fic is heavily inspired by frank ocean's white ferrari
out on fanprose! this one's probably not gonna be published over here because it's a textfic and I have zero clue how that's gonna work on tumblr, so go over to fanprose and check it out :)
Word count: ~14k
A/N: DOUBLE RELEASE!!! i'm rewriting the whole thing so... don't expect the same plot from back then
masterlist
â previous part
ââââââââ â ââââââ
Things had been different the last two months.
You used to hear Yoon-Ahâs laugh every morning, that shy chuckle of her whenever sheâd hand you your coffee and you said something dumb back. Or those sighs of her whenever she saw your packed schedules.
Go read my newest fic, please. This series is gonna take a long while. I'm sorry...
This was originally posted exclusively on Fanprose. Please follow me there to see my next fic early. (It's also just better than tumblr).
"And this is..."
"Yeah, I know," you interrupt, staring down the woman across from you. Of all the parties in LA, Yuna had to be at this one. You didn't want to see her, fuck, you could go the rest of your life without seeing her again, and it'd be a mercy. But here she is, her hair a little longer, wearing a dress so simple yet expensive.
The stranger who made the introduction, a lanky filmmaker named Ben, looks between the two of you, eyes wide with dawning understanding. He holds a plastic cup halfway to his lips. "Oh. Oh, shit. Okay. I'll... I'll just go. Over there." He makes a hasty, awkward retreat, melting back into the thrumming bodies and thumping bass of the party.
Silence descends on the decking for a beat. Too long. The warm evening air, thick with the smell of jasmine and chlorine, feels suddenly cold. Behind you, the pool lights cast an aquamarine glow on the rippling water. Laughter erupts from inside the house, a distant, alien sound.
"What are you doing here?" she asks. That sweet voice - as fake as fucking ever now, but it still hits you where it hurts.
You give a short, bitter laugh. "I could ask you the same thing."
"I'm here with someone," she says, her chin lifting a fraction, a defensive gesture you remember all too well.
"Aren't you always?" The words slip out, quiet but sharp enough to cut.
A muscle in her jaw tightens. She takes a sip of her own drink, her gaze shifting to the dark, manicured garden behind you. "I didn't know you'd be here. I wouldn't have come."
"Likewise." You can't stand looking at her, but you can't look away either. She's got that haunted look in her eyes, the one she gets when she's been drinking. You hate that you still notice these things.
She takes a step closer, the scent of her perfume - something with gardenia and sandalwood - wafting over, a ghost of intimacy. "Listen, we can't just..."
"Just what? Avoid each other forever? Yes, we absolutely can. In fact, I'd pay good money for that privilege."
"Fine. Be an asshole about it," she snaps, the facade cracking for a second, revealing the rawness underneath. That, too, is familiar.
"I am being an asshole about it. I'm a world-class asshole. You should know that better than anyone."
She scoffs, a small, humourless sound. "You're not a world-class anything. You're just... you. Immature. Same as the last day I saw you."
The last day. You remember the heat of that afternoon, the suffocating humidity that clung to your skin, mirroring the atmosphere in your shared apartment. You remember the shouting, her throwing that ridiculous ceramic cat you hated against the wall. You remember her face, streaked with tears and anger, as she yelled, "He was just a friend! We were at work late!" and the way her voice broke when she screamed, "And Chloe was just a lab partner, right?"
The memory is so vivid that it is a physical blow. It feels like it's happening all over again.
Without a word, you walk away, back to the comparative safety of the party's thrum. The sliding glass door to the main room is slick with condensation. You push through it into a wall of sound and heat and bodies. The bass from the speakers vibrates through the soles of your shoes, a physical heartbeat for the house. The air is hazy, a visible fog of vapes and artificial smoke from a cheap machine, and the sweat of too many people packed into a space not built for it.
You need a drink. Something strong, something to numb the reverberating echo of her. You shove your way through the crowd, past a girl in a sequined top laughing too loudly at something a guy with a man bun is saying, past a couple making out against a wall, their bodies pressed together as if they're trying to merge into one being.
Three quick, strong drinks later, and you're feeling single and seeing double. You find yourself leaning against a makeshift bar set up on the dining room table, the varnished wood sticky with spilt cocktails. You're nursing your fourth. Whiskey. Neat. It burns going down, and you welcome the pain.
"Impressive," a familiar man says next to you. You glance over. It's Ben, the well-meaning idiot who introduced you. Heâs holding a beer, looking apologetic. "Sorry about that earlier. Outside. I had no idea."
"Everyone's got a past," you say with a low rasp. The whiskey is starting to do its job, blurring the edges of everything. "I've got several. Mostly bad."
He offers you a small, sympathetic smile. "Yeah. Well, if it's any consolation, I think she was just as thrown as you were."
You scoff, drink, and then reply, "She has a way of looking thrown that's really more of a dramatic flourish. She learned it from a movie, probably."
Ben chuckles, a nice, easy sound. He seems okay, for a stranger. For a reminder. "I see. You guys have, uh... history."
"You could say that." You look at Ben - an utterly forgettable face - and then down at your drink. Finally, to the crowd, where you spot her, ass pressed against the hip of some guy in a tailored jacket. She's laughing, head thrown back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. She's giving him that look, the one that says you're the only person in the room, the one that had felt so real when it was aimed at you. Now it's a performance, a cheap trick. Itâs a performance you remember every line of. "I think we wrote the first few chapters. Then she started writing in a different book."
Ben winces. "Ouch. End in a storm?" he prods, before pouring you another drink. You almost wave him off, but the bottle of amber liquid is a tempting shield.
"End in a hurricane," you correct, your words slurring just enough to feel deliberate. "Category five. And we both forgot our umbrellas." You wrap your fingers around the cool glass, the condensation slick against your skin. "She was fucking some arsty guy with a man-bun and a typewriter. A 'creative spirit'. I was fucking Chloe from my stats class. Turns out, she had a boyfriend who looked like a quarterback. I think we broke even."
Yuna's grinding on her new guy now, her hips moving in a lazy, hypnotic circle to the beat. You know that move. You taught her that move, one humid Tuesday night in your cramped living room with the curtains drawn and a bottle of cheap tequila on the coffee table. She'd been clumsy at first, self-conscious. You'd laughed, held her hips, guided her. "Just feel the music," you'd whispered against her ear, her shampoo smelling like coconut and summer. "Feel me." And she had. For a while, she had.
"Sounds messy," Ben says, pulling you back to the present. "I hate messy."
"Everyone loves messy. Just not when they're the ones stuck with the cleanup," you say, knocking back the whiskey in one smooth motion. The room tilts, then rights itself. The cheap fog from the smoke machine curls around the strobing lights, turning the writhing bodies into a series of disconnected, jerky images from a damaged film. Someone shoves past you, their elbow digging into your ribs, the jolt a sharp, physical reminder that you're here, now, not then. You're standing in this loud, bright house full of people you don't know, and the woman who broke your heart is giving a private dance to another stranger ten feet away.
"I should..." you start, but you don't know what you should do. Leave? Start a fight? Drink another? The options blur into a single, meaningless impulse: move.
"I get it, man," he says, backing away, sensing the shift in your mood. "Live long and prosper, and all that shit." He gives a little two-fingered salute and disappears into the pulsing crowd, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the ghost of gardenia perfume that still seems to cling to the air around you.
You push off the table. The floor is treacherous, a sticky terrain of spilt drinks and god knows what else. You navigate through the mass of bodies, a ship with a shattered compass. All the faces are a smear of neon and skin. Youâre not aiming for anything, not the door, not the bathroom, not the crowd. You're just moving, letting the thumping bass dictate your pace, a frantic, stumbling rhythm that echoes the chaos in your chest.
You're headed right for Yuna when a pair of hands grab your arm, pulling you into a clumsy spin. You nearly lose your balance, stumbling into a girl with bright pink hair.
"Whoa there, mister," she slurs, her grin wide and loose. She's pretty in a way that's loud and unapologetic, all glitter eyeshadow and a crop top. She smells like cheap vodka and artificial strawberry. "Dance with me."
It's not a request. She drags you towards the centre of the makeshift dance floor, the space in the living room cleared of furniture. The lights are frantic here, sweeping across the room in reds and blues, catching the sweat on skin. Pink Hair grinds against you, her back to your chest, her hands on your hips. She's trying to pull you in, to make you move with her.
She moves a little awkwardly, but your hand is on her waist, guiding her, a motion you could do in your sleep. You remember teaching Yuna to salsa in your kitchen, her laughter as you spun her, the way her dress flared out, her bare feet sticking to the linoleum floor.
No words between the two of you, just charged energy. Pink Hair, Yuna, the music, the thrum of the bassâitâs all a blur. When the song ends, there's a sliver of silence before the next track begins, something heavier, angrier. You both pull away from each other, breathing heavily.
"Hey," she says, her breath warm and smelling of vodka, her hands still on you, "you're not half bad."
"Yeah, well," you mumble, wiping a bead of sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.
"You've got moves," she continues, leaning in close to be heard over the new song. "Who taught you?"
"Just a lot of practice," you say, your eyes already scanning the room. You find her immediately. Yuna. She's stopped dancing, her tongue lodged in the mouth of the tailored jacket guy.
"You could probably teach me a thing or two," Pink Hair says against your ear.
"Something tells me you know more than you let on," you reply, looking back at her.
"Maybe," she giggles. "Maybe you should find out." She pulls you in again, her body flush against yours. You comply for a moment, letting the music, the lights, the cheap vodka and whiskey wash over you. But your eyes, they betray you, and search, but there's no sight of Yuna.
Pink Hair has her hand on your face now, turning it towards her. "Hey," she says, her tone slightly annoyed. "Eyes on me, buddy."
You blink, focusing on her. Her eye makeup is smudged around the corners, her pupils dilated to black pools. "Right," you say, forcing a smile. "Eyes on you."
She buys it, or pretends to, and moves in to kiss you. Her lips are soft, but they taste of nicotine and desperation. It's a hollow gesture, a mechanical act that does nothing to quell the ache in your chest. You're thinking about Yuna's lips, the way they used to part slightly when she was thinking, the way they felt when she whispered your name in the dark.
Don't fucking think about her. The anger fuels a firm grip of Pink Hair's ass, and you kiss back, a little more fiercely than you intended. She melts into it, her hands tangling in your hair. The music thumps, a primitive beat that matches the frantic, useless energy coursing through you.
You're lost in the sensory overload of the party, the cheap warmth of the girl in your arms, the burn of whiskey in your throat, the flashing lights that make everything feel unreal. You're a ghost haunting a stranger's body, a passenger in a stolen car careening towards a cliff. And you don't care. You lean into the kiss, deepening it, trying to pour all the hurt, all the rage, all the regret into this one, meaningless act.
She pulls away and takes you by the wrist. You follow without thinking, stumbling after her as she weaves through the crowd. She leads you down a hallway, the noise of the party receding with each step. The walls are lined with framed photos of the homeowner's familyâsmiling faces on beaches, at birthday parties, on ski slopes. It's a curated life, a collection of perfect moments that feels a million miles away from the raw, messy reality of your own.
She pulls you into a bedroom and locks the door, before jumping into your arms, wrapping her legs around your waist. You stumble back against the door, the wood groaning under your combined weight.
"What's your name?" she whispers, her lips brushing against your ear.
You hesitate for a beat. "Does it matter?" you reply, your hands roaming over her body, the cheap fabric of her top a stark contrast to the warm, firm skin beneath.
"No," she giggles, her teeth nibbling at your earlobe. "Not really."
You're moving towards the bed now, a tangled mass of limbs and desperation. You're fumbling with the clasp of her bra, she's tugging at the hem of your shirt. It's a clumsy, urgent dance, a silent, frantic negotiation. One controlled fall into the pile of coats later, and there's a loud yelp from beneath them.
The two of you scramble, half-undressed, back to your feet. A familiar guy rises first, topless and wearing his torn jeans. Then a woman said, "What the fuck?" Yuna sits up, clutching a sheet to her bare chest. Her hair is a mess, her mascara slightly smudged, her face flushed.
"Oh, this is just fucking perfect," you say, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. You feel numb, detached, as if you're watching this whole scene unfold from a great distance. The alcohol is a dull, distant hum in your veins.
Pink Hair looks from you to Yuna and back again, her face a mask of confusion and dawning horror. "Wait, you two...?"
Tailored Jacket, whose name is probably Chad or Brad or something equally insipid, runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Whoa. Uh. Iâm into it if you are."
"Get out," Yuna says, her voice dangerously quiet. She's not talking to you. She's talking to the guy. To Chad-or-Brad.
"Honey, come on," he starts, but she cuts him off.
"No. Get out," she repeats, her eyes burning. "Now."
He shrugs, a gesture of casual dismissal that sets your teeth on edge. He starts gathering his clothes, a slow, deliberate process that feels designed to prolong the agony.
"Did this on purpose, didn't you?" Yuna turns to you, her eyes spitting fire. "Saw me with him and just had to follow me in here and ruin it."
You can't help but laugh, a harsh, ugly sound. "Ruin it? As if I care enough to stop you jumping the bones of Ken doll over there."
"Fuck you," she spits.
"Uhhh," Pink Hair girl reminds us she's here. "I'm gonna... yeah." She grabs her shirt, her face burning with embarrassment, and scrambles out of the room.
Well, now it's just the two of you. And Tailored Jacket, who is finally pulling on his shirt. The silence that follows is heavy and thick, suffocating. You can hear the muffled thump of the bass from the party outside, a distant, irrelevant heartbeat. "I'm going, I'm going," he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. He gives you a look, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes - sympathy? contempt? - before slipping out of the room.
The click of the door latch echoes in the sudden quiet. Now it's just you and Yuna. The air in the room is stale, a cocktail of cheap perfume, spilt liquor, and the sour tang of sweat. You're both half-dressed, a ridiculous, pathetic tableau.
"This is what you've become?" you ask, your voice low and tight, your gaze sweeping over her, taking in the smudged mascara, the sheet clutched to her chest, the raw vulnerability in her eyes that she tries so hard to hide. "Screwing random guys in bedrooms at parties you weren't even invited to?"
"You just tried the same fucking thing," she spits back, defiantly. "With that glittery, pink-haired skank."
"Always been a fucking whore," you scoff, flippant and cruel, even though a small, treacherous part of your brain is screaming at you to stop. But you can't. You want to hurt her, to make her feel even a fraction of the pain you've been carrying around like a lead weight in your gut for months.
"And I'm still the best that you will ever have." Her anger translates into her arms through gestures, letting the sheet fall from her chest to a heap on the bed. Her bare breasts are exposed, a sight that used to make your heart pound in your chest, and now it's just another weapon in this endless, brutal war between you.
You look away, a momentary flicker of discomfort. "Until you get bored and find some other 'creative spirit' to inspire you."
The jab hits its mark. Her face, for a split second, crumples. The facade of anger shatters, and the raw, wounded girl you once loved shines through, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold, hard mask of indifference. "Oh, and what about you? Still fucking your lab partners?"
"Well, I don't need a mental escape from you anymore, so no. I'm good."
She's climbing onto her knees to meet you eye-to-eye, the sheet bunched around her waist. The dim light of the bedside lamp, a cheap Tiffany-style thing, casts a colourful, mottled glow across her skin, highlighting the pale lines of her shoulders and the curve of her hips.
"Because you were so damn emotionally distant, I had to look elsewhere for connection," she says with intensity. She's not yelling anymore. She's whispering, and it's somehow more terrifying. "You'd sit there on that ugly brown couch, staring at the TV, not even seeing it. I'd be talking to you, and you'd just... nod. Your body was there, but the rest of you was a million miles away."
"That doesn't give you a free pass," you say, the words tasting like ash in your mouth, "to be a whore."
She slaps you across your left cheek
You're too stunned to react at first. All you can feel is the hot, stinging imprint of her hand on your skin, the sharp, cracking sound of the slap still echoing in the sudden, heavy silence of the room. A thin, red line starts to form on your cheek, the skin already beginning to swell. The pain is sharp, immediate, but it's nothing compared to the raw, searing ache in your chest.
"Say that again," she says, low and dangerous, her eyes blazing with a fury so pure it feels like it could incinerate you where you stand.
"I said, 'You're a whore,'" you repeat, the anger is hot and metallic. "Doesn't matter how you try to justify it, how much you want to blame me for your choices. You cheated. You lied. You snuck around behind my back with some pretentious fuck who probably quotes Baudelaire at you over artisanal coffee." You move closer, invading her space, the air between you crackling with enough electricity to start a fire. "You wanted to be the victim so badly, you forgot you were the one holding the knife."
The accusation hangs in the air between you, a living, breathing thing. She swings another open palm at your face, but this time you're ready. You catch her wrist, fingers digging into her skin, hard enough to leave a constellation of bruises. She tries to pull away, but you hold on.
"Let go of me," she seethes, her face contorted with a mixture of pain and rage.
"You wanted a reaction, Yuna?" you growl. "You got one."
She tries to slap you with her free hand, but you block that too, grabbing her other wrist. Now you have both of them, her arms pinned in front of her. You can feel her pulse, a frantic, fluttering bird beating against your thumbs. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps. Her breasts are still bare, the nipples hardening in the cool, conditioned air of the room.
It's just silence. A distant party and some deep breaths. A long, drawn-out beat of your own heart thrumming in your ears. Her wrists are fragile in your grip, the skin soft and delicate. You could snap them, if you wanted to. The thought is so ugly, so alien, that it makes you feel sick to your stomach. You've never been this person. She's turned you into this.
And then her lips are on yours, and you're kissing her, a violent, desperate collision of teeth and tongues. It's not a kiss of reconciliation or forgiveness. It's an act of war. You're biting her lower lip, hard enough to taste blood, the coppery tang mixing with the familiar, faint sweetness of her mouth. She's not passive in this. Her hands, still trapped in your grip, twist and writhe, her nails digging into the backs of your hands. She's kissing you back with a ferocity that matches your own, her tongue invading your mouth, a battle for dominance.
You let go of her wrists, and her hands are immediately on you, tearing at your shirt, the buttons popping off and skittering across the hardwood floor. Her nails rake down your back, a line of fire, a claim. You rip the sheet away from her body, the flimsy fabric no match for your brute force. You're both a tangle of limbs and frustration, a mess of anger and a desperate, gnawing hunger. There's no tenderness here, no memory of gentle caresses or whispered endearments. This is raw.
It becomes an immediate battle for dominance. Both of you on the bed, half-rolling off, the bedsheets tangled around your legs, your jeans catching uncomfortably. You manage to push her onto her back, but she uses the momentum to flip you over, straddling your hips, her hands on your chest, her nails digging into your skin. She leans down, her hair a curtain around your face, her breath hot against your ear.
"I hate you," she whispers, the words a puff of air, a promise and a threat all at once.
"I hate you more," you growl, grabbing her hips, pulling her down onto you, the rough denim of your jeans a barrier you can't stand. You buck your hips, trying to throw her off, but she's stronger than she looks, her thighs like a vice, pinning you to the mattress.
She grinds against you, a slow, deliberate motion that's both a taunt and a command. "Is that the best you've got?"
With a grunt, you sit up, wrapping your arms around her waist, and throw her off you, onto the other side of the bed. You're on top of her in a second, your hands pinning her wrists above her head, your body a heavy weight on hers.
"Better?" you growl, your face inches from hers. You take your mouth to her neck, not kissing it, but biting it, marking it. She gasps, a sharp intake of breath, a sound of pain and pleasure that's indistinguishable from the other. You feel her arch against you, her body betraying her. You move your mouth to her collarbone, leaving a trail of red marks, a map of your rage.
You let go of her hands, needing to take off your trousers. Her hands, now free, take control of your head, pulling you to her chest. You take a nipple into your mouth, sucking and biting, and she cries out, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling hard enough to make your scalp tingle. You taste the salt of her skin. She is a fever.
"Fucking hate you," she pants, as you fumble with your belt, the leather stiff and uncooperative. Your hands are shaking, the combination of adrenaline and alcohol making fine motor skills a distant memory. "Always so clumsy," she scoffs, a flicker of the old contempt in her voice. "Let me."
She pushes you away, you stumble back for a second and then stand. She slides from the bed and onto her knees. Yuna looks up at you, wide-eyed and defiant as she works on your belt and then the button of your jeans. The zipper's teeth part with a metallic rasp. She pushes the denim down your hips, your boxers with them, and you kick them away. Then her hands are on you. Her nails scratch the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and you wince.
You look down at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen and slightly parted, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. She looks like a ruin. She looks beautiful. She looks like she hates you, and you love it. You love this. This ugly, terrible thing between you - it's the only thing that feels real anymore.
Those plump lips take hold of the head of your cock, and you gasp. Her tongue swirling around the sensitive underside, her hands massaging your balls with a practised expertise. You remember this. You remember her practising on you, on that same ugly brown couch. Her giggles, her initial shyness, the way she'd look up at you, her eyes wide with a mix of trepidation and adoration.
But this is not that. There's no adoration here. There's a violent, possessive fury in her eyes. She's not trying to please you; she's trying to consume you. She takes you deeper, her throat constricting around you, a gag reflex she used to be so self-conscious about, now wielded like a weapon. Your hands find her hair, your fingers tangling in the long, dark strands, not guiding her, but holding on, anchoring yourself to this maelstrom of sensation and emotion.
She's trying to speak, but at this point you're fucking the words back into her throat, and she's gagging on your cock and your cruelty in equal measure. Tears are welling in her eyes, dark streaks running through her smudged mascara, but she doesn't pull away. She looks up at you with a defiant glare that begs you to break her.
You pull out, a string of saliva connecting your cock to her lips. "What was that?" you demand. "Didn't quite catch it."
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, a defiant smirk playing on her lips. "I said," she pants, her voice raspy, "has your cock got smaller? It feels... smaller."
The insult is so childish, so out of place in the midst of this brutal intimacy, that for a moment you're just speechless. And then you're laughing. "You're a fucking piece of work, you know that?"
"I try," she says, before you thrust back into her open mouth.
This is the real punishment. This is the penance. Every wet, gagging sound, every tear that stains her cheek, every brutal thrust into the tight heat of her throat. Her tongue is still working, a frantic, desperate rhythm that belies the defiant glare in her eyes. You're watching her face, watching the way her mascara runs in black rivulets down her cheeks, the way her nostrils flare with each desperate breath.
You look down at the sight of your cock disappearing into her mouth, the obscene stretch of her lips around you. Her nails are digging into your thighs now, ten sharp points of pain that only serve to heighten your arousal.
You pull out, just to grab your cock and press it hard against her cheek, smearing her own saliva across her face. "You wanted to connect, Yuna?" you snarl. "Is this connected enough for you?"
A single, perfect tear escapes from the corner of her eye and tracks a clean path through the mess on her face. But her smile, a small, venomous thing, doesn't falter. "If this is all you've got," she says, "then I'm even more disappointed than I thought."
"Put that mouth to better use," you say as you slap her across her wet cheek. "Open."
She does. And you slide back into that blessed, torturous heat. This is different. It's slower. More deliberate. A punishment. You're fucking her face, but it's controlled, even if still forceful. Each thrust is measured, a statement. You're watching her throat work as you push deeper, watching the way she has to fight to breathe. This is control. This is power. This is the antithesis of the disconnected, thousand-yard stare she accused you of because you are here; in this room, in this moment. You are the absolute fucking centre of her world.
Then, you pull out again, leaving her gasping, a string of saliva connecting your cock to her swollen lips. She doesn't move, doesn't wipe her face. She just kneels there, on the hardwood floor, looking up at you, her chest heaving, her defiant, tear-streaked face a masterpiece of ruined fury.
"You always looked so good just like this, on your knees for me."
She smirks. The smirk is a miracle of endurance, a flag planted on a battlefield of her own making. "And you always wanted to be there," she counters. "So desperate to feel needed."
The words hit you, but you don't flinch. You just smile, a slow, cruel stretch of your lips. She rises to meet your gaze as best she can. A stand-off. A silent battle in a strange bedroom. You're both naked, vulnerable, and armed to the teeth.
Without breaking eye contact, she slaps you. Hard. Across the other cheek. A matching set of red handprints blooming on your face. The crack of it echoes. And then she's pushing you, shoving you backwards. You stumble, your feet getting tangled in the discarded jeans on the floor, and you fall onto the bed, the springs groaning in protest.
She's climbing on you, looking entirely different now. Her face is stricken with a wicked kind of lust, and she is now in control. She crawls all the way up you until she sits on your chest, pinning your arms with her knees. Your vision is all her: the sweat-slicked valley between her breasts, the lines of her toned, flat stomach, the wetness of her that glints in the dim light. The scent of her, thick and musky and familiar, fills your lungs.
"Now you're going to be a good boy," she purrs, a low, silken threat. "And you're going to shut the fuck up." She shifts, planting herself firmly on your face. Your world becomes dark.
At the start, it is a punishment. The rough, demanding way she uses you for her own pleasure. But then, your body, traitor that it is, remembers. Your tongue remembers the specific topography of her, the sensitive ridges, the way she shudders when you apply a certain kind of pressure with your lips. You taste her anger and her desperation, a bitter, complex flavour that's both repulsive and intoxicating. Your jaw begins to ache, but you don't stop. You can't. You're a starving man at a feast of poison, and you're going to devour every last drop.
Her fingers tighten in your hair, pulling hard enough to make your eyes water. She is grinding against your face with a rhythm that is both brutal and needy, her hips undulating in a wave that threatens to drown you. You can feel the muscles in her thighs clenching and releasing against your head. She is a storm, and you are the landmass she is determined to tear apart.
"Fucking look at you," she gasps, a ragged pant that seems to come from a great distance, muffled by her thighs. "You'll do anything, won't you? You always were so weak."
You chase her clit with your tongue and catch it, a hard, desperate press that makes her whole body jolt, her cry sharp and unbidden. A victory, small and fleeting, in this ugly war. You do it again, and again, a relentless, focused assault that is all instinct. You are an automaton of a lover, a perfect, memory-driven machine designed for her destruction. Her movements become less controlled, more frantic. She's losing her composure, losing the battle she started. Her thighs are trembling now, and you know she's close.
A series of high, choked sounds escape her lips, and her entire body goes rigid, her muscles locking in a final, desperate convulsion. A wave of her release washes over your face, hot and sharp and smelling of a war you've already lost. For a long moment, she stays like that, perched on your face, a panting, victorious ruin.
You're smothered while she laughs, a dry, breathless sound that has no humour in it. It's a laugh of pure contempt. "Look at that," she says, finally shifting her weight, lifting herself off you just enough for you to drag in a ragged, desperate breath of air. "Face is a mess."
You can feel the slickness of her on your skin, and you can smell her on your own breath. You feel like you've been marked, branded. Owned. She runs a finger through the mess on your chin, a gesture that's almost tender in its intimacy. Then she shoves the finger into your mouth, forcing you to taste the evidence of her victory.
"Taste that?" she whispers, her eyes burning into yours. "That's what failure tastes like."
You bite down. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to make her yelp and snatch her hand back. "And that," you growl, your voice a raw, wrecked thing, "is what happens when you get too close."
A flicker of something â surprise? respect? â crosses her face, but it's quickly extinguished by a renewed wave of fury. "You're going to regret that," she promises, in a venomous hiss.
"I regret a lot of things about tonight," you say, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. "This is not one of them."
You lunge, wrapping your arms around her waist and pulling her down onto the bed with you. The room spins for a second, a kaleidoscope of lurid colour and blurred shapes, and then you're on top of her, your body a heavy, unforgiving weight pinning her to the mattress. Your knee forces its way between her legs, spreading them, and you can feel the heat of her, the yielding wetness that mocks your anger.
Yuna struggles, her hands pushing against your chest, her body writhing beneath yours, but it's a futile effort. You're stronger than her, your rage a tangible force that amplifies your strength, narrows your focus to a single, brutal point of entry. You catch her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head, just like before.
"You always were a fucking bully," she spits, "Using your size to get what you want."
"And you always used your tears," you retort, your free hand fumbling between your bodies, guiding yourself to her entrance. "You think I don't remember? The way you'd cry when you didn't get your way, when you wanted me to stay in and watch your stupid French movies instead of going out with my friends. You think I don't remember how you'd wrap yourself around me, all soft and weepy, until I gave in?"
"That's not how it was," she protests, but her voice is thin, her defiance wavering as you press the head of your cock against her. Her body betrays her, her hips tilting, a silent, desperate invitation that negates her words.
"Isn't it?" you growl, and then you're inside her, one hard, unforgiving thrust that sheathes you to the hilt. Yuna is a scorching, velvet heat that clenches around you, a perfect, agonising fit. A shared, ragged gasp escapes both your lips.
For a beat, you don't move. You just stay there, buried deep inside her, a stillness that is more loaded, more charged than any violent motion. You can feel her heart hammering against your chest, a frantic, desperate drumbeat.
"Maybe if you'd fucked me like this once in a while," Yuna manages to say, her eyes locked on yours, "instead of just... going through the motions, I wouldn't have had to look elsewhere."
The accusation is a splash of gasoline on the fire of your rage. "Don't you dare," you snarl, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back into her, a brutal, punishing thrust that makes the bedframe shudder against the wall. "Don't you dare try to make this my fault."
A choked cry escapes her lips, a sound that's half-pain, half-pleasure. "But it is your fault," she gasps, her hips rising to meet you, a contradiction that makes your head spin. "All those nights you'd come home and just... collapse on the couch. You were there, but you weren't. I had to beg for it, for a little bit of attention, for you to just... see me."
You're moving now, a hard, relentless rhythm, each thrust a retort, a denial, an accusation. You're filling her cunt in a way that's both an act of possession and an act of erasure. You're trying to fuck her out of your system, to fuck the memory of her out of your head, to replace every gentle touch, every whispered endearment, with this raw, violent act. It never works.
"See you?" you growl, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that makes her whole body arch off the bed. "I saw you. I saw you every morning when I woke up, with your makeup smudged and your hair a mess. I saw you when you burned the spaghetti, and we ate charred noodles and laughed until we cried. I saw you when you came home from work, so tired you could barely stand, and I'd run you a bath and just sit with you while you soaked. I fucking saw you, Yuna."
"You saw a version of me you wanted to see!" she cries out, her nails raking down your back, a stinging, welcome pain. "You didn't see the parts you didn't like! The parts that were messy, complicated, and scared! The parts that didn't fit into your neat little box of what a relationship should be!"
Her words are a series of cuts, precise and deep. You're a beast now, all instinct and fury. Your hands are everywhere, tangling in her hair, gripping her hips so hard you know you'll leave bruises, a collection of angry purple blooms that will be a testament to this night. You're trying to leave a mark, to brand her, to make it so she can't forget you, can't move on, can't feel the touch of another man without remembering the feel of you, the brutal, consuming force of you.
"Is this messy enough for you?" you snarl, your breath hot against her ear. "Is this complicated enough?"
Her only response is a choked moan, a raw, ragged sound that's torn from the depths of her. But her body, that treacherous, traitorous body, is still moving with yours, her hips rising to meet each brutal thrust, a desperate, frantic rhythm that's a language all its own. Her legs wrap around your waist, pulling you deeper, a silent plea for more.
"I hate you," she gasps, the words a prayer and a curse, her head thrown back, the elegant line of her throat exposed, a vulnerable stretch of skin that's an open invitation.
"Liar," you growl, your teeth sinking into the tender flesh of her neck, a sharp, stinging bite that makes her cry out, her whole body convulsing around you. "If you hated me, you wouldn't be so wet."
She shudders, a deep, full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the force of your thrusts. You can feel the subtle shift in her, the way the tight, clenching heat of her becomes even wetter, a slick, yielding response that betrays her, that confirms her lie. The sound of it is obscene, a wet, rhythmic slapping that fills the room, punctuated by your ragged breaths and her desperate, broken cries.
"Hating you is what makes me wet," she manages to retort. "Knowing this makes you sick, knowing you still want me even when you hate me. That's what gets me off."
Her words undermine your anger. They poke holes in your carefully constructed fortress of rage. But you don't back down. You double down. You fuck her harder, a brutal, punishing rhythm that's a denial of her claim, an attempt to prove her wrong. You're trying to hurt her, to make her feel the gnawing, empty ache that's been your constant companion for months, but every thrust, every bruising grip, every savage bite, only seems to spur her on, to feed the fire of her own masochistic desire.
You shift your weight, pushing one of her knees up towards her chest, changing the angle, driving deeper. You're watching her face, transfixed by the raw, unguarded emotion playing across her features. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her brow furrowed in a mask of what looks like agony, but the sounds she's making, the way her body is responding, tell a different story. This isn't agony. It's ecstasy. It's the two of you, twisted together in a knot of hate and lust and a desperate, pathetic longing for something you can never have again.
Your orgasm builds, a slow, inevitable tide rising in your groin, a tightening in your balls. You try to fight it, to hold back, to prolong this sweet, venomous torture, but her body is a perfect, relentless instrument, and you're a clumsy, desperate fumbler at its mercy. She can feel you getting closer, the subtle change in your rhythm, the way your breath hitches in your throat.
"You going to cum for me?" she taunts, her eyes fluttering open, a cruel, knowing glint in their depths. "I know that look. I always knew. Just before you lost it."
Her words are the final push. You let go, a groan torn from your chest, a ragged, broken sound of release and defeat. You spill into her, a hot, violent rush that feels like a surrender, an offering of the last remnants of your resistance. It's a draining, hollow victory, a pleasure that's so intense it's almost pain. Your body goes rigid, your vision blurring at the edges, the world narrowing to the feeling of her, the tight, clenching heat of her, a final, brutal convulsion.
For a long, stretched-out moment, you don't move. You stay buried deep inside her, your forehead pressed against hers, your breath mingling with hers in the hot, humid space between your faces. You can feel your own heartbeat, a frantic, fading drumbeat, and hers, a slower, more steady rhythm beneath your hand. The room is quiet now, the distant thump of the party outside a muted, irrelevant heartbeat. The only sound is the shared, ragged sound of your breathing, a quiet punctuation to the storm that has just passed.
Then you pull out. A sudden, jarring emptiness. A trickle of your own release follows, a messy, damning evidence of your failure to resist her. You roll off her, landing on the cool sheets beside her, a boneless, sweating wreck.
"God," she whispers, the word a puff of air, a prayer to a deity that has long since abandoned this room, this house, this whole sorry situation.
"Yeah," you manage to say, in a hoarse, unfamiliar croak. You don't look at her. You stare at the ceiling, at the cheap fabric of the lampshade, at the cracks in the plaster that look like a map of a country you've never been to. "God."
You can feel the heat radiating off her skin, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The scent of her, a potent cocktail of sweat and sex and gardenia perfume, fills your lungs. It's the scent of a battlefield.
You lay there for a while, two strangers in a strange bed, the silence between you a physical presence, heavy and suffocating. It's a mutual lull, a temporary ceasefire in a war that has no end. The party outside is a distant hum, a world away from the charged, toxic quiet of this room.
"We have to stop doing this," she says finally, now devoid of her earlier venom. She's the one to break the silence. "This isn't... healthy."
You let out a short, harsh laugh. It hurts your throat. "No shit." You finally turn your head to look at her. She's staring up at the same ceiling you were just staring at, her face a pale oval in the dim light. The angry red marks on her neck are already starting to darken. You can feel a satisfying, petty pride in that.
"I'm leaving the city," she says so quietly you almost don't hear her. "Next week."
The words land like a punch to the gut. All the air rushes out of your lungs. Leaving. She's leaving. A jolt of something sharp and painful lances through your chest. It's not relief. It's not indifference. It's something much uglier.
"You think running away is going to fix this?" you scoff, your voice dripping with a contempt you don't entirely feel. "You think you can just pack up your shit and move to some other city and suddenly you're not... you?"
"Got to try something," she says, turning to face you now. Her eyes, in the low light, are dark and fathomless pools. "This isn't a life. This... It's pathetic. We're pathetic."
She's right, and you hate her for it. This whole night, this whole sordid, ugly mess, is the epitome of pathetic. A cycle of violence and sex that you can't seem to break, a toxic feedback loop of hurt and regret. But the thought of her leaving, of putting an ocean, a state, any amount of distance between you, is an even more potent poison.
"Right," you scoff. "I'll see you around, Yuna." She will never go through with it.
Purple Kiss' Mori Koyuki x Rocket Punch/ELZ UP's Kim Yeonhee x Male Reader Smut
12,204 words
Categories | fwb!Yuki, pool sex, clubbing, threesome, anal, oral
Sorry it took so long! Here's a fic of two cute underrated idols <3 I miss Rocket Punch and Purple Kiss :(
Routines are a religion.
You like to start your mornings slow. Youâre already running on coffee and misplaced adrenaline for projects; the only thing that you want to do is relax. Something that goes like a good nightâs sleep, a gentle wakeup call, and a filling breakfast to start your day. Thatâs what your ideal morning is.
Well, it wasâyou much prefer Yuki under the covers and with her mouth all over your cock.
The sleepâs barely out of your eyes when the sensations take ahold of you. Her pretty little mouth, hot and wet, works you out like no other. Her tongue is magical, but what more are those eyes, siren-dark as she takes you in.Â
âGood morning, handsome,â she says. The covers drape Yukiâs naked frame. The outside lamplight pours on her silhouette and makes her look like a succubus. âHad a good sleep?â
What a way to wake up. Those gorgeous lips pepper kisses all over your cock. Her hand closes around the base to gently jerk you off while she sucks all-too-cleverly at the tip. Yuki knows you inside and out.Â
âI was,â you reply. Your hand sifts through her dark hair. âUntil you came along and couldnât wait to get me in your mouth.â
Yukiâs eyes shine with mischief. âDonât tell me youâre complaining.â
âIâm not,â you say, and close your eyes as she takes you in her throat again.
Yuki is insane. Everything about her, from those dangerous eyes to the naked, plentiful tits pressing to your thighs, is a provocation. You remember staring at her in class, taking note of that glossy black hair and waist, then wonderingâ
How the hell do you do it?
She hid her confusion that one day with a charming smile. Nobody mustered the courage to talk to her; you were one of the few brave soldiers. Do what exactly?
IâI just donât get it, you said. How the hell does a girl like you not have a boy on your arm?Â
Yuki stepped closer, her voice dropping low. I dunno. How does a boy like you not have a girl like me on your cock?
After sheâd drained the life out of you in the school bathroom, you figured out why: Yuki is fucking wild. Nobody could handle her. Many have tried, you found outâshe told you about the multiple women and men she left broken. Youâre the only one who stayed around.
Pity them. Now, they donât get the opportunity to have her taking care of their morning wood. They donât feel the expert suction of her mouth or her hard nipples against their flesh. They donât see her eyes as entrancing as Medusaâs as you empty your load in her.
This girl just keeps you shaking. She doesnât stop sucking until each heavy spurt ends up in her wet mouth. She provokes more hot semen with sharp licks, welcoming you into her throat again and again until you collapse on the pillows.
And itâs like nothing to Yuki. She opens her mouth, shows you the pool of cum that settles there, and swallows. âMmm, better than any milk.â
Thereâs that smile again, wicked with the knowledge that youâre hers and no one elseâs.Â
âJesus, YukiâŠâ Your heart thumps fast against your naked chest. âGood morning to you, too.â
-
Youâre all smiles as you walk together arm in arm to class. You moved in with Yuki a long time ago; your old crummy dorm was no use if you spent all the hours of your life in her bed anyway. Itâs a chic, tall house in a gated subdivision where everyone knows everyone. You insisted on paying half, but Yuki declined. âI have another house in Tokyo anyway,â she said nonchalantly, as if an inherited mansion was something everybody had.Â
This was why she couldnât wrap her head around why you didnât want a twenty-dollar frappe. Sheâs nursing hers right now, manicured fingers gleaming against the wet plastic. âYou sure you donât want some?â
You shake your head.
âAw, come on. Youâve had my tongue in your mouth, havenât you? Whatâs keeping you off a shared straw?â
You choke. âI-itâs a frappe, Yuki. I prefer real breakfast.â
âWhatever, youâre boring,â says Yuki with a roll of her gorgeous eyes. Itâs the kind of attitude a prefect would call her out for. Many monitor this hallway, but none of them dare correct her.Â
âIf Iâm so boring, I wouldnât be fucking you every night.â
âKeep it up and youâll lose that privilege,â warns Yuki. One look at her fit body in that blue tank top and low-rise jeansâyeah, youâre not going anywhere.Â
Your business classroom is right up the hall. From its door, a pretty head of auburn hair looks both ways until she spots you. Yeonhee. A girl with too little time in her hands, a bookbag weighing her down, and too cute for her own good. Just the sound of her stomping as she marches up to you is adorable.Â
Yuki waves at her. Theyâre best friends who met in senior high school, inseparable ever since. And, since youâre friends with benefits with Yuki, that makes Yeonhee your friend, too. Friend-in-law? Friend by acquaintance? Youâve no idea, but youâre definitely not bringing her into whatever twisted dynamic you have with Yuki. Yeonheeâs too innocent for that.
âHi, babe.â
 (Oh, another thingâyouâre sure if you didnât come into the picture, she and Yeonhee would definitely have been girlfriends. The affection is both way too intimate and casual at the same time.)
Yeonhee pouts at her. âDonât babe me. Youâre late!â
âOnly by like fifteen minutes,â says Yuki. She shows her the sugary frappe. âBesides, I had to pick up breakfast. Want some?â
âEw, no. Iâm not sharing anything edible with you after that time.â
You blush. You know exactly what sheâs talking about. One time, she stayed over at Yukiâs to study. Her roommate was gone and she was too afraid to review alone. She had just gone into the kitchen for some water when she saw her best friend blowing you. Your dinners were still untouched.
Yuki isnât fazed by it. âDonât be a prude. Whenâs the last time you had a good dicking down?â
Yeonhee glows bright red. She draws herself up the best she can in her sandals, clutching her notepad tighter. âFor your information, I am not interested in partaking in debauchery. Being promiscuous would greatly damage my reputation in orgs.â
Yuki told you about this before. Itâs something youâve noticed, too. While her batchmates party and go out, Yeonhee stays in the library to read. The girlâs a damn saint.
And itâs so clear that itâs something sheâd like to maintain down to nitpicking things. The clogged schedule taped to her notebook, the dialogue straight out of a committee letter, the ribbons in her hairâŠ
âHas anyone told you youâre a little tense?â you ask as politely as you can.
Yeonhee pauses, deep in thought. She recalls all the moments she chose her grades before herself, a deadline over breakfast. She bites her lip. âO-only a few times.â
âA million times, actually,â Yuki corrects her. âDonât you want to do something for yourself? Not for the professors or panelists? It wonât hurt you, ya know.â
Oh, but it would. Yeonheeâs already shivering at the idea of being out of a classroom. Youâve been standing here discussing the tension sheâs carried all her life. Meanwhile, the professorâs probably gone over a million slides already.Â
But she finds herself nodding in agreement. Thereâs no use denying it. She missed out on so many parties and fun. She abstained from the distractions of dating so much that the idea of letting a guy talk to her is scary.Â
Well, except you. She certainly doesnât mind you at all. Might even⊠Yeonhee shakes her head. Nope, donât even think about it. You belong to Yukiâsure, she insists that thereâs no label on your odd relationship, but she sees how Yuki burns up when another girl approaches you.Â
The look on her face is hard to read. Gently place a hand on her shoulder. âCâmon, Yeonhee. Whatâs something youâve always wanted to do?â
Yeonhee looks around, as if afraid anyone would actually catch her being vulnerable. Her fingers nervously smooth the ends of her ponytail. You roll your eyes; Yuki shoots you a dangerous glare and you're obligated to switch on a sympathetic look again.
âSkip classâŠâ she finally mumbles.
You and Yuki share a confused look. Yuki raises her brows. âSkip class?â she asks, just to be sure she heard that correctly.
âIâI havenât skipped classes the whole year! I havenât done it ever, actually.â
It sounds ridiculous. Youâre definitely not a regular tardy student. Even Yuki has little record of truancy on her file. But of course, Lee Yeonhee takes the dedication to new heights. Sheâs never missed a class ever. You remember the pity you felt seeing her get into stats with a face mask and a readied roll of tissue.Â
Yuki seems to be recalling all of these memories, too. She gives her best friend a one-overâtakes note of the tiniest wrinkle between her brows, the dark undereyes, and hands muddled with inked formulas. Theyâre only ever visible once you get closer to Yeonhee. Thatâs the way you can see past her friendly student leader persona and find the work she put in for it.
Yuki smiles. âWell, what are you waiting for, baby girl? Come on.â
-
Your professorâs probably wondering where the hell you all are, especially Yeonhee, her star student who she told to call you guys in. Lord knows she canât rely on you and Yuki for anything. You imagine how sheâd react when she finds out youâve corrupted her, too.
Wince. Okay, corrupted is a strong word. An explicit implication at that. But as much as you try to erase the image from your mind, itâs clear. Yuki drives you crazy, but you certainly wouldnât mind Yeonhee. Sheâs got a body under those big sweaters. Talk about those thighs, Jesus.
You wonder if Yukiâd be okay with that. Maybe she would? You arenât dating anyway (everyone just groans when you say it but itâs true). And right now, sheâs letting Yeonhee huddle up to you while she contents herself with running her fingers through your hair. When Yuki does that, all the casual petting and touching, it feels like second nature; just something she does with no thought.Â
âOkay, so we have like three months before we get flimsy diplomas and I can say I officially wasted my dadâs money,â Yuki announces it as if it were a statement to the nation. âOur solemn duty, as Yeonheeâs best friends, is to make sure she doesnât graduate without a little chaos under her belt.â
âBest friends is pushing it,â you mutter, and she squeezes you a little harder.Â
Her fingers have migrated to your cheek while she writes notes down on a neat piece of paper. Yeonheeâs eyes narrow at the familiar blue lining.Â
âWhereâd you get that?â she asks suspiciously, and Yuki shrugs.
âThe deanâs office.â
âWhat?â Yeonhee shouts, or at least, the nearest she can do to a scold. Sheâs incapable of raising her voice. âHe got that from Dubai! Thatâs stealing⊠i-it isnât yours!â
Duh. Yuki sighs. She allows you to roll your eyes this time. You imagine your best friendâs parents didnât have a hard time raising her in her little gowns, with her perfect manners and curfew. The perfect little girl. Only Yeonhee can make it sound like a bad thing.
âItâs a notepad,â Yuki deadpans. âAnd this is exactly what Iâm talking about. You donât have to follow every little rule. Do you always want to be a good girl who does as sheâs told?â
Yeonhee struggles to find an answer. The ethical dilemma is doing her head in, or maybe itâs the control Yuki so confidently wields around everyone. Even you, but thatâs already a given. She holds, touches, and drags you with her everywhere like sheâs the boss. Itâs her love language, Yeonhee guesses.
Yuki tends to do that with her, too. But she finds that she doesnât mind it. Probably even likes it.
The restaurant suddenly seems to feel claustrophobic. Itâs mere minutes away from the university. The thought of anyone finding you here is spiking Yeonheeâs nerves. âIâm sorry, what are we doing here again?â
âWeâre making a bucket list,â you inform her helpfully. âWeâre going to check off everything you wanted to do but never got to. Youâve already skipped class, so thatâs one off.â
Yuki tosses her hair to one side as she marks skip class. Thereâs a mischievous grin on her face when she lifts her head up again.
âWeâre going to fill this list up. I propose sneaking into that fine ass villa pool. Yâknow, the one near mine.â
Yeonhee blinks, but her eyes are sparkling this time. Itâs the most excitement youâve seen in them since⊠well, since forever. âItâs monitored. And chlorinated.â
âWhich is why itâs perfect.â Yuki scribbles it down and hands her friend the ballpen. âYour turn, Yeon.â
Yeonhee chews her bottom lip to prevent herself from protesting. Meanwhile, youâre salivating. Youâve seen Yuki naked before and nothing compares to that, but a gorgeous bikini on her wasnât bad either.Â
Thereâs a long pause. Yeonheeâs cheeks turn pink. âIâve always wanted to get a tattooâŠâ
Your mouth drops. âI didnât peg you for a badass tattooed girl.â
âJuri suggested we get one together in first year,â admits Yeonhee shyly. She tucks a strand of her hair back. âI was too scared so I said no.â
Yuki mirrors your surprise with an evil smile. âMake it a tramp stamp!âÂ
âNo!â
Fifteen or so minutes later, the three of you have filled your bucket list. The words overflow from the page. It reads:
YEONHEEâS AMAZING BUCKET LISTÂ
*Â Make this the ONLY thing you cram until the end of the year
*Â Crash the pool
* Â Skip a class we all hate and go get bubble tea in the middle of the day.Â
* Â Tell Professor Kingston his tie is ugly. (Yukiâs, immediately vetoed by you and Yeonhee in unison. The professor is nuts and youâd rather not be dead before graduation.)
* Miss a terror profâs deadline. (Yeonheeâs, which makes Yuki clutch her heart in dramatic pride.)
* Get a tattoo.Â
* Kiss someone.
*Â Get a good dicking down!!!!!! (Yukiâs again, waggling her eyebrows.)
At that last one, Yeonheeâs entire face goes pink. âThatâs obscene!â
âThatâs the point,â says Yuki nonchalantly. âFace it, sweetheart. Everyone needs a little stress relief.â
Her gaze flicks to you. Sheâd know a lot about that, wouldnât she? You hate how you look at each other at the same time. Her hand creeps up your thigh and you feel that familiar, hot knot in your gut, but you keep your focus on Yeonhee.Â
âYou donât have to do it first,â you offer. âIt has to be someone you trust.â
Yeonhee shrugs shyly. Her big brilliant eyes are smiling. You wonder why sheâs always shy around you, as if you havenât been best friends forever. You got each other through every midterm yet she curls up into a ball each time you squeeze her cheek.Â
Itâs something youâll have to figure out sooner or later. Yukiâs given you a forkful of cheese pizza.
âAlso has to be someone with a big dick,â Yuki says and her friend blushes furiously again. She smiles sweetly at you. âRight, hon?â
âR-Right.â
You try not to choke on the mozzarella. Yuki rests her chin on your shoulder, gently biting your earlobe. She doesnât care that Yeonheeâs right in front of you or that this is very much a public place. Youâre hersâin her head, sheâs got every right to stake that claim.
âSo,â Yeonhee says just in time to prevent Yuki from jumping you. âPool first?â
You nod.
âTomorrow night. Wear your sexiest swimsuit.â Yuki winks. âOr donât.â
-
Tomorrow canât come any faster. Youâve been looking forward to it all day. By the end of your last period, youâre practically sprinting to your agreed meet-up point. Itâs in the university parking lot, where Yukiâs gorgeous car awaits to take you on your adventure.
Yuki checks her watch with a tsk. Four minutes past the deadline. âWhere could that girl be?â
To be fair, it sounds a lot like Yeonhee to chicken out. Sheâs the epitome of obedience. She probably thought about the laws there were about private property and took the easy way out.Â
âSheâs scared to death.â
âWell, I canât blame her,â says Yuki. âI have to admit I started the list off a little strong.â
âYou did?â you gasp sarcastically. She rolls her eyes. âNo, Yuki, she definitely didnât get scared because you suggested trespassing.â
Before you could let another teasing remark out, she lets the flannel jacket slip from her arms. Your mouth waters at the thin, red bikini sheâs got on. It pushes up her plentiful tits and ties at the deep line of her toned back. Her hips hold up the knots of what you could imagine is the skimpiest pair of bikini bottoms ever.
Yuki smirks as she buttons her jacket again. âAnother word and youâre not getting any of this.â
You shut up for the rest of your waiting. Yuki kisses you as a reward but now youâre really fired up. She looks too damn good in that flimsy little set, and you wonder how youâll hold back all day. Itâs impossible for your hands not to end up on her body.
You also wonder how she got through the whole day without anyone noticing. That jacket of hers must have ridden up and shown whatâs underneath. The shorts leave nothing to the imagination either. But Yuki has her ways.
Yeonhee scurries to you, almost tripping over pebbles. She looks like she just ran a marathon.
âThere you are,â you say, giving her a hug. Quickly grab her duffel bag that looks like it weighs more than her. âI thought you were gonna back out.â
Yeonhee looks around for CCTVs before pulling her shirt off, revealing a skintight rashguard. âWhy would I? Iâm not a coward.â
âSure you arenât,â teases Yuki, but sheâs smiling proudly.Â
Yeonhee calls shotgun, ever the passenger princess. You suffer in the backseat with their phones, bags, and clothes. The parking lot stones make the road jagged, and you count two times your head knocked into the painfully solid window.
God, it was gonna be a long ride.Â
The villa isnât that far from campus but it feels like it. The traffic is especially hellish today. You take several short naps and you wake up still in the same intersection. It only gets worse as the night falls. Yuki beeps furiously at the cyclists taking up the main lane.Â
âFucking Sunday drivers,â she murmurs.
Yeonhee shakes her head sympathetically. She squints as headlights pour through the windshield. âMaybe they have places to be. Maybe their momâs looking for them, or they need to go to the hospital.â
Yuki gathers her emotions with a deep sigh. She canât bring herself to yell at Yeonhee. Itâs both shocking and nice to see her practice some self-restraint. You recall how she almost got into a catfight with a girl at the bar, all because the poor girl asked if you were single.
You raise a brow. âOn a bicycle. Theyâre rushing to the ER on a bicycle.â
âYeah!â Eager to relay the numbers of books she read, Yeonhee nods. âItâs called sonder. Textbook definition is itâs like, the realization that people have lives just as complicated as ours. We all have our own thing.â
âI call it being an idiot who doesnât know how to drive,â says Yuki irritably.
You and Yeonhee laugh. Youâre quickly scolded for blocking the rearview mirror. Yuki rebuckles Yeonheeâs seartbelt and keeps one hand on her knee for the rest of the ride.Â
The villaâs fine architecture comes into view. Big, gorgeous houses shadow your figures. You imagine they belong to families with old money dating back centuries, celebrities, or politicians whoâve pocketed more than what they should. Yeonhee looks up at them admiringly. Yuki, on the other hand, jumps off the car like itâs nothing. Sheâs no stranger to luxury. Itâs exactly why youâre confused by her proposal of invading a pool when she has one of her own.
Yeonhee doesnât know that of course.
You stop in your tracks. âWait! Thereâs a guard!âÂ
Both girls snap their heads to the entrance. Indeed, an armed security guard sits in a chair with his arms crossed. A burnt cigarette hangs between his lips. Rough night, you suppose. It couldnât be an easy job to protect a stingy, gated community all by yourself. Rich people were scared of everythingâplaces that werenât airconditioned, mosquitoes, and peddlers.Â
Most importantly, they were scared of college students such as yourself trying to sneak into private property. They had every right to be.
You think you regret agreeing to this now. âWhat do we do?â
Thereâs a CCTV propped above the gate. The boom barrier cannot be moved unless the guard controls it. And the guard in question has a fucking gun.Â
Yuki presses a finger to her lips. âJust follow me.â
You and Yeonhee look at each other in fear. It's impossible that even a wildcat like her could get past this. You offer a prayer that Yuki would set limits tonight. Itâs one that would more likely than not go unansweredâMori Koyuki has never been afraid of anything.
She slowly, surely tiptoes on the grass leading to the wall that surrounds the villa. You follow suit. You can hear Yeonhee whimpering. You accidentally step on a twig, making Yuki glare at you.Â
Yuki wraps her hands around the metal, leaning back for leverage, arms flexing with the laborâ
âNo wayââ
âand hoists herself up the wall in one, massive go. Her sneakers scrape the otherwise pure white painting with dirt. Yeonhee muffles her squeal with a sleeve.
âAre you out of your fucking mind?â she whispers. You wholeheartedly agreeâsheâs so off the rails that she made Yeonhee cuss for the first time ever.
Yukiâs grin is sharp. âTry and keep up.â
At this point, you fully believe that if Yuki jumped off a cliff, so would you. Because you find yourself following her, helping Yeonhee over, your hand steady on her elbow. Her denim shorts catch onto the sharp edges. You then rush off into the night, trying to keep your footfalls as quiet as possible.
It takes three turns to finally reach the pool. Perhaps the adrenaline was worth it? Its turquoise walls reach deep into the water, making it look like a real ocean. Corals line the edges with a ladder. Itâs the sort of luxury youâd find in high-end resorts.
And here you are swimming in it for free.
Yeonheeâs reflection looks anxious in the water. âAre you sure we should be doing this?â
Yuki puts an arm around her. Her voice is gentle. âWe can go back if you want to, but Iâm just saying⊠weâll miss out on a lot of fun.â
She nods toward you. Itâs your cue. Youâre the first to break the surface, diving in with a splash that echoes through the silent estate. The water is cool. It isnât warm enough to sting, but not cold enough to make you shiver.Â
Yuki throws her jacket off and steps out of her shorts. Her legs could go on forever. She makes a show of putting her hair down before diving right in.
âCannonball!â she yells. She crashes right next you, causing a flood to take you down with her. Yeonhee giggles at it all. Finally, she steps right in, albeit settling for the shallower parts of the pool.
For a while, itâs just games. You feel like a kid playing pretend again. You invent âMarco Poloâ with a twist, where the âPoloâ has to answer a ridiculous trivia question Yeonhee comes up with. It ends with a tie, and Yeonhee, far too kind to declare anybody a loser, says you both win. Yuki organizes a floating race, where you all have to kick from one end to the other without using your arms.Â
âYou cheated!â Yeonhee yells. Itâs the loudest youâve heard her speak. Wild golden flames dance in her eyes.Â
Yuki laughs loudly. âNo I didnât, maybe you need your glasses. You arenât seeing clearly.â
âI use reading glasses, youââ
She lunges at Yuki. Both of them end up underwater, giggling and yelling.Â
Tonight has a lot of firsts. Of course, itâs your first time trespassing (and itâs definitely not something youâd be proud of down the line), but itâs also the first time you see Yeonhee let loose. Like, really let loose. Her hair is tangled from the pool water and sticks to those cheeks that stretch into an infectious smile. You donât see that smile often. You can tell itâs the same for her best friend, who allows her to win their little âfightâ and proposes a rematch.
You have no idea what time it is. Probably seven? Eight? You soon lose the energy in the taxing games you all wage. Yeonhee busies herself with perfecting a handstand she learned in gymnastics. Just how many skills does this girl hace? You shake your head in disbelief as you settle for the edge of the pool. Your muscles are sore. Maybe you strained it earlier from when you were playfully wrestling with Yuki.
Lean against the pool edge, head tipped to the sky. You close your eyes for a while. The light from the pool, lamps, and the moon pierce through your eyelids. Itâs been a while since you went swimming. Although you still need to work on your backstrokes, your body feels freer down here than the land above.Â
Or so you thought.
A loud splash makes you open your eyes once more. Itâs Yuki. Of course it is.Â
Only her eyes break above the surface, dark and inviting, making her look like a siren. Uh oh. You know that look too well. Itâs the kind she flashes you before pulling you into the nearest staircase well, your hands ending up between her legs. You never had a chance.
Yuki lifts herself up. Water streams down her cleavage. âWanna play another game?âÂ
âYouâre insatiable. Yeonheeâs right there.â
To your surprise, she doesnât close on you. Hell, she doesnât even palm your boner underwater. But she does something more dangerous:
She pushes herself out of the pool. Water streams down her body. There, the moon watches Yuki slip out of her bikini top, then her shorts, letting them fall to the tiles with soft, wet plops.
Yeonheeâs handstand collapses. She stares, wide-eyed, then quickly turns her attention back to the water. Both of your faces are heated. You seem to mirror each other often, especially when it comes to Yuki. The two of you blush when Yuki says another sultry innuendo, flinch when she touches you, and let her do anything she wants. You orbit around her like the sun.Â
She dives back into the pool. Yuki swims to you underwater, emerging right in front of you before her arms hang around your neck. Her full, supple body presses to yours. Before you could ask if she was crazy (although you know the answer to that already), her mouth finds you. Her tongue traces the seam of your lips before diving in.
Fuck.
You meet her with equal intensity, your hands finding her waist under the water. The smooth dip of her amazing hips fill your palms.Â
Werenât you hesitating a few seconds ago? You should be telling her that she was insane, that she canât just skinny dip when Yeonhee was there, that what sheâs doing counts for public indecency.Â
You canât find it in you to do it now.Â
Yeonhee is floating nearby. âThis pool looks like the ones my rich aunt has, she got it for a fortune with the house,â she says, having forgotten what she saw. Or is she pretending not to have seen anything?Â
Yukiâs lips break from yours only to whisper, âKeep her talking,â before she kisses you even harder. One of your hands drifts from her waist, sliding down through the water. With how desperate Yukiâs gasping, itâs hard to throw Yeonhee off your scent. But god, will you have to try. You canât traumatize the poor girl again.
You find her center under the water. The slick sensation between her amazing thighs is undeniable. Even the pool canât make her this drenched. Your finger slips inside, and she gasps into your mouth, her body arching against you. Move slowly, your thumb finding a rhythm against her clit while your index finger curls inside her.
Yeonhee is now discussing the cleanliness of the pool water. âItâs very well-maintained. Like not even a leaf or something. The people here must pay well.â
Yukiâs breaths come in short bursts against your cheek. Itâs like she wants to get caught. Her hips are moving with your hand, eyes closed tight. She bites your lower lip to stifle a moan. Her own hand is fighting the pressure of the water to jerk you off.Â
âYou think they just⊠clean this with regular draining?â you ask, your voice remarkably even. Yuki giggles in your shoulder at how stupid you sound.Â
âNo and yes. With traditional chlorine, of course,â Yeonhee corrects. âIf you look closely, you can actually notice how the light throws it off a little. Thatâs why you donât see fog or dirt. Assuming they donât have a natural source, regular cleaning would be better than just wasting water each time someone steps in.â
Whatever that means. Your focus is on Yuki, who trembles in your arms. Her forehead rests against yours. You quickly add another finger. Make it your goal to get her there before Yeonhee realizes what youâre doing. The kiss becomes torrid. You can feel her climax building steadily.
Yeonhee, bless her innocent soul, starts speculating on the villa ownerâs nationality based on the garden layout. She says something about how culture often influences design even when said designer creates internationally, but you donât hear any of it. All you can hear is Yukiâs muffled cry in the crook of your neck.Â
Yukiâs body convulses, sharply jerking against you. You keep your digits still so she has something to squeeze down on as she cums. She neglects her strained handjob to squeeze your side. She canât think clearly. The thrill of it allâthe fact that this pool wasnât hers and that Yeonhee could catch you if she looked the wrong wayâgets her off as much as you do.
Slowly, you withdraw your hand. Her kiss is less hungry this time in an attempt to catch her breath. Beneath you, the rapids of the water finally subside.Â
Yeonhee finally turns around. You and Yuki immediately look away from each other. Yuki swims a few feet away but Yeonhee already looks suspicious.Â
She opens her mouth and you hold your breath for the worst.
âDid you guys hear that? I think a car might be coming.â
The spell breaks. She was right. The unmistakable sound of a revved engine was coming your way. Yuki, with effortless nonchalance, swims to where her clothes lie and starts putting them back on. You dry off your hair the best you can. You can only hope you didnât leave anything in your panic.
-
Later in the car, Yeonheeâs all smiles. âThat was fun!âÂ
Her hair is wrapped in a towel. Yukiâs long since given up telling you not to wet her seats. But you try your best anyway, changing into a pair of shorts and putting on a cap. She keeps one hand on the steering wheel while she dabs her face with skincare. She puts some on the tip of Yeonheeâs nose and she giggles.
Yuki smiles at her. If she looked at her with more love than she already is, hearts might pop out of her pupils. Seeing her best friend without all the tension in her shoulders is a different type of joy. Sheâs literally glowing.Â
âI told you having fun wonât kill anybody.â She pauses, and looks at the rearview mirror. âLetâs just hope it wonât get us a lawsuit.â
-
Maybe itâs cheating. Maybe itâs a loophole that doesnât go by the rules youâve set for the bucket list. But this is about Yeonheeâyou two are just in it for the ride. So, several weeks later, you all decide to miss that boring personal development class and push Yeonhee to abstain from her project.
Filling this part of the bucket list is long overdue. Yuki had presentations lined up for each day. Meanwhile, you had to submit several sketches for architecture. But you couldnât imagine how much busier Yeonhee was compared to the two of you. Two of her organizations required a booth and a meeting, forcing her to play carpenter again plus fish out a few thousand won.
Youâre just glad to be in The Cuppa. Itâs your safe space. When all the shit you have to do beats you downâparticularly toward the end of this semester where your professors unleash all unholy hell on youâthis is where you turn to.Â
âItâs multi-tasking,â you explain to her, twirling your straw through the boba pearls. Then, to put things in her perspective: âBetter than missing a class one day then flunking another project tomorrow, right?â
 You ordered a classic to save your money. Yeonhee goes for a strawberry milk tea. Meanwhile, Yuki opts for this large, delicious milkshake topped with whipped cream and syrup.Â
It just begs another question: how the hell does Yuki keep that amazing figure? Sheâs never been one to go on diets. Right now, sheâs chugging a thousand-calorie milkshake with no second thought about it. She never fails to keep you guessing.
The anxious taps of Yeonheeâs ballerina flat breaks your trail of thought. Sheâs staring longingly at her laptop. Itâs at the edge of the table, closed and locked so as not to tempt her. She gives you an accusing look.
âWhat?â you ask.
She pouts. âYou two are a bad influence.â
Yuki laughs heartily. âOh please,â she says, waving a hand through the air. âThat personal development class does nothing anyway. They shouldâve kept that shit in first year.â
She gestures around, as if to say, look, youâre having way more fun out here than in some boring classroom. She seems to be the only one appreciating the added bubble tea menu. The Cuppa has a gorgeous, homely aesthetic with relaxing Sade tunes in the background. Not to mention the generous discount given because Yeonhee had connections with Eunbi, the manager. But the girl is still biting her nails nervously.
âBesides,â adds Yuki sweetly, âIâve got enough personality already. I donât need that class.â
Yeonhee quirks her lip. âThank you for that really helpful insight.â
Yuki smirks. Itâs rare for Yeonhee to be feisty. It does annoy her, however, that sheâs letting out some of that bitchiness over a useless course of all things.
Sensing that nothing is getting to her, you jump in to help. Place your drink on the table for a minute. The tissue complete with The Cuppa logo sticks to the moisture forming around the plastic.
âLook, if this is about the deadlineââ
âYes, itâs about the deadlineââ
ââthen you deserve the break anyway.â You open Yeonheeâs laptop to show her the island of notifications from her group. One after the other, each message reads of panic. âYou carried the dissertation on your back. Itâs time they do their part.â
@/KimYeonhee where are you?? đŁ We need you, one message from Yunkyoung reads. Itâs followed by a screenshot of a ridiculously constructed paragraph.
Another from Suyun says, hey idk why youâre inactive but⊠whereâs the doc Yunkyoungâs talking about? Is this the map plan LOL
Too many people take advantage of Yeonheeâs infinite patience. For so long, she let them take another three hours of sleep while she lost hers fixing the bibliography. She was the one who sought credible sources both offline and online.Â
Now that sheâs found temporary freedom from it, Yeonhee feels⊠odd. The darkness under her eyes was gone, replaced by a healthy softness to her cheeks. Sheâs radiant again but losing the weight of work is something sheâs definitely not used to. She was accustomed to fitting her schedule between deadlines and writing up another paper.Â
Yeonhee looks two seconds away from typing in her PIN and getting back on the Google Doc. âBut what if they donât submit it on time?â
âIt doesnât matter. Professor Goeun is well aware that youâve been doing all the work. Your groupmates should be the ones worrying, not you. You have to put yourself first.â
âIâI know but it just feels so wrongââ
Before you know it, Yeonhee bursts into tears. She covers her face with her hands, shaking in fear. Her frame is so tense, so paralyzed with anxiety that your heart breaks. You wonder if youâve taken this too far. This oneâs on you. You shouldâve checked with her to see if this whole ordeal was okay.
Alarmed, Yuki wraps her arms around her. âHey,â she coos softly. She runs her fingers through the girlâs hair. âHey, youâre alright. Youâre fine. Whatâs the matter?â
Yeonhee wipes her tears with her wrist. You offer her some tissues, and she accepts gladly. Her face is flushed red. The tears that puff her face make her look like someone far younger, someone whoâs just been brought into the real world and has no idea what to do.
âWeâre sorry. We shouldnât have taken it this far.â
She shakes her head. âNo, itâs not that.â The tiny smile on her face is genuine. âI actually had a lot of fun. This is the most fun Iâve had since⊠well, forever.â
You relax a little. At least you know now that she isnât crying because you took it too far. The normal fun you and Yuki have could be extreme for her. This was a girl who had gone by the rules all her life, from the dress code to deadlines.Â
âWell, thank goodness.â Relief washes over Yukiâs face. Thatâs what matters, isn't it? She holds Yeonhee tighter. âThen why are you crying? Did we say something wrong?â
âNot at all. Itâs just thatââ Yeonhee hiccups a little, a sound caught between a sob and a groan. She lifts her slim shoulders. âIâve never heard anyone tell me to put myself first.â
In the silence that hangs in the air, you could almost hear your heart and Yukiâs shatter. Yeonhee bows her head once more. Fat teardrops land on the fabric of her skirt.
Youâve accused people before of taking Yeonhee the wrong way. Yuki told you that she was bullied in high school by people who made her do their homework. She was called names for the sin of being dedicated to her studies.Â
But you find out now that youâve misinterpreted her, too. Doesnât matter if it was unintentional. She wasnât doing the whole neat freak thing for fun. Nobody who was sane would do that. She was doing it because it was what she was used to. People expected her to fit the good girl stereotype, fitting her into a box since she was a teenager. People lounged back while relying on her to do the dirty work.
You cup her tiny, adorable face in your hands. âWell, youâre hearing it now.â
You thumb away a tear that trickles down her cheek and give her a quick, sweet kiss. Her lipbalm tastes like cherries. Â
Itâs an impulsive thing to do. You know how these always end up. Curse yourself for putting your heart over your head again. But when you pull away, Yeonheeâs smiling gratefully.Â
Sheâs your friend. Sheâs got your back and you donât have to be scared around her.Â
You search for any anger in Yukiâs face, already preparing to be scolded, but you find none. Instead, she interlocks her fingers with Yeonheeâs. âRemember weâre doing this for you,â she tells her. âYou call the shots. We can stop anytime you want.â
The look in Yukiâs eyes, only reserved for you and Yeonhee, is so tender that it feels like you shouldnât be witnessing their exchange. Theyâve been linked before you even came along: braiding each otherâs hair in high school, teaming up for entrance exams, and now, finishing college together. Together, like theyâve always been.
You have the good sense to leave, but then Yuki pulls you in to join the hug. Your eyes close. The warmth of the embrace somehow heals part of you that you never knew needed closure. Theyâre the friends you prayed for when you had nobody. Theyâre the closest and realest friends youâve ever had, and itâs a scary thought, but you truly donât know what to do without them.
Yeonhee finally starts to laugh. Minutes ago, she was drowned by appreciation for you, and now youâre sandwiching her in a hug. She gently pushes you away with a sniffle.
âYou guys are so corny,â she says. âYouâre lucky I love you.â
-
One of the many things Kim Yeonhee missed out on is the night life.
Every college student has dipped into it once or twice. Personally, you started seeing the beauty of it after a particularly horrible score. You went out with Yuki, had drinks, sat by the Han River, everything. It was a vice best handled at armâs length. You knew that if you went regularly, a lot of things would go sideways.
Tonight, only the neon lights from the clubs of Gangnam illuminate the streets. This was the rich kidâs playgroundâeverywhere you turn and look, your wallet practically begs to be emptied. Thereâs clothes, liquor, and tattoo shops. Samgyupsals are the biggest attraction here, but you didnât get all dressed up to eat.
Graduation is in a week and youâre here to have unfiltered, shameless fun.
âDo you think you could handle it?â Yuki had asked Yeonhee, her voice tinged with concern. And it seemed as if she should ask the same to youâshe has on black leather shorts, a crop top, and a bold lipstick that makes you want to pin her to the wall right there and then. Jesus. How could you handle all of that?
Yeonhee looked around. The wild landscape of the city was a panorama reflecting on her sunglasses. âWe didnât commute all the way here for nothing. Iâm not going to chicken out now.â
This was not the Kim Yeonhee you know. Your Yeonhee sways around in little coquette skirts and ribboned top. This one had on a red dress that clung to her body, cut at the sides to show that deadly waist.Â
Yuki did the honors of doing Yeonheeâs hair and makeup. The almond shape of her eyes looks more dangerous with the sharp eyeliner.Â
You only noticed now the slight fang she has in the corner of her mouth, making her look like a vampire bathed in neon. You gulp. Yuki must have noticed your reaction, but if she did, she doesnât say anything. Her knowing smirk says enough.Â
You party so much you donât think you could attend the graduation afterparty. This night alone is equivalent to all the parties youâll have in the future, enough to fill the gaps of your wedding and first car. The alcohol hums in your veins like little jolts of electricity, making your mind fuzzy. Your thoughts blur into one another and dictate your hands around Yukiâs waist. You always turn to her when youâve got some in your system. Her familiar, reliable touch gets you down.
It cuts the same way for her, too. Yuki, damn her, presses her cute ass flush against your hard-on. The skirt lifts and pins to your stomach.Â
Yuki starts to move, igniting a fire with the friction of fabric and flesh on your erection. She raises her arms as she dances. Thereâs no need for pretense anyway. Everyoneâs either doing the same thing you are or perhaps chatting their way into someoneâs pants. But Yuki loves subtlety, no matter how bad she is at maintaining it.
You groan against her ear. âGodââ A hundred bodies dance in huddles around you yet hers is the most magnetic. Nothing can pull you off her, not with those curves and waist.
She giggles, letting her head fall into your shoulder. Her hair against your ear muffles the Ne-Yo theyâve got booming through the speakers. Through the noise, you hear her, sultry and clear: âAre you gonna do it? Gonna cum on my ass in front of all these people?â
âIf you keep doing that, I will.â
Your grip on her hips grows tighter. Your groans and whines are a symphony as Yuki does exactly what you fear and want. She bends over a little, shaking those cute cheeks into your core, and directs her grinding to the center of her shorts. You can feel how soaked she is in so little time.Â
She looks back at you, biting her lip. âYou know sheâs watching us, right?â
Although youâre drunk, itâs not difficult to know who sheâs talking about. Yeonhee, your brilliant, beautiful friend, has gone away to get herself some drinks. Sheâs a big girl, right? She said so herself. You and Yuki felt comfortable enough to let her into the crowd and have some fun. But while she was gone, you were going to have some fun, too.
And you see her over Yukiâs shoulder. Sheâs just⊠standing there, glued to her place on the dance floor at the sight of you and Yuki. She stays there despite several wild moves from the girl in the tube dress and a guy who, when he saw her eyes on you, decided she might not be interested in him. You move to still Yukiâs hips, but to your shock, she doesnât let herself be held back.
No. Yuki looks straight at Yeonhee as she rubs into you harder. Even flashes her a wicked smile.
You burn up for a different reason. This isnât the first time Yeonhee caught youâthis was just one of the several traumatizing moments she found Yuki unable to keep her hands off you. Now, sheâs unlucky enough to see you dryhumping her in a public place. You hope this time, she commends you for choosing the club, which is shameless enough to let it pass.
âIââ Yeonheeâs words die just when theyâre about to leave her mouth. She shouldâve expected this, right?Â
Yuki pouts mockingly. âIs there something wrong, Yeonhee?â
Yeonhee realizes thereâs no use in giving you your drinks. She had to fight a stampede for them, too. She sets them on a table, wondering what she should say. She has so many questions. The curiosity might kill her if she bites her tongue.Â
âWhy are you looking at him like thatâŠâ asks Yeonhee. Itâs two in the morning, sheâs slightly tipsy, and right now, youâre starting to look really good all worked up.
You could feel the bass of the music pump in your chest. It grows rhythmless when you realize Yuki is, in fact, undressing you with her eyes. She doesnât even stop grinding on you. She has no problem showing everyone what she likes to do to you.
And hearing the innocent possessiveness in Yeonheeâs voice takes you higher than any drug.Â
âAm I not allowed to?â Yuki laughs, taking no offense because Yeonhee clearly meant none. The girl was only curious, almost naive. âIâm just trying to figure out the perfect place for the tattoo. We talked about it earlier, remember.â
She isnât totally lying. To finally complete the bucket list, all three of you had agreed on the friendship tattoo youâll get. Yeonhee volunteered quotes, but when she heard the vulgar double entendres Yuki suggested, that was quickly shot down. You finally settled for a small moon (you), star (Yeonhee), and a planet (Yuki.) You donât know when you got sidetracked from going to the tattoo parlor. Youâre willing to bet it was when Yuki saw Swan again after a while near the entrance. One thing led to another, and now youâre here in this extremely compromising position.
Yeonhee doesnât buy it; her cheeks are cherry red. She manages a little white lie anyway because, well, you were her boyfriend. Yuki might not like labels but that gives her no right to stake her claim over you. âI was just concerned.â
âAre you jealous?âÂ
Both you and Yeonhee stop dead in your tracks.Â
âWhat?âÂ
Yuki stops grinding against you. She has another idea, and Mori Koyuki isnât one to have hesitation. Her hips sway as she approaches Yeonhee.
âDo you want me to look at you like I look at him?â she asks, and does exactly that: shamelessly letting her dark eyes wander over her amazing body. She knows more about Yeonhee beyond that steadfast dedication to her degree and her favorite color. She knows what sheâs hiding under those big clothes.
Yeonhee looks like sheâs going to explode. Youâre both speechless as Yuki circles her like prey.Â
(Not far off. See the scene earlier, before you booked a taxi to Gangnam:
âNo offense,â said Yuki as she towered over her, putting mascara on her fine lashes, âitâs fine to be cute, really. But itâs getting old. We know youâre capable of being a hottie.â
They were on top of each other on the rocking bed. You tried not to look but there was a clear, mutual feeling between you and Yeonhee. You had no idea how to handle an enigma like Yuki, especially when she had you wrapped around her little finger. She knew that well.
Yeonhee attempted to move, but was held back by Yuki pressing her weight more firmly on top of her. She still had to do her eyeshadow. The smokey color on her eyelids made the flustered color on her cheeks more obvious. Funny. Yuki hadnât put blush on her yet.)
Yeonheeâs throat bobs. So often do words fail her when sheâs around Yuki, when the younger girl sizes her up like this. With them, the fact that sheâs older is completely disregarded, honorifics out the window, the pointless performative respect gone. Yuki already claimed the upper hand.
She wields control like itâs nothing. âOh, youâve been dreaming of it, havenât you, baby?â she asks. Yeonhee doesnât shake her head. âIâm right, arenât I? You want me to fuck you like I fuck him.â
Wait wait wait, this was absofuckinglutely nowhere on the bucket list, you scream in your head. You canât tear your eyes off the scene in front of you. Itâs the way Yuki drives her crazy, and how Yeonhee doesnât even make a move to fight or deny anything. Whatever Yukiâs saying is the plain truth, in all its obscenity. Her flimsy excuses wonât hold up in court, where the juryâs taken Yukiâs side. A unanimous ruling in Yukiâs favor.
Thatâs just how the world works for her. Yuki gets what she wants no matter what.
 âIââ Yeonhee stammers nervously. What percentage of her life has been spent cowering and blushing around Yuki? The words often die on her tongue when she gets close. No one can say no to her.
Not even a mathematician like Yeonhee can calculate it fast enough before Yuki puts her lips on hers.
Yeonhee goes still. Yukiâs hand cups the side of her face so she could slip her tongue inside, capturing her mouth even harder. She could feel the heat radiating from Yeonheeâs cheek on her fingertips. She liplocks her more passionately, making it something sheâd never forget, putting on a show for you. Their tongues pass over each other, plump lips soft.
She smiles as she pulls away. To you, it felt a lot longer than that. Your cock strains in your pants while Yeonhee looks positively turned on. Yearningâs etched all over her blushing features.Â
âWell, thatâs one off the list,â Yeonhee jokes, trying to pretend as if it were nothing. You share awkward laughs to brush it off. Hate that there arenât automatic sitcom laughs to hold up.
 But she knows that was an unwise decision when Yuki places a hand on her waist.
âWant to check off another one?â
-
Yuki would do anything for her best friend.
Theyâve known each other since the days of puppy love and hormonal acne. Seeing each other grow up was a privilege. Itâs the kind of thing that sustains a friendship. They took entrance exams together, cried over exes, everything. Yuki knows theyâd do it all over again to preserve what they had.
And so when she checks in to a five star hotel suite just to fill up the last of the bucket list, she knows Yeonhee would do the same if need be.
Youâd argue that it was ridiculous to spend so much for the sole purpose of fucking. The premise itself was ridiculous. But you canât exactly complain when youâve got Yeonheeâs hungry lips on your mouth, and Yuki kissing the back of your neck. You feel her teeth sink into your shoulder and you groan helplessly. Youâre stuck between two magnets that are both attracted to you. Thereâs nowhere to run.Â
You donât plan to.
If news gets out before graduation and makes it onto the universityâs gossip page, this is the best excuse you can come up with: all of you were pretty drunk.
But lord knows that with or without alcohol, you canât say no to the girlsâ amazing bodies. Your hands are attached infinitely to Yeonheeâs waist. Occasionally, you reach back to cup Yukiâs cheek, pulling her closer to you.
Yeonhee finally pulls away. Itâs like your breaths were sealed into a vacuum and left you in this expensive suite, with her bra half unclasped and Yukiâs lipstick already smeared. Only they can make you sweat in an airconditioned room.
Youâve found her nipple, twisting it under that excuse of a dress. She heaves a delicate sigh. Sheâs so sensitive. Each little touch causes the sweetest noises to spill from her pretty mouth. âGod,â she whines, breathless, âyouâre such a good kisser.â
Yuki smirks. âYouâve been missing out on a lot more than French kisses, Yeonhee.â
As if to show off the example, she gropes your clothed cock. Itâs making a dent through your boxers. Yeonhee canât take her eyes off it. Youâve never quite seen this needy look on her before. It suits her, to be honest, but god, you really did corrupt her, didnât you? She looks far from the good girl she was months ago.Â
Or maybe she was never the good girl she claimed to be. Perhaps her eyes lingered longer than they should when she caught you and Yuki going at it, or watched your arms around each other, wishing for something she didnât quite understand.
The thought makes you shiver. The temperature provides some refuge, sort of, reaching an all-time high when Yuki pulls your boxers down. Her fist is a velvet grip around your length. She jerks you off quickly, making your knees buckle as she twists her hand around. She giggles at the precum leaking from your tip.Â
âAww, did I turn you on too much? Youâre so fucking hard and you arenât even inside me yet.â
Yuki leaves an open-mouthed kiss on your shoulder while Yeonhee watches, too stunned to even speak. Sheâs squirming. She wants to slip her hand under her dress the moment Yukiâs kisses turn into little love bites. Your flesh is peppered with the stain of Yukiâs lipstick under purple bruises sure to hurt tomorrow.Â
Your teeth grit against each other. Itâs impossible to cope with the smooth friction of Yukiâs hand. You canât even survive Yeonheeâs sultry gaze alone.
Yuki nods at Yeonhee. Her other hand strokes the bone of your hip. âGet on your knees, gorgeous. Show him how badly you want that dick.â
Curse under your breath. Whatâs happening now is a fantasy youâll never admit to having. Nobody can beat this information out of you.Â
But Yeonhee seems to already know. She looks hypnotized as she sinks to the floor. She doesnât even hesitate. Her dress looks better on the carpet. A fast fashion piece like that doesnât deserve to drape Yeonheeâs wide hips, or those perky tits just begging to be played with.Â
Tighten your abs to keep you from blowing. Each scene unfolding at this very moment is a dream come true. The loss of Yukiâs quick hand on your cock feels foreign. You were used to always touching each other, joining your bodies so often that a few centimeters apart feels like hell.Â
No matter: Yeonhee brings you right back to heaven with her lips on your shaft.
Her tongue drags a trail of hot drool on your underside. Sheâs an amateur, her skills unable to parallel with Yukiâs. But sheâs getting there for sure. Besides, Yuki had the unfair advantage of blowing you a million times. There was that one under the table as you gamed, or some mornings ago when she felt your cum was a better alternative to milk. You can appreciate the innocent lapping at the sensitive flesh of your balls and cockhead.
âOh, donât be a tease now, Yeonhee.â Yuki kneels next to the older girl. âYouâve done that for far too long.â
Their lewd conversation is an aphrodisiac, you swear. Hearing Yuki guide her friend in blowing you feels straight out of your dreams. Have you maxed your luck out? You canât aim higher than this: having two gorgeous girls prepare to drain your cum.Â
When Yeonheeâs wet mouth greets your dick, itâs final. You donât want to wake up from this dream.Â
Your head falls back. You stumble a little, overwhelmed by the sensation of that vibrating whimper and that tongue of hers. You fall back against the edge of the bed. A few inches slip out from the clench of her lips. But itâs back once sheâs gotten her hands on your quads to help her out.
Your sex is completely drenched with her work. She sucks you off harder before she pulls away for a breather. Her shoulders rise in sync with her heavy panting. A string of spit connects her swollen lips to you.Â
Then she goes in for the kill. Yeonhee pushes herself forward and welcomes you into her tight throat. Your knuckles turn pale on the edge of the mattress.Â
âJesus, YeonâŠâ Canât even get her name out. Her lips are glossed with drool as she takes you. Her soft cheeks hollow and youâre able to dent the skin gently with your tip. The feel of the side of her cheeks alone makes you shiver. It isnât even that which makes you weak at the knees, gripping at the edge of the hotel bed. Itâs the fucking pace she sets, too fast even for her to keep up with, reintroducing your girth into the column of her throat. It brings tears into those pretty eyes.
You have to fist your hand in Yeonheeâs glossy hair when she starts to gag a little. The contraction of her throat has your toes curling, and you have to remind yourself that you arenât allowed to pull her hair or force your cock deeper even if she wanted to. Thereâs a boundary here that is still there despite how blurred it is. Sheâs still your best friend.
But then Yuki breaks the tension and fixes her fingers over yours in Yeonheeâs hair. She starts to force Yeonheeâs head down your cock, guiding her back and forth. You feel Yeonheeâs grip on your thighs grow tighter.Â
âY-Yuki, what the hell!â you gasp. Your muscles wound tight, the friction of Yeonheeâs throat and deliciously plump lips torturing you. You want to reprimand Yuki, tell her Yeonheeâs not ready for that. Let her take her time. Sheâs not as wild as she is.Â
But Yeonhee doesnât even fight the pressure any less than you fight to free yourself from the overwhelming pleasure. Encouraged by Yukiâs stern fingers curled on her scalp, she takes in quick breaths through her nose (or tries to) as she takes your cock. Her whimpers only add to the pleasure when they buzz against you.Â
Guilt is what you should feel in this situation. Yeonhee always pushes herself to take more than what she can. Her hands deftly play with your balls, eyes trained on your face to see if sheâs doing well, your cock from tip to base pleasured by those deadly lips. But itâs only mindnumbing ecstasy that envelops you nowâno thoughts, no consequences, only Yeonhee and that fuckable face.
âThatâs it, pretty girl,â says Yuki in a whisper. Her grip loosens and then becomes almost comforting. Sheâs stroking Yukiâs strands, wiping away the stray tears and assessing the bruises. âAlways knew you could do it. You just wanted to be a cocktease this whole time.â
Whatever. Youâd say those months before this night spent filling up the bucket list paid off in the end. Youâre going to cum. The furious bobs of Yeonheeâs face are throwing you over the edge.
Much to your disappointment, Yuki keeps her from finishing the job. Her glistening lips depart from your aching dick with an obscene pop. And lord, Yeonhee looks utterly wrecked. Her hair, which was done with hairspray and attentive combing, falls down her shoulders in a mess.Â
And through all that, Yeonhee still looks like the prettiest girl in the world.
She whines in protest. âWhatâd you do that for? I was getting so good.â
âThatâs only the beginning,â replies Yuki simply. âDoesnât count until he really gets that big thing inside you.â
Youâre too fucked out to even see right. Itâs the alcohol or something,, blurring things together and making up what isnât there. But if the scene of Yuki reaching under Yeonheeâs legs and stroking her is real, thatâs just another surprise of the night.Â
Yeonhee purrs at the feeling. Sheâs drunk with pleasure. Sheâll have a hard time weaning herself off the feeling of Yukiâs fingers against her soaked center. You know the feeling too well.
Sheâs made a mess through her panties already. Yuki focuses the pressure on her clit, making the girl squirm and finding relief in clinging to your flexed arm. âYuki, pleaseâŠâ
âNo, donât look at me like that. Be a big girl and tell him straight up what you want.â
Yeonhee lifts her head to you. The light seems to single her out, contouring each perfect shape on her face and figure. Where do you even start to lookâher glorious thighs wet with her own slick or those eyes that, for the first time, hold your gaze?
âWant you to fuck me,â she says. âWant you to make me cum so hard I canât think. Please, I deserve it. Iâve waited so long.â
The filth in those words is ridiculous, so removed from the Yeonhee who wouldnât curse even if nobody could hear her. The raw confession is a direct trigger to the blood rushing to your shaft. Waited so long.Â
Maybe thatâs why you lift her onto the bed carelessly.Â
Maybe thatâs why you tower over her as you hold her legs together, all sane thought out of the window at the sight of the dress bunching up at her hips.
Maybe thatâs why despite all the reasons why you shouldnât do this, you slip your length between her thighs and realize youâve forever dreamed of doing that.Â
The combined wetness from the previous blowjob and the waterfall between her thighs makes you tremble. Sheâs so fucking wet. Her thighs are slick and allow you to set a mindless pace, chasing after the soft friction they provide. The underside of your cock grinds against her pussy lips, hitting her clit along the way and making her whimper.
âPlease, oh god, pleaseââ Her eyes screw shut. It feels way too good. Each part of her tight body is screaming for you to fuck her. The poor thingâs about to cry from desperation.
Yuki, definitely not allowing herself to go without a little gratification, climbs over the bed. Her clothes join Yeonheeâs on the floor. She straddles Yeonheeâs shoulders, lowering herself until sheâs seated fully on Yeonheeâs face. Yeonhee makes a little sound of surprise. But if thereâs anything you know about Yuki, one taste always makes people come back for more. Once they get their tongue in her mouth or on her clit, it becomes an addiction. Itâs the kind you never want to recover from.Â
So itâs no surprise when Yeonheeâs hands come up to grip Yukiâs hips. She starts lapping at the soaked flesh eagerly, tongue running along her folds. You can hear just how well sheâs eating Yuki out, how wet sheâs making her from the obscene sounds filling the suite.Â
Itâs final. You have to relieve yourself.
You withdraw from the clasp of Yeonheeâs thighs. Sweat shimmers on your bodies. You position yourself at her entrance, and although Yukiâs insane midriff blocks you from her view, you can picture how needy she is, written all over her face and in the way sheâs frantically eating Yuki out.
âFuck!â You canât take it any longer. Finally, finally push into her. Her spasming walls grip onto you like they wonât dare you to go anywhere. âYeonhee, youâre so goddamn tight.â
You can barely move. Her pussy has a death grip on you. You can only manage to get more of yourself inside when her walls flutter.Â
Yeonhee moans into Yukiâs cunt. You set a deep, relentless pace, each thrust driving her harder into the mattress. Your moans blend into theirs. Itâs filthy. Youâre hypnotized by how your cock dents the flat of Yeonheeâs tummy, how Yukiâs riding grows more erratic. Her thighs bear the indentations of Yeonheeâs fingernails.Â
The only sensation is dizzying pleasure and heat. Youâre a triangle of sin, grinding and moaning and pushing against each other. Youâve no idea how it got to this point, but you never want to leave.
âIâm so fucking close,â whimpers Yuki. Her thighs crush Yeonheeâs head. Her hips crash into her mouth again and again. Thereâs no room to breathe. Her pitchy moans turn into screams. âOh my god!â
Itâs Yuki who shatters first, trembling against Yeonheeâs face. Her juices flood the girlâs mouth and down to the sheets. It dribbles down her chin in messy drops. Soon, you feel the convulsion of Yeonheeâs own body around you, triggered by Yukiâs climax and the overwhelming fullness. Her hole seals around you as she cries out.
âDonât stop,â orders Yuki. Her voice is rough and low. She dismounts Yeonheeâs mouth so you can hear the full extent of her screams, how good youâre making her feel. âYouâre not going anywhere until you cum inside her.â
Thatâs something you wonât hesitate to obey. Yeonheeâs ecstatic face pulls you over the edge immediately after. Each heavy thrust is met with a bounce of her tits. You fall forward into them before painting her walls with thick cum.Â
Itâs a total mess. You pity the hotel staff who will have to clean up this room tomorrow. Your cum spills out of Yeonheeâs pussy and into the sheets. Lipstick stains the pillows as a permanent reminder of what happened here. Take a mental note to leave a big tip as a formal apology.
A minimum of a hundred dollars, maybe?
The two women lie panting on the bed. Messy streaks of hair circle Yeonheeâs head like a halo. You smirk. It would be fitting if you hadnât just creampied her. At least Yuki isnât pretending to be a saint. Once youâve got the energy to pull yourself up, tear your body away from theirs, she stops you.
âWhere do you think youâre going, boy toy?â
You freeze. Accusationâs written all over Yukiâs face. Itâs a challenge you always lose.
âHave you forgotten about me?â Yuki asks. Her mile-long legs have a clear path to you. âYou still have to fill my ass up.â
She captures your lips again. The protest dies in your throat. Youâll always give in to her, no matter what, and she knows this well. Her lips taste like strawberry chapstick.
You rub your hand against her arousal, and press a finger against Yukiâs other entrance. She stiffens for a second, then nods frantically against your mouth. Yes, she seems to say without the need for words, yes, please. You replace your fingers with the head of your cock; she lets out a sound thatâs pure ecstasy. The teasing penetration is slower, but the chills still run down your back. Her puckered hole is begging to be ruined.
âStand up,â you command, your voice rough.
Yuki obeys. Sex is the only time you have a semblance of control over her. She quickly retrieves a bottle of lube from the side table drawer. Youâre puzzled. She must have kept it in her bag, smirked at the bouncer when he realized what it was.
She turns around and presents herself to you, her shorts around her ankles. You come behind her and help to pull her panties down.Â
Yuki lets out a choked sob of anticipation. The leather of the ottoman is cool against her forehead. The crown of your cock kisses the tight rim of her asshole.
âWatch and learn, Yeonhee,â you murmur, and in time with her exhale, you push inside.
Sheâs a hot vise around you. Yuki lets out a vulgar cry that morphs into a moan. She sounds more and more broken as more inches of your shaft pierce through her plump ass.
Each thrust jolts through her slender frame. The ottoman creaks. Yukiâs knuckles are white where she grips it. Her moans are continuous now, mixed with your name and Yeonheeâs. The latterâs glassy eyes are fixed on the two of you.Â
âFuck, oh fuck, Just like that! Ruin my asshole!â
You feel the coil in your gut tighten. Itâs a pressure you know all too well. You reach around Yukiâs hip, your fingers finding her clit, rubbing hard, fast circles.
It sends her over the edge immediately. Her body clamps down on you in rhythmic pulses, pulling the orgasm from you with violent force. You bury yourself to the hilt as far as you can go. Your hands take leverage on her hips as you drive yourself in her asshole again and again.
You slowly pull out. Yukiâs legs feel like jelly. She slumps against the ottoman. Youâd help her up but your own bones feel broken. You collapse against the bed beside your other friend. All of you are thoroughly spent.Â
âSee?â Yuki whispers. Her finger traces Yeonheeâs lower lip. âNow youâll know what to do next time.â
-
No matter how filthy your story is, it remains what it is: one that shows how fast you grow up. Youâve grown a few inches taller (canât say the same for the girls), but none the wiser. Youâre still young. Graduating wonât magically make you know what to do with your life. A good course doesnât guarantee a good job. Even Yeonheeâs high grades wonât mean a high salary. If worse comes to worst, youâll all have to beg Yuki to let you move in with her.
Sheâd probably call the two of you dumbasses. Youâd reason that she has another house anywayâsheâs the one whoâs got it easier while you and Yeonhee have unsure tomorrows ahead of you. Sheâd roll her eyes again before agreeing anyway.
But thatâs what you think will happen. For now, itâs this:
A furious matriarch knits her brows at the glitchy footage in front of her. She raises a finger in the poor guardâs face and asks why the hell he couldnât afford better videos when she pays him so well. Now, the pool is ruined and itâs his fault. He failed to protect the villa from three people who couldâve been burglars if they hadn't had a little luck.
âWhat is this, a charity house? How the hell did they get in?â
âIâm sorry, maâamââ
âI want you to find out who they are or Iâll have you fired!â she screams, and thatâs that. He couldnât lose his job.
He asks a friend of a friend if they can upscale the video. She does, but the quality of the original is so low that the aftermath is still incomprehensible. The three culpritsâ faces are still pixelated.Â
All the evidence left at the scene wonât help either. Itâs only a wet piece of paper. Itâs drenched through the material, resulting in the only readable line being:
dick !!!!!!
The security guard rips it up in his frustration and throws the stupid thing into the pool. âFucking kids these days.âÂ
at least I'm living up to the name of the blog with how much I've left it to rot over the last half year lol
anyway, I uploaded the one and only fic I've written onto fanprose, it's a great site so go check it out there :)
where moss blooms with quiet dignity
and for more good news, I somehow managed to find the motivation to write again in the midst of exam prep after like 8 months of just being stuck and overwhelmed with dissertation work or whatever, so I've got a fic in the works that I can hopefully finish by this week before my break ends :)
Word count: ~7k
A/N: silly? idk i'm changing things up this time, i guess. another one brought back from the dungeon
masterlist
ââââââââ â ââââââ
âItâs not late... noona.â
You said as you calmly laid your coffee cup down on the table with a soft clink. The morning light filtered through the giant windows next to you, casting morning golden streaks across the office. Outside, Hannam-dong - the countryâs oasis of wealth and luxury - was busy as usual at this time of the day. Inside, everything was peaceful except for the annoyingly silent buzz of the AC and the sound of your sister shifting on the soft leather sofa, who looked completely at home despite the modern space.
âYouâre thirty three, idiot. Thatâs too late.â
âDad married mom when he was almost forty, didnât he? I still have a long way to g-âÂ
âThat was different! Societyâs changed!â Nayeon shot you a judgemental look.
âAre you serious right now, noona?â
âYes, really!â your sister crossed her arms, almost offended that youâd asked. âOur countryâs birthrate is in crisis. You have to do your part.â
âMy part!?âÂ
âYes. As a citizen. As our parentsâ son.â she pointed at you. âTall, educated, healthy, financially stable and ugh⊠I canât believe Iâm saying thisâŠâ
âSaying what?â
âGood looks⊠ughhâŠâÂ
It was always good to hear someone who always bullied you since you were little admit that. The stupid smirk on your face showed it really well, especially with how Nayeon was faking, or not, a puking sound.
âStop doing that! And what are you even waiting for, idiot!?â
âI founded this company, didnât I?â your turn to roll your eyes. âIâŠuh, pay taxes. I already did my part.â
She scoffed and sat straighter. âTaxes and high-end clothes donât get you a wife, idiot.âÂ
A comeback was already there in your mind. But the look in her eyes stopped you, not annoyed or amused, just tired. She looked down at her hands for a quiet moment before speaking again, her voice filled with what seemed like artificial sadness to you.
âMom and dad arenât getting any younger⊠They are almost getting to the age where we have more hospital checkups than family gatherings. Donât you realize that?â
âDonât do that to me⊠Come onâŠâ
âYouâve never introduced a single girlfriend to us. Not once.â Here came the sad eyes. âYour cousins are having babies, getting married⊠Everything, even showing up at Chuseok with rings on their fingers and someone beside them. But you!?⊠you work day and night. For what?â
âItâs justâŠâ You rubbed a hand over your face and sighed. It wasnât like you hadnât thought about this before. âI havenât dated anyone in a long time, noona.â
âAnd why is that?â Nayeon asked gently, part anticipating like a sister who was finally hearing something sheâd waited a long time to understand.
âI donât know⊠I guess I just got comfortable living like this. Letting someone into my life right now doesnât feel right.â
Your sister stayed silent, and when she spoke, her voice was softer than before.
â...Thatâs not comfort. You're just used to being alone.â
You looked up slowly, knowing she wasnât scolding.
âIâm not asking you to fall in love tomorrow. But open the door, at least⊠Just enough for someone to come in.â
You hummed at her words, not intending on discussing this topic further.
âAnyway...â Nayeon smoothened her scarf, exhaling as if she was letting out all her frustrations and worries. âI didnât just come here to nag your hopeless ass, you know. I came to bring something for Yoon-Ah.â
âFor her? Not your brother?â
âYou?â she smirked. âYou can take care of yourself. Youâre a grown man.â
Like always, Nayeon didnât even wait for your answer. Instead, she reached for a paper bag beside her legs, lifting it carefully and showed you like it was some prized offerings.Â
âSome premium ginseng extract and a few tonic packets from that clinic in Cheongdam. You know, that one all the chaebol wives and mistresses go to? Some black sesame snacks too. Good for stamina and stress.â
âFor Yoon-Ah? Really?â you asked again.
âOf course! She mentioned sheâs been tired since you made her work too much.â she glared at you, that one look only a sister could give. âI should scold you more for that, you idiot.â
A helpless chuckle escaped your lips.
âShe insists on staying late! I drive her home everytime I can.â
âŠ
âSo are you twoâŠ?â your sister trailed off, narrowing her eyes as she tried to dig for some clues, subtle but sharp.
âAre we⊠what?âÂ
Lips pursuing, Nayeon examined you like she could read something off your face like sheâd always done back when you were in high school. Well, not anymore. Years had gone by and youâd learnt to adapt. Knowing she couldnât win this, she simply leaned back on the leather soft with a sigh.Â
âIâm just saying⊠you two seem close. Maybe too comfortable with each otherâŠ. And your stupid face lights up whenever you talk about her.â
As much as you hated to admit, you knew Nayeon was right. So you just rubbed the back of your neck and avoided your sisterâs gaze. But before she could press further, a soft chime came up from the intercom on your desk.
âSajang-nim... may I come in?âÂ
That warm and familiar voice filtered through the speaker, the one that always gave you extra motivation when you sat down on this desk every workday.
You cleared your throat.Â
â...Ahem, come in, secretary Seol.âÂ
The door creaked open, and there she was, your favorite person in this entire building.Â
She stepped inside with her usual grace, her simple stripe button up blouse was tucked neatly, like it was tailored specifically to fit her frame. Her hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail, all smooth and polished. You never said it out loud, but your days always felt a little bit better when she wore her hair like that. Around her neck hung a simple lanyard with her ID, one that you'd told her a few times looked to formal, but Yoon-Ah'd just smile and say âIt makes me look professional, donât you think, sajang-nim?â.
âGood morning, sajang-nimâŠâ she turned gracefully and gave a playful yet somehow still very polite little bow at Nayeon. âUnnie.â
You nodded in acknowledgement a little too fast while your sister instantly smiled, sitting more up right on the sofa.
âOh my!â visibly brightened, Nayeonâs tone turned affectionate. âYouâve gotten even more elegant in person, Yoon-Ah ah! How have you been, honey? Come here!â
Yoon-Ah settled gracefully beside your sister on the sofa, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, her posture was elegant yet unassuming. Your sister reached for her hand instantly.
âLook at you, so beautiful!! Are you sure youâre not secretly royalty!?â
Yoon-Ah laughed softly, cheeks tinting pink. âYou flatter me too much, unnie.â
âNonsense.â your sister pat her hand. âYouâre so polite, mmm, well put together⊠What do you think about my brother? Is he good looking?â
The girl was only caught off guard for a second before regaining her composure instantly and smiled. âSajang-nim certainly is very⊠charismatic.â
You wouldâve been giggling like a middle schooler had there been no one right here with how Yoon-Ah answered it.
âCharismatic, hmm? Not handsome?â Nayeon leaned closer to her, eyes expecting. Yoon-Ah gave you a subtle glance, unreadable, before replying.Â
âThat too. He has⊠his own charms.â
âDid you hear that!? âHis own charmsâ. Yoon-Ah just said youâre just barely tolerable, dipshit.â
âShut upâŠâ
Nayeon just waved you off with a smile and turned back to Yoon-Ah.Â
âHonestly, though. Youâre so composed and smart, and beautiful on top of that. I donât know how my brother landed a secretary like you, honey.â
Yoon-Ah chuckled lightly, her gaze lowering as if that could hide the light pink blooming on her cheeks. âHe didnât, unnie. I just applied.â
âRight, right⊠Whatever fate brought you two together, Iâm grateful. You brighten his life up just by being by his side.â
Somewhere between their conversation, you got lost with how ethereal Yoon-Ah looked. Something about the way the sunlight caught the curve of her cheeks, the way her hair framed her face, the softness in her deer eyes. It ached your heart so much⊠in a good way, of course. You imagined her beside you, but not in the office. Maybe somewhere quieter, warmer, with her head on your shoulderâŠÂ
âYah.â Nayeonâs voice snapped you back to reality immediately. You blinked, eyes adjusting again to the sunlight in the room. Yoon-Ah was still sitting on the sofa with the same pretty smile and graceful posture. The little dream was gone, but it lingered tenderly in your mind.
âWhat were you saying, noona?â
âNothing important. Iâm leaving now, dummy.â She then stood up with a pleasant sigh, smoothing her jacket as she showered Yoon-Ah with all the warmth in her eyes. âDonât work too hard, honey. Thank you for keeping my idiot brother in line.â
âOf course, unnie. Thank you for visiting.â
Your sister leaned in, patting her lightly on the arm.
âDonât act too polite with me. And donât let him work too hard, okay? Ah, right! Next time, come visit me at our house even without him around.â
You only watched the exchange quietly, heart still beating a little too fast from the daydream you hadnât meant to fall into.Â
âTake care then, noona.â
âI always do. Maybe you should listen to yourself.â Nayeon paused at the door for a moment. â...Especially with Yoon-Ah around.â
The room fell quiet again the moment Nayeon took all the noise with her as she left. Then you looked at Yoon-ah as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, again, still looking like the girl from your imagination.
What the hell am I going to do with these feelings?
âAre you okay, sajang-nim?âÂ
âSure, nothing⊠I just spaced out.â
Yoon-Ah tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting.Â
âYou looked like you were thinking very hard about something.â As innocent as her voice sounded, you could still catch the tease under her tone. You tried to keep your expression neutral.
âNothing important, secretary Seol.âÂ
âMmm.â she hummed, unconvinced. âIt didnât seem like nothing to me, sajang-nim.â
You shifted in your seat. âMy sister likes you, thatâs all.â
âAh⊠Sheâs very sweet but Iâm guessing thatâs not the part that made you zone out.â
Playing dumb wouldnât get you out of this. Time to take back control.
âAlright⊠letâs just get to business. What did you come in here for?âÂ
Yoon-Ah nodded with a satisfied smile, effortlessly shifting into her professional mode at your question.Â
âItâs Friday so there isnât much on the schedule. You have two meetings to review the new releases. Then just a short stop this afternoon at the aespa shoot. Youâre supposed to hand Karina-ssi a bouquet and take a photo with her.âÂ
âReally?â your tone raised a little out of surprise. âI thought they were joking, no?â
âThe team insisted.â The corner of her lips curved lightly. âBasic PR duties, sajang-nim.â
âIâm not complaining. Itâs not every day that I get to take a picture with Karina anyway. And after that, Iâm done?â
âBarring any emergencies.â she checked on the tablet again before looking up at you, though the way she said it felt more than just an observation. âYouâve been working too much lately anyway, sajang-nim. Youâre⊠surprisingly efficient.âÂ
ââSurprisinglyâ? Youâve been with me for three years, since the start of this company and âsurprisinglyâ?â
Yoon-Ah pressed her lips together lightly, not the least apologetic. âJust keeping you humble, sajang-nim.â
â...Youâre getting bolder.âÂ
âMaybe I am, sajang-nim.â she shot back instantly. âOr maybe youâre getting softer.â
A quiet beat took over for a second, something a little warmer settled into the room.
âŠ
âWhy do you still refuse to call me oppa, Seol Yoon-Ah?â there it was again, the question you always brought up every now and then. âI mean⊠calling me by my name is also fine by me. Itâs not like we are strangers, you know. I gave you permission a long time ago.â
She smiled, definitely not letting you have the smallest glimpse of what she was thinking.
âWe have to be professional, sajang-nim.â she said, emphasizing the title to put distance between the two of you, though her tone did the complete opposite. Then she added a soft, teasing line. âBesides⊠youâd get too happy if I called you oppa. And Iâm not here to feed your ego, sajang-nim. Iâm here to help you be more efficient and manage your schedule.â
She looked back down at her iPad, the twitch on the corner of her lips signaled a quiet victory.Â
Not so early.
The thought barely settled before you stood up, rounding your desk slowly. Yoon-Ah didnât look up right away but you saw her finger pausing over the screen as she felt you closing the distance. You stopped in front of her, letting your presence linger just enough to make her glance up.
âThen what about that nightâŠ?â you smirked. âYou got so drunk I really struggled to drive you home and helped you upstairs⊠and you kept mumbling âoppaâ against my chest, secretary Seol.â
Her eyes widened, lashes fluttered just once and that was enough to tell you she knew exactly what night you were talking about. The memory hit her hard before she could guard herself.
âIf I recall correctly⊠You kept biting my hands, crying and complaining that I donât give you enough attention at work, secretary Seolâ
For once, your intelligent secretary couldnât come up with a comeback as a flush crept into her cheeks and her grip on the tablet tightened.Â
âThatâs a little too much, secretary Seol. We might have to get HR involved.â Then you leaned in closer, slower to lower yourself beside her ear until she could hear your whisper, a near perfect imitation of Yoon-Ahâs voice, with a smirk.Â
âDonât leave me yet, oppa⊠pleaseâŠâ
Then you lifted your hand and gently clasped her wrist, startling her.
âYou held on to it like this and wouldnât let go.â
Yoon-Ahâs eyes moved to where your hand grabbed her wrist. She definitely remembered. The ever professional secretary was thrown off balance, blinking like she couldnât decide whether to pull away or freeze.Â
âStill no thank you from you yet, by the way. Itâs been almost two months now.â
The engine was clearly working overtime through her eyes, calculating to come back with something sharp and clever while being flustered, exposed at the same time. Damn, what a cute sight.
âWhatâs wrong? Cat got your tongue? Or did oppa make too much of an impression saving you that night?â
Yoon-Ah yanked her wrist back like your touch burned her. But you already did too much damage. She was blushing, her posture stiff and her mouth open but couldnât find the right words.
âSajang-nim.â she finally muttered, eyebrows drawn tightly together. She turned her head sideways to hide the rising color in her cheeks. .
âStill waiting on that âthank youâ~â you leaned back to let the tension breathe, enjoying this way more than you should. âYouâre usually quicker than this, Yoon-Ah-ssi.â
âThank you, sajang-nim.â Yoon-Ah finally muttered like it physically hurt her pride to say it.
âJust that?â you titled your head. âYou think thatâs enough after everything I went through, secretary Seol?â
Only now did she glance up, sharply. âDo you want an award ceremony, sajang-nim?â
âInterest. Thatâs all. The economyâs been rough lately.âÂ
Yoon-Ah narrowed her eyes but couldnât hold back the smile forming on her lips.
âWhat kind of interest are we talking about here?â
âMaybe⊠uhh, I donât knowâŠâ you looked up to the ceiling, pretending to think. âA kiss on the cheek should cover the fee, secretary Seol.â
Her scoff was immediate but the amusement in her eyes betrayed her.
âIs that how you do business now? Bullying your way through outstanding debts.â
âOnly with clients who get drunk and call me oppa while they almost vomit on me.â
Yoon-Ah stared at you harder, the red on her cheeks didnât help much. âYouâre lucky I havenât reported that night to anyone, sajang-nim!â
âAh⊠but I only helped you home that night. And confessing that to HR would mean creating a workplace scandal right here.â
No power or threat in her glare as Yoon-Ah leaned closer. If anything, you only found it cute.
âKeep pushing it and Iâm writing a full report, sajang-nim.â
Your answer was to lean down closer, forehead almost touching hers.
âMake sure to include the part where you begged me to drink with you too, secretary Seol.â
A slight twitch on the corner of her eyes, maybe a mix of annoyance and amusement.Â
âOne day⊠Iâm going to put you in your place, sajang-nim.â
âIâm counting on it. But for now⊠cheek?â
The stare she threw at you was long enough for her to weigh her options. Finally, Yoon-Ah let out a long exhale, the sign of resignation.
âClose your eyes, sajang-nim.â
âWhy?â
âYou wouldnât want to peek during an award ceremony, would you?â her voice filled with sudden happiness.
Though a little suspicious, you obliged and shut your eyes with a sigh. âFineâŠâ
A few seconds went by, still nothing. Just before you were about to say something, you felt a light brush of her lips land just shy of your lips, barely a kiss. You opened one eye to glare at her, your tone completely flat.
âThat was nothing. Literally air.â
 Your secretary was already retreating, trying not to laugh and clearly enjoying teasing you.
âIt still counts, sajang-nim. The ceremony's over!â
âNo, no, no.â you reached out and grabbed her wrist, firm but not enough to hurt her. âSecretary Seol, I demand a kiss.â
âSajang-nimmm~â Yoon-Ah whined, the sound almost turning your knees into spaghetti. She gave your grip a half hearted tug but didnât really try to escape. She still didnât give up on suppressing a smile though she clearly knew she was failing miserably.Â
âYouâre abusing your power~â she pouted, too cute.Â
âAegyo wonât let you get away with this, secretary Seol.â
You tried so hard not to look away for a second. Seol Yoon-Ah was a dangerous woman. She really had no idea what she was doing to you. Or maybe she did. Who knew? She then scrunched her nose and stuck out her tongue to you - a final act of rebellion before stepping even closer, eyes lifting to meet yours.
âFine.â she mumbled. âOne real kiss.â
âThat easyâŠ?â
âI just want you to shut up, sajang-nim.âÂ
You let go of her wrist only to take both of them seconds later deliberately. Yoon-Ah blinked, your grip was firm as your thumbs brushed the inside of her wrists.Â
âIn case you try to escape. Iâm not taking an âairâ kiss this time, secretary Seol.â
Suddenly, a flicker of confidence and mischief lit up her face. The corner of her lips curled up, slow and dangerous.
âClose your eyes then, sajang-nim.â
That smug expression on her face left you with no choice anyway. You sighed and shut your eyes again, expecting. You could feel Yoon-Ah tiptoeing slightly, her gentle inhale, the little rustle of her clothes before her lips finally pressed against your cheek.Â
No more teasing. Yoon-Ah kissed your cheek long and firm, her lips molding onto your skin with a boldness that stole your breath away. You felt the way she tilted her head slightly, swaying into the kiss like she meant every second of it. You wanted more, so much more. But-
âMuah!â
She pulled away. Your skin was now warm with her lipstick stamped there like her branding. When you opened your eyes, Yoon-Ah was still too close.
âHow about that, oppa~?â she murmured, voice a little breathless.
You tried and held onto her gaze, almost failing to act unaffected. Slowly, you let go of her wrists, your fingers intentionally lingering on before slipping away completely.
âNot bad.â you tried to sound confident.
A shy blush bloomed across her face with a nervous smile to replace her confidence just seconds ago. You then cleared your throat, subtle but necessary, before nodding at the leather sofa and nodding your chin in its.
âAhem⊠There are some ginseng extracts, a few tonic packets and uh⊠some black sesame snacks in that bag over there. My sister brought it over for you.â you said, walking to it. âFrom that clinic in Cheongdam, you know?â
You picked up the bag and held it out to her. Yoon-Ah followed you, cheeks still pink from earlier and took the bag slowly.
âAh⊠that one clinic all the rich peopleâs wives and mistresses go to?â she said, her voice a little soft and flustered. âYour sister told me a lot about it, sajang-nim. We chat a lot, actually.â
âSince when?â
Yoon-Ah gave you a judging look, almost surprised that you even asked. âUmm⊠since forever? She texts me all the time and asks about you, your dating life⊠usâŠâ
âAnd you tell her I make you work too much? If anything, I make you work less and come home early these days.â
Yoon-Ah pretended to let out a small cough to dodge your question, eyes looking at the clock on the wall as she avoided your gaze. âA- Anyway⊠itâs almost time for your meeting this morning, sajang-nim.â
â...Iâll let it slide this time, secretary Seol.â
Dragging your feet back to your desk with a sigh, you shifted through the clutter of documents on your desk while ignoring the warmth on your skin but paused when you noticed your secretary lingering around before walking toward you.Â
âWait, sajang-nim...â she spoke softly. âYou still have my lipstick mark on⊠your cheek.â
You stayed still as she pulled a tissue from the little box on the desk and reached up, dabbing at the spot with what seemed like precision. Though you couldnât help but think there was a bit of affection in there as well, youâd been hoping so for so long anyway.
âReapply your lipsticks, too, secretary Seol.â you continued to search through the documents, not looking at her. âIâll⊠ahem, wait.â
Yoon-Ah lowered her head into a small bow. The results of all that messing around a few minutes ago was still clear on her face.
âAh, yes⊠thank you, sajang-nim.â
The morning room passed, dreadfully, with what felt like thousands of updates and reviews. You sat at the head of the sleek conference room, listening to everything with Yoon-Ah next to you, taking notes with her usual precision.Â
Three years ago, you left one of the biggest names in Koreaâs fashion game as their rising creative director - young, bold, and already successful. People thought you were crazy, even your parents stopped you at first. But you took a gamble anyway, at the age of thirty. Now? You were running your own fashion company, still rising, not quite a household name yet but youâd come far. People loved it, you had your own team and your own building in Hannam-dong, the land of the rich right in Seoul.
Somewhere in the middle of the meeting, your eyes turned to Yoon-Ah by themselves.
-
You still remembered being struck by her beauty the day she first walked in for the interview, back when this company was just your dream and a cheap nameplate taped to a rented shoebox in Itaewon. She had been fresh out of university then, too nervous, clutching her portfolio with both hands like it might save her and land her the job as she walked in.
âWhyâd you apply here, honestly? I mean⊠arenât you scared this might be a⊠I donât know, money laundering scheme. This company has nothing right now, Yoon-Ah-ssi.â
She let out a tiny, nervous laugh.
âI⊠um⊠I looked you up before I applied.â she answered too fast, glancing down a little like she regretted blurting it out. âI- I read about your work. The collection you helped develop at your pre- previous company⊠the 2019 one.â
You didnât say anything and let her go on for another five minutes. Yoon-Ah fumbled a little more, both endearing and awkwardly. Itâd been in your memory ever since, and you loved it whenever she went to work in the same outfit. Something about it always pulled you back to your first meeting, to the shy but clearly talented Yoon-Ah.
-
From that day on, the two of you built more than just your company together. You taught her a lot, from dealing with fashion related problems, difficult clients to how to be more aggressive in business. Yoon-Ah picked up everything fast. You knew she was smarter but sheâd been outdoing your expectations after her first few weeks, always delivering more than what was asked. Still, no matter how much time passed or how confident she appeared with others, Yoon-Ah always carried a trace of that shyness when she was around you.Â
However, in recent months, things had shifted. A slow, complicated push and pull neither of you wanted to define out loud. Late night conversations in the office. Lingering glances everywhere you went. Her being mad at you for forgetting her gift after a business trip in Japan, only for her to bring you coffee the next morning, made just the way you liked it with a flirty smile that you couldnât stop dreaming about.Â
Yoon-Ah started standing closer and leaning in more. You both intentionally stuck by each otherâs side in the elevator whenever it was empty. And youâd started driving her home every day from work too, a quiet routine that had begun just a few months ago. Still, Seol Yoon-Ah always knew exactly when to draw a line, when to turn her head away to remind you that she was still your secretary. But⊠the kiss on the cheek she gave you this morning was a great leap forward. And you wanted more. So much more.
âSajang-nim.â her voice broke your trance of thoughts, soft but pointed. âUmm⊠you were spacing out, sajang-nim. Theyâve just finished the presentation.â
You sat up straighter, coughed lightly and picked up where she left off. Another meeting followed. When it finally ended and most of the team had filtered out quickly for lunch, you returned to your office and collapsed immediately on the leather sofa. Yoon-Ah walked in later carrying a small tray. She calmly set everything down on the coffee table before taking her seat next to you.
âLunch before meeting the Karina, sajang-nim.â Yoon-Ah unwrapped the utensils and handed over yours without looking.
âUghh⊠finally. Karina~â you sang with exaggerated joy and dragged yourself upright.Â
âAghhâŠâ Yoon-Ah suddenly whined as she peeled off the lid of her lunch box, poking at a neatly packed pile of green vegetables. âAgain~? They always forget I hate theseâŠâ
Seizing the chance, you immediately leaned to her side with your mouth open. âAhh~â
Yoon-Ah froze with her chopsticks in hand, staring at you before her lips twitched into a smile.
âYouâre weird sometimes, sajang-nim. It doesn't feel right on youâ
You didnât move, just tilted your head and widened your eyes in the most obnoxiously innocent expression you could ever make. Her cheeks were already pink as she picked up a piece of broccoli and fed you hesitantly.Â
âThis better not become an everyday thing.â Yoon-Ah looked away the second you started chewing, muttering.
You swallowed, still smug. âI might have to make this a real clause when we discuss your renewal contract, secretary Seol.â
Yoon-Ah scoffed under her breath but the pink on her cheeks deepened.Â
âIâm writing a report to HR next Monday.â
You nudged her knee. She picked up another piece of green and held it out silently. You leaned in with no hesitation and took it with a happy hum.
â...Youâre enjoying this too much, sajang-nim.â Yoon-ah said, picking up another piece.
âYouâre lucky Iâm is a good eater.â you mumbled, earning a gentle hit of her elbow on your shoulder.
This went on quietly, rhythmically. Yoon-Ah feeding you vegetables, you chewing with exaggerated joy, her pretending not to smile as she emptied every last piece of green from her lunch box into your mouth. By the end, the only thing left was that smile she was struggling to hide on her lips.
The city rolled past outside the tinted windows of your car, sunlight bouncing off the glass. You had one hand on the steering wheel, the other rested lazily near the gearshift. Yoon-Ah was puffing her cheeks in and out, scrolling through something on her phone.
âOkay. Balance game.â
âListening.â
âHave chaebol level wealth and power⊠or stay exactly as you are right now. Same wealth, same power?â
âReally? Didnât you ask me something similar before?â
This was something you two usually did whenever the ride got too boring. She still didnât look up from her phone, voice singing. âAnswer~â
âUmm⊠stay as I am now.â You tapped your fingers on the steering wheel and that made her glance at you.
âYouâre passing on generational wealth and the power to boss the president around?â
âI mean, chaebol level wealth and power mean Iâd have to work pretty much every day. Get in a scandal every few years, get involved in political stuff⊠and basically no freedom to do what I want in public. Sometimes spend a few months in jail waiting to get pardoned⊠So it's not worth it.â
Yoon-Ah tilted her head and hummed. âMmm, interesting.â
âI mean⊠I have money now, donât I? I wonât even get to spend all of it before I die. That kind of wealth doesnât really mean much to me.â
Yoon-Ah leaned back against the headrest, thinking for a moment before asking again.
âSo when do you plan to settle down, sajang-nim?â Her tone was definitely not meaningless.
âWhy the sudden topic? Are you planning to recommend someone to me, secretary Seol?â
Yoon-Ah let out a soft scoff. âDo you even have a girlfriend right now?â
And there it was, a quiet check. To see if you had one. To see if that romantic tension between all these times was genuine. You knew⊠well, you guessed it.
âObviously not. Why do you think my sister keeps coming over to nag me every week?â
âYour sister just wants you to be happy, I guess.â
You finally took your eyes off the road and glanced over at Yoon-Ah for a brief second, catching how she bit back a smile.Â
âOkay, secretary Seol. My turn.â
That got her attention, eyes turning back to you.Â
âMen your age⊠â you paused, speaking again only when it felt right. âOr⊠letâs just say, men⊠in their early thirties?â
You didnât even try to hide what you meant.Â
âWhy, sajang-nim? Asking for a friend?â That flicker of amusement beneath her expression showed you she knew exactly what you meant. She let the question hang for a moment too long, lips still curved. âEarly thirties, I think. More stable. More⊠mature. But of course, thatâs assuming we donât work together. I donât have any interest in dating people from work, really.â
And there it was again. The line Seol Yoon-Ah always drew. Not too close. Not too far. You let out a breath through your nose as the silence stretched, feeling a quiet little ache in your heart. Yoon-Ah knew the effect she had on you, always teasing you just enough and staying just far enough.
âMmm⊠Got it.â you finally muttered, not wanting to be heard. Ten minutes later, you pulled up at the studio parking lot. From the passenger seat, Yoon-Ah glanced at her phone then at the building.Â
âTheyâre in the middle of the shoot.âÂ
You reached behind your seat, grabbed the bouquet meant for Karina - wrapped to perfection, all PR polished - and stepped out, the car door shutting behind you with a soft thud. You circled around to her side and opened the door.Â
âWhat kind of boss drives his secretary around and opens the door for her, sajang-nim?â
Again, that playful tendency of hers. You replied flatly, still a bit hurt from your last interaction in the car.
âThe really good kind. The handsome kind. The caring kind.â
Yoon-Ah laughed gently, tilting her head as she stepped out. âMmm~ Must be exhausting being all three.â
You didnât smile. âItâs worth it. If someone eventually notices.â
âYou should save that line for Karina, sajang-nim.â she said and smoothed down the front of her skirt, voice a little softer than before. âSheâs the one getting the flower, after all.â
Wasnât a jab, not really. Under that teasing edge, there was something else, something unspoken. You looked at her to try and catch it but it was too late, Yoon-Ah was already stepping past you and walking toward the studio entrance like nothing had happened. You adjusted your grip on the bouquet and followed.
The studio door shut behind you with a loud click, muffling the city noise outside. Inside, everything was bright, cinematic. Spotlights humming, stylists moving quickly, racks of clothing everywhere. You and Yoon-Ah walked past the staff, bowing and greeting. They led you near the center and there she was.
aespaâs Karina
She was kneeling in front of the green screen, her unique plaid dress hugged her perfectly at the waist. Her hair was sleek, falling down in front of one shoulder leaving the other bare. A leather jacket was slipping down her arms. Everything she wore just looked so effortlessly beautiful and expensive.
âWe just started twenty minutes ago, sajang-nim. Sorry for making you wait like this.â a staff member spoke up.
âAhh, no... Itâs okay. Donât worry about it. You guys are working hard.â
The camera shuttered again. Karina shifted to lie on her stomach, legs in the air, the dress riding up just slightly as she propped her chin on her hand. The pose looked casual but you knew how precise every tilt of her head was. She looked great in everything.
âCut!â the photographer said out loud. âThatâs beautiful, everyone! Letâs take a break and reset the lighting for the next setup.â
Karina pushed herself up slowly, movements pretty even off camera as she soon moved with her team to her waiting room. You and Yoon-Ah followed a staff member there but stopped almost instantly when you got there. That moment, you suddenly felt Yoon-Ahâs intense turning to you from the side, sharp and intense, but she stayed silent.Â
The moment you got to Karinaâs waiting room, her eyes almost twitched into an eye smile as she saw you, like she hadnât expected to see you today but was definitely glad you came. Then it was gone as she quickly blinked and turned to her staff member to say something about her makeup. Next to you, Yoon-Ah shifted her weight and crossed her arms.
âYouâre staring...â
âWhat?â
âI saidâŠâ her tone got low. âI said youâre staring, sajang-nim.â
"No, I'm not." you raised an eyebrow, confused.
"Yes, you were."
"Okay...? I'm gonna go say hi to her then."
Karinaâs gaze flicked to as you approached, her expression turned softer before flashing you a gentle smile.
âHi, Karina-ssi.â you bowed politely, extending the bouquet toward her with both hands.Â
âAh- hi, sajang-nim.â she smiled brightly, standing up quickly to bow back. âItâs really great to see you here today.â
âYouâve been working so hard. I honestly still canât believe our company landed a deal with you.â
âNo, no. Itâs really my honour. Thank you so much, sajang-nim.â she smiled looking down at the bouquet, cheeks dusted with light pink. âBut I think your clothing just makes me look good, sajang-nim. I really love your designs.â
âNo, really. You look really beautiful, like AI. Itâs⊠uh, I can't even describe, honestly.â
Karina laughed quietly as she swayed side to side slightly. âYou shouldnât say things like that so casually, sajang-nim.â
âIâm only just saying the truth, Karina-ssi.â
The two of you fell into an easy conversation like always as the staff stepped out one by one. You were no strangers to each other, having talked a few times before at some events before she modeled for your company.Â
âIâm actually a big fan of aespa.â you admitted shyly. âHave been for a while.â
Karina lit up, genuine as she tiptoed slightly at the mention of it. âReally?â
What started as casual pleasantries stretched out into a few minutes of relaxed, uninterrupted talking. She laughed when you made dumb jokes, you smiled when she said the jacket you designed actually made her feel cooler than she actually was.Â
In the middle of it, Karinaâs eyes flicked around the room subtly and the remaining of her staff spread out naturally. You were slightly confused at first with how silent the roomâd turned but still concentrated on Karina as she stepped closer, her voice dropping so low to make sure that only you could hear. She gently tiptoed up, her perfume finally arrived at your nose.
From a small distance, a certain someone was watching. Yoon-Ah stood just far enough not to hear a word but close enough to see everything. The way Karina smiled up at you, the way you looked back - relaxed, flattered and warm. The way she suddenly handed you her phone so suddenly for some reason. Your secretary didn't move and just stood there, rooted to the floor with fists clenched slightly tigher than usual that her knuckles almost went white. And Karina hadnât even crossed any lines. She wasnât being arrogant. She was sweet, polite, even shy.Â
She wasn't jealous. No, you and Yoon-Ah weren't a thing. But why did it feel like she was being left behind? She wondered if this was her fault for pulling you in just close enough to only push you away whenever she wanted to? Were you trying to get back at her for whatâd happened in the car? That's the first pay back she'd seen from you, ever since this whole 'thing' started. And maybe it affected her more than she'd ever admitted.
Whatever it was, she absolutely despised it. You, obviously, had no idea what Yoon-Ah was thinking, or that she was even looking. You were still dazed, trying to process reality. Now, Yoon-Ahâd had enough. She tried to wait for the heat in her chest to settle, her nails dug crescent moons into her palm but her expressions stayed calm. With steady steps, she approached, heels clicking softly against the studio floor.Â
âPhotos together for our social media, sajang-nim.â
You turned at the sound of her voice, startled. Karina straightened too, her smile still lingering but a teeny bit more cautious now. Yoon-Ah didnât even glance at Karina. Her eyes were only on you. And her smile? Impeccable. Cold.
There was a distinct shift in the air, one only Yoon-Ah seemed to feel. Karina stood a little too close to you during the photos, her arm brushing yours once or twice. She laughed softly as she posed with the bouquet youâd given her earlier. Every moment made Yoon-Ahâs inside burn even more with something strange she refused to admit.
Karina eventually returned to her photoshoot, her gaze drifting toward you a few more times before the set moved on. You and Yoon-Ah stayed about thirty minutes longer, exchanging a few words with staff, pretending nothing had shifted. When it was time to leave, Yoon-Ah didnât wait for you like she always did. She instantly turned and marched outside toward the car without a word, heels clicking furiously against the ground. You watched her from behind, already putting the pieces together in your head.
She reached the car first and didnât wait for you to open the door for her like usual. Nope, she wasnât that patient now. Instead, she yanked the door open herself and climbed in, slamming it shut with enough force to make someone passing by flinched. You sighed quietly and walked to the car with a smile. Slipping into the driverâs seat, you shut the door with far less drama than she had. The engine hummed to life, but for a moment, you didnât even touch the steering wheel.Â
âYou okay?â
Her arms were crossed, eyes fixed stubbornly out the window. Her silence said more than words could. You let the question hang there and stop a small laugh that was threatening to escape your lips.
âYou look cute when youâre jealous.â
âI believe our schedule for the day is done, sajang-nim. Please drive me home.â
That made you smile wider, tilting your head just slightly so that you could annoy her a little more. Never too late for a little revenge.
âPlease take me home, sajang-nim. Thank you.â she repeated, this time with even her tone lower and sharper.
âYes, maâam.â
You kept your eyes on the road at first, but you couldnât help but smile just a little. Your grip on the steering wheel loosened as the pieces fell in place. You glanced sideways before looking ahead again. Maybe youâd understood part of the answer to the question youâd been asking yourself all these months:
Categories | bestfriend!Yuri, reunions, good ol' slice of life, that green dress cameo
Masterlist
For @octoberautumnbox <3 I loved adding pics to this post. Jjoyul is so pretty <3
Yuriâs like a shot of espresso.
The moment you heard that phrase, your mind immediately went to her.Â
âItâs just so bizarre," says Yuri, head against your shoulder with her hands wildly gesturing as she talks. She needs to get her point across or sheâll never shut up. âLike⊠itâs bitter. It doesnât taste good at all. Anyone who spends even a penny on it should be a registered idiot.â
You smile. You canât say anything. You donât want to. Listening to her talk all day isnât a problem at all.
Sheâs past that two-minute ramble about how coffee is a placebo effect made to capitalize off teenagers and burnouts when she notices your stare. She scoffs, pushing your chest.
âWhy are you looking at me like that?â Yuri asks.
âLike what?âÂ
âLike youâre⊠forget it.â She rolls her eyes. ââA shot of espresso.â What a whole load of bullshit.â
-
And yet she pays her tuition by making that whole load of bullshit.
âIs your punk ass really trying to steal from us?â
You smile. Thatâs why.
âYou caught me,â you say. âWhat are you gonna do about it, officer?â
Yuri emerges from behind the counter. Sheâd dyed her hair a sage brown and it looks strikingly good on her, especially when the sunlight hits. Even in that loose shirt and apron she looks beautiful. Youâd tell her that but sheâd probably say something snarky, and the two of you would fight like siblings and big bad manager Eunbi would have to yell at you two again.
âHow many times do I have to tell you that our stuffed toys arenât up for grabs?â she asks, hands on her hips. The plushies lined up neatly next to the wall look at you with bright, plastic eyes.
âWhat the fuck else are they for then?âÂ
Yuri stands on the tiptoes of all her five foot nothing. âThe ambience.â
She has a point. The budget set for the interior of The Cuppa was low but you wouldnât be able to tell. Something about the vintage furniture and the musicâwas that Baek Yerin? Clearly Yuriâs selectionâmakes it feel like a place you could call home.
Itâs been Yuriâs home since the first year of university. It was odd sometimes to think about it. Youâve known each other for years, back when she wasnât a slave to capitalism coffee and still hated you. You still think she does, honestly, but itâs all in good jest. The years have only made you fonder of her.
Funny. All your exes shared the jealousy that you were each otherâs first kiss, even if it happened when you were barely eighteen. And come on: nothingâs ever serious before college.
âYeah?â you ask. âSpell âambience.ââ
âYou are so full of shit.â
âItâs fine if you canât. But just so you know, using words you canât even spell is kind ofâŠâ You shrug. âHighfalutin.â
âWhatever.â She rolls her eyes at you but the dimple on her cheek gives it away. âThe usual?â
Youâre not too particular about coffee. Any caffeinated drink that gets you to finish a line of homework without suicidal ideation is good enough. But The Cuppa found you a favorite:
A steaming americano with a shot of milk. Yuri always complained about its simplicity (âI swear to god, you just do this because you want to get yelled atâ was what she said once, arms crossed and pouting in her typical Yuri-style, before shoving the menu in your face again) but thereâs nothing youâd stand by more. Itâs the perfect combination: something hot to keep you up but not anxious. Something sweet to keep you satiated but not spoiled.
So thatâs exactly what she makes. You see her tiny face on the surface of the warm espresso before she splashes it with cream.
âOn the house.â Yuri doesnât even look at you as she makes your drink. Everything comes to her in exact measurements, perfect cups. Routines keep her sane. Anything that slightly disrupts it would drive her insane.
âThanks. Youâre the coolest barista I know,â you say.Â
You take the mug from Yuri. Youâre waiting for her to ruffle your hair as revenge or the usual bratty banter you always give into.Â
But for once, Yuri has nothing else to say. She just smiles like she spotted an inside joke in that sentence youâre not privy to, and leaves.
And you honest to god despised each other. Yuri was a difficult kid, running around in mud-caked sneakers and hair sticking to her forehead. But she wasnât the conventional type of difficultâshe didnât do any of the delinquency shit Hitomi fell into or talked back to her parents. There wasnât even a record of delinquency in her files. No, not at all. Her parents actually adored her. She was the only good thing that came out of their messy, tumultuous marriage. Their precious little girl. Poster child of a perfect child. She only seemed to be really difficult with you.Â
Thereâs one early memory you have of Yuri that isnât blurred like a wet camera lens. Itâs set in the now overrun park near your middle school. She was staring down at a pond. She was fifteen years old, you think. Just turned. You were around the same age yet she seemed to carry a quiet confidence about her, the attitude that always gave her what she wanted.Â
âHi,â you said, because you were tired of the unspoken rivalry and being someone she hated for no reason.Â
Little Yuri just kept looking down at the body of water. Big, curious eyes examined the colorful fish under the rainbow surface. These were the few things that survived the mass construction of your little town. It was all the authenticity it had left.Â
âI said hi,â you tried again, because if thereâs anything your mother taught you, it was that the quietest people made the best friends. All it took was a single bright conversationâ
âDonât talk to me.â
Well.Â
It took them a while to open up sometimes. That was fine. You were an earnest little kid. You believed that if you waited, said things at the right time, you could make friends with the enigma that was Jo Yuri. Yuri was cool. You wouldnât be able to tell at first, from her tiny frame and big eyes, but she was exactly someone youâd like to befriend.
So you kept quiet. She matched your silence with no problem. She only spoke to correct you when you messed up a word. She didnât make the slightest expression.Â
âItâs a nice day out.â
âIt is,â she replied, the monotone of her voice making it seem like a misfortune befell her and it was your fault.
âDo you like ponds? Miss Kim talked to us about it yesterday. She said sometimes fishes are there.â
âPonds are okay.â
Finally, something you had in common with her. âI think so, too!â you said excitedly. âI like this one. I can see your pretty face even when I look at the water because itâs so clear. Like glass.â
Yuri stood up straight. There was a crease in her brow that she seemed too young to have. âIf youâre trying to flatter me into being your friend, itâs not gonna work.â
She looked at you directly for the first time. The sunlight beamed loudly onto her yet she didnât blink. That conviction was the talk of the town. It never faltered for a grownâup, teacher, or parent. Much less a boy who was trying to sweet-talk his way into her circle.
You could capture this moment in a polaroid, set it side by side with the Yuri of today, and see no difference. Sheâs always had smooth skin, soft eyes when she wasnât upset. Jo Yuri was beautiful since the day you saw her.
âWhat?â You tilted your head. She still seemed to take this as an insult. âHas nobody ever said youâre pretty?â
Yuri blinked. Her shoulders slumped a little, her lashes lowered. âNo,â she said finally. âYouâd be the first.â
That was the day you became her friend. You were the first person to make Yuri put her guard down. She gained some sort of respect for you, because, as sheâd tell you later on, most people would have backed down. You didnât without having to get aggressive.
She vented to you about boy problems. She climbed trees with you and laughed when you missed a branch. Everyone in town thought Yuriâd found her match. You were the only boy she didnât want to beat up; that must have meant something. So, even if you had slept in each otherâs rooms and saw the skeletons in your closets, you kindly denied the allegations. No, grandma, Yuriâs just a friend. No, dad, you donât have to worry about him because heâs not my suitor.
You couldnât imagine yourself without her. She was braided so closely into the twine of your life that the idea of her suddenly loosening away wasnât even acceptable. She was part of you as much as you were of her.Â
Until one day, on a summer you never foresaw, you caught Mr. and Mrs. Jo loading the last of some boxes in a truck. Much vulgarity was exchanged, not getting physical but the line was nearly crossed. You had seen them drift apart beforeâYuriâd told you they didnât exactly like each other. Each box was filled with memories: family photos, essentials, and Yuriâs belongings.
Yuri.Â
Immediately you frantically scanned the area for her. Where could she be? You didnât need to search farâthere she was in the front seat of the truck. The hood of her jacket was turned over her head and her earphones were plugged in. Although she looked straight ahead into the road, her eyes were glassy.Â
âHey! Yuri, wait!â you shouted. But her father didnât want to hear any of it. It didn't matter that you were a familiar face. He was taking his daughter away from this miserable town forever and nothing was going to change his mind.
You remember pounding on that carseat window. She finally found it in herself to look at you. Tears streamed down her cheeks. One, tiny hand came to touch yours from behind the glass.
âPlease donât go,â you said. âAt least- at least tell me why youâre leaving.â You jammed your fist harder into the window. She was locked in there like a prisoner. âTalk to me, please. Yuri!â
You were young. You were a boy with fimble arms and a broken heart. Those were the only things that kept you from sweeping Yuri in your arms and flying her away to safety. It didnât matter whereâcould be the pond, the school, her old room. Anywhere would do as long as she was with you.
Yuri seemed to understand this. It wasnât your fault and it wasnât hers. There were things keeping you apart that she couldnât quite control yet.Â
She pressed her lips to where your forehead rested on the window. Iâll come back for you, she mouthed, the words ghosts left trapped in the car. Just wait for me.
-
Dreams keep coming back to you in the quiet of the night. Theyâre of meeting Yuri again, hugging her, and taking her out to dinner. After all the times your lunch was on her, she deserves a fancy meal.Â
Dreams are nothing short of fictional. Theyâre just things our minds make up as idle play in our sleep. Itâs nothing worth relying on as prophecies. But these days, you always see Yuri with her knees to her face thatâs streaked with tears. She always looks the same in your head. Sheâs in the same hoodie as that night you chased after her car. She never grew up.
Neither did you.Â
âAnd I told her,â says Jordan, a.k.a. mister Bark-No-Bite, leaning across you from the table with the most wicked simper on his face, ââhoney, if you spend every moment thinkinâ Iâm gonna leave you for some tighter chick, hop off this dick.ââ
The rest of the canteen laughs like itâs the best joke theyâve ever heard. Youâve heard better from the opinionated uncle at family gatherings. The glass on the table is smacked incoherently and bursts of laughter fills the reservation room.
Given that the meal is free, generously sponsored by your project leader: it should feel like everything. The food is great, the service is instant, and the weather is going on nicely. Everything aligns to a perfect day yet you feel like shit. Absolute fucking shit.
You stare at the centerpiece. âYou should be nicer to her, honestly,â you murmur.
Amid the guffaws, your groupmate heard you. âWhat did you say?â
Silence. Your words become realized and now youâre facing off against a crew of juveniles masking as men who, for some reason, either want to adopt or shoot you. Thatâs business.
âI mean,â you fling your hands up then place them flat on your thighs, âif sheâs afraid youâre gonna leave her, isnât it better you tell her youâll never let go?â
People grow older and grow apart. When bound together by wedding band and law, they want to run free, or run home. Those two things collide sometimes. Cutting off patterned wings seems arbitrarily cruel.Â
The table mutters agreement. Bullets can be saved for next time. You should be proud of taking a stand and cutting their bullshit out. Itâs the daydream of every man closed off from the world. But the pain in your heart swells from different roots, and you canât trace which or where.
âPhilosopher of the fucking century,â says Jordan. âYou got that going on for you?â
All eyes are on you again. No matter. Youâve long forgone trying to be one of them.
âWhat else is?â You shrug, and down another bitter, bitter drink.
-
âYou promise youâll call us?âÂ
âYes.â
âAnd donât do drugs or drink orââ
âYes, dad,â you said exasperatedly. Over time you understood that it was a privilege to have parents who genuinely loved you. Not many could say they had a mother and father fully supportive of the direction you want to take in life, much less willing to shoulder the fees. But they could dial down on that love. Youâre an adult. Plus, youâre just moving to a new university, not starting college all over again.
(Also, youâd rather die than redo college.)
Thinking of reliving those years already makes you want to crumble. It was hard enough in high school without a familiar face to turn to or the ease you only realized too late was there. Adjusting to a new environment, all alone and without your best friend, was lonely. Terribly lonely.Â
She never came back for you. Youâd waited for so long. Middle school left you friendless in the canteen room. High school had you clinging onto girls, onto friends who looked like Yuri and laughed like Yuri but werenât quite Yuri. Now, college made you wonder: were you ever going to see each other again?Â
You wondered how she was doing now. Did she get into that performing arts school she used to drone on about? Get piano lessons? Wherever, however she is, you hope little Yuri achieved all her dreams without trouble. She deserves it.
You dropped the call after a while. Besides your mother droning on about not getting anyone pregnant getting weird, it was hard to keep a conversation when unpacking.
The bag could look better. It was winter, so the conductor told you it got damaged in the compartment. An avalanche, he claimed, had gotten the best of it. Outside, thick layers of snow lay on the road, greenless trees, and benches. You believed him. But you still lost a few important things, like pencils and a notepad filled with sketches. You had to make sure you at least had the essentials.
Soâseeing as the snow had plowed and stranded through your stuffâyou took upon the job of going to the bookstore. Sure, you were freezing, and a strong wind was sure to make you one of the snowmen up ahead. But itâs your first day. You couldnât afford to screw up.
The bookstore was low-lit and cozy. The cashier was looking through folders, saying something about work hours.Â
âIâm so sorry, darling.â She missed the r in her pet name as she gave a blue folder over the desk. âWe donât have any orange ones left.â
The girl sighed. âNothing? As in nothing?â
Her voice was of husk and silk. You raised a brow. Were you imagining things?
âNo, Yuri, Iâm afraid this is all we have.â
âYuri?âÂ
You couldnât stop yourself. You had to make sure you werenât dreaming. That puppylike way of tilting her head when she was confused⊠the fucking bangsâŠ
âNo way,â you said. It couldnât be.
She noticed you, too. Her fingers hooked around her gigantic mask and revealed the same pouty mouth, open in shock. She was still dressed in the baggiest clothes that undermined how tiny she actually was. Still wore barely any makeup, skin smooth and pure.
Worst of all, she was only even more beautiful.
âWhat are you out in this storm for?â
Her little mouth still hung slightly open. âWhat are you out here for?â she asked.Â
âI dunno. Why are you in the same college as me?â
Of all the dumb questions you could have asked in the world. It was selfish, stupid, so quintessentially you. She was never going to let you live this down.Â
Yuriâs mouth quirked to the side. âIs it my fault that I happened to pass the entrance exam?âÂ
You couldnât believe it. Your heartâs stuck in your throat and it kept doing this weird, pulsing thing, as if you were going to throw up all the relief you had.
Yuriâs smiling at the dumbfounded look on your face and you thought, fuck it.Â
You rushed to her and hugged her tight, lifting her in the air for seconds that felt like heaven. Her mask hung from her ear. She was so beautiful, so loveable. Her laugh was the sweetest thing you heard.Â
âItâs not fucking funny,â you said as you pressed a kiss to her forehead. But despite your tears, you were laughing too. You set her down to clutch her face. Your thumbs passed over her cheekbones, temples, just to see if she was real. âI thought I lost you, Yuri.â
Yuri held your hand that was cradling her cheek. Her eyes were tender. âI did say Iâd come back for you.â
And it was like you were young again. Like you were back at that miserable town, making faces, cussing each other out, but somehow kissing under that tree and promising to keep it a secret.
-
I hate you. I canât live without you.
-
From jjoyul <3:
if you want coffee get it now
my head hurts but i need tips
The fluorescent lights of The Cuppa are its usual cozy today. Itâs the only place on campus that is still open. Yuri once said it wouldâve had 24/7 operating hours if not for the fact that the staff is composed of mostly sleep-deprived college students. But theyâll have to make do.
It works to your advantage anyway. You have another test waiting in your calendar, making it the perfect time for a coffee. Thereâs some material you want to get revised by tonight.Â
Yuri emerges from the backrooms. âWelcome to The Cuppa, please make it fast," she says. âIf you canât decide in five seconds, weâll use your head as a tip box.â
âHi there yourself,â you say sarcastically. But when you take a proper look at her, you immediately dial it back. âYou okay?â
Sheâs Jo Yuri. Of course sheâs a brat. But today, there are deep, dark circles under her blank eyes. Sheâs pale as a ghost. She looks so down, like all the energyâs been drained out of her.
Yuri stares blankly at you before forcing a smile on her face. âYeah. Just a headache.â
âDoesnât look like just a headache.â
Her movements are sluggish as she opens the money drawer. You donât trust her to make another move without falling over. âAww, thanks, youâre a real charmer.âÂ
You lean closer. âNo, seriously. Are you okay? You look like you havenât slept in a week.âÂ
You only realize how close youâve gotten when Yuri lifts her head. Youâre practically nose to nose, cheek to cheek. The hollows under Yuriâs eyes are dark and deep but now, a faint red hue colors her skin.
There really is something about her, huh? Youâve known that, been enthralled by that since you talked to her at that pond. She seemed to be one with sunlight that day. YuriâYuri and her big eyes and pouty lips and loud selfâgives you life. She keeps you tossing and turning at night and laughing in the morning.
Like a shot of espresso.
Yuri clears her throat, immediately taking a step back.Â
âRough night,â she says simply. âIâve got a big project for professor Lee tomorrow, and this shift is absolutely killing me.âÂ
You glance at the clock behind her, then at the schedule pinned beside the register. âWhat time are you off?âÂ
âI dunno.â She gestures vaguely, a weary wave of her hand. âAnother two hours. Then I get to go home and pull an all-nighter, probably.â
Her eyes keep shifting to the money in the drawer. Your heart just twists. Poor Yuri, living off paycheck to paycheck so she can keep studying. So she can keep suffering. You donât know how she handles it. Youâre pretty sure that if you had a dad still upset over your mom who left him years ago and a damning tuition fee, youâd have given up.
Thatâs the thing about Jo Yuri: she never gives up. But sometimes, the world moves too fast even for her.Â
âIâll take your shift,â you say firmly.
âWhat?âÂ
âYour shift,â you repeat. âYouâve got a lot more on your plate than I do.â
Yuri shakes her head. Thereâs that small frown creasing her brow again that seems to have been there forever. âAbsolutely not. You donât have to, stupid. You justââÂ
Sheâs always sort of pushing help away. But with you, she refuses it completely. Youâll never understand why.
It doesnât mean youâll stop offering.Â
âItâs fine, Yuri. Go get some rest or work on that project. Iâll handle it.â
She searches your face for any compromises. She finds none. âAre you serious?âÂ
âIâve never been more serious. Just tell me what to do.â
She still looks hesitant, but the exhaustion is getting to her now. Sometimes she needs to accept help. âOkay, fine,â she concedes, rolling her eyes. âBut I owe you big time.âÂ
âNo, you donât.â
Yuri chuckles, looking very interested in the fabric of her apron. Is she blushing?Â
âUsual BS: donât overload the grinder, Chaeyeon doesnât like too much cream. The regulars will ask for a Yuri special but itâs just a latte with one of those puppy cookies on the cream."Â
Youâd take note of how she refuses to meet your eyes but youâre too busy trying to absorb all the information. There are more customers coming in that need your help.
(I know, you want to say. I wish she knew that, too.)
Yujinâs not over to help, so you do the honors of closing The Cuppa yourself. Youâre left in a bit of a sweat after that shift. As you turn the âCLOSEDâ banner on its face, you think of the times you barged in here, joking about a free drink and how Yuri, through all her exhaustion, smiled and gave you one anyway. Do you take her for granted? Are you overstepping her boundaries?
Sheâs still sleeping. Seems like she used your jacket as a blanket, too. It drapes around her small body while her arms curl around her bag.Â
Itâs so rare to see her put her guard down. The bare-faced vulnerability makes you think about how she looks soft. She looks like someone you could love, if sheâd just let you.
Scared to ruin her slumber, you decide to carry her to your car. Itâs not like you havenât done it before. She sat on your shoulders at that concert. You carried her piggyback in eighth grade.Â
And now, sheâs all grown up in your arms.Â
You could say something poetic about it all. How Yuriâs sitting in your carseat after she left you in her fatherâs. The way the moonlight pours on her relaxed expression. How youâve grown up together and then some because, letâs be honest, there remains a whole lot of things you want to do with her.
But words fail you long enough for Yuri to stir awake. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes with her paws. âDid I justâŠâ Yuri gives a small yawn. âDid I just teleport to your car?â
You laugh, sealing the seatbelt over her waist. âYou could say that.â
At least somebody entertains her gimmicks. You do it better than anyone. The thought leaves a little warm feeling in her chest.Â
âIâm sorry about your hoodie, by the way,â Yuri says. She shyly looks down at your clothes, where they hang loosely on her, smelling of your cologne. âIn case you havenât noticed, it is extremely cold out back.â
âKeep it. It looks better on you.â
âOh, you flatter me.â She feigns a coquettish gasp, placing a hand on her chest with a gasp. âYouâre a real dreamboat.â
You laugh in response as you kick the engine to a start. Your eyes flick to the rearview mirror to navigate the narrow parking lot. It disallows you from witnessing Yuri blush, then turn up her chin and look away.Â
-
About that kiss:
Itâs October something. You canât remember what day it was exactly, but you know Yuriâs birthday had just passed. She had turned eighteen and really proud of herself for it. Told everyone that she was an adult and when they pointed out that she wasnât by Korean standards, she cussed them out. She even put some lip tint on, a gift from her mother.Â
But the funniest thing about it all was her purchasing those little canned beers. âIâm an adult now!â she proudly told the man behind the counter, who looked pretty fucking sure heâd sold countless to her the past years. You fled the scene with her before he could make a few calls.Â
You and Yuri were still laughing when you finally head to the playground. Itâs the furthest you can get from that sleazy store, and the closest you could leave without your parents worrying. Your hands were interlocked and the light wind whips you two around like daffodils. Youâre both young. Yuri was still here. Nothing bad has happened to you yet.
âIf my dad finds out, heâs gonna kill me,â Yuri said. Sheâs still giggling. The drink in her hand fizzed before she popped it open. âGonna grill me about being a proper young lady and all that.â
âIâm sure I can bribe Mr. Soo into keeping his mouth shut.â
âRight, because youâre just charming like that.â
You shrugged nonchalantly, making Yuri laugh. Her laugh echoed into the neighborhood. Some birds nesting in the branches above you flew away. You forgot that it was late. No kidsâat least, except the two of youâwere playing here at this time. Your next door neighborâs little girl was nowhere to be found on the swings.Â
You took a long drink of the can, tossing your head back. Yuri watched the column of your throat as you drank it. By the time you were done, she had switched her focus to the basketball hoop nailed to a low-hanging board.
âI canât believe weâre eighteen,â you said. âWe have entrance exams just around the corner and weâre getting drunk.â
 âGreat start to adulthood!â proclaimed Yuri. She didnât look all too worried though. âNext thing you know, weâve got boyfriends and girlfriends. Then weâre getting married.â
You slipped into easy conversation. You could talk about anything with Yuri, and Yuri could run her mouth for days. But you kept reverting back to the marriage topic. It was an odd thing to think about. You had some flings before, some courtships that didnât last a week. Nothing was too serious anyway. No kissing, no under-the-table petting, no oath of a wedding-banded life together. You didnât see yourself promising devotion to any of the girls you met before. Funny; you didnât see that for the future either.
Unless it wasâ
Yuri leaned against the bark of the tree. She was looking at you with a funny smile, the side of her mouth lifted. No worries were etched into the lines of her skin. She waded through life so easily. She could talk her way through anything with that gentle face. She had nothing to be scared of.
âCrazy,â she said. âThe world moves too fast sometimes, doesnât it?â
Itâs an invitation to more than an answer. You could read Jo Yuri like a book.Â
But you had nothing to be scared of either.
âYeah,â you agreed, âit does.â
Then you leaned forward to kiss her. You had to grab the chance while she offered it. And it was like the world stopped spinning too fast, all slowed and focused down to watch your lips on hers.
-
From that moment on, Yuri became a walking, talking contradiction.Â
Yuri isnât easy, you know that. You canât pry a straight answer out of her if your life depended on it. But why was she acting all brand new? Now, sheâs hot and cold, sweet and sour. Cozying up next to you now but completely rejecting you tomorrow.Â
When you tried asking Minju and Yena, they only laughed in your face. Yuri blushed furiously in the corner before picking her books up and leaving. She stopped offering coffee and taking walks with you. It was like she morphed back into the young Jjoyul who wanted nothing to do with you. The only thing missing is the resentfulness in her gaze.Â
Because even with her distance, Yuri looks at you these days with some kind of⊠longing. Pain. Love? No, canât be. Thereâs so many emotions deep within those coffee-brown eyes yet you canât quite figure them out.
With each week that passes, more questions fill your head. Usually, sheâd tease you about girls who looked your way. Now she glowered when you were even paired with one for a project.
(Like that time she was late to class and you had to do your analysis with a new girl. She had just moved and everybody liked her. Well, everybody except Yuri, it seemed. Ten minutes of her absence made her lose you to some fresh face.
âHot.â
âHuh?â
âHot girl you were with up there,â Yuri said later on, arms crossed and looking everywhere but at you. âI heard sheâs from Japan. Pretty cool.â
âUh,â you hesitated. It didnât sound cool to her at all. âYeah, I guess. You donât really find a lot of Yabukis in Korea.â
âI thought you gave up Japanese girls after Sakura.â
âNakoâs my lab partner, Yul, not my fuckbuddy.â
She squinted her eyes into narrow, daunting slits. âRight. Of course.â)
Today, you conveniently share a vacant hour with her, just right after her economics class. Professor Kim is beloved for her early dismissals. As soon as yours is called off, you go to the library. Itâs a large, cold room where you and Yuri usually write your reports. Thereâs computers, encyclopedias older than you are in thereâeverything.
You see her in the history aisle. Her head floats behind stacks and stacks of Korean books. This is it. Youâre going to march up there and confront her for how distant sheâs been, ask her whatâs wrong, call her out on her bad behavior-
Oh.
Oh.
Yuri is in the tiniest dress ever, cut just below her hips. The zipper is pulled all the way down. Has her skin always looked that⊠delectable? The wrap of green fabric makes her legs look like they go on forever, down to those fine strappy heels. Doesnât help that itâs skintight either, or that it brings out her eyes, or god fuck her waist is actually nonexistent, or how her milky thighs look so fuckingâ
âOh, hey there! Hi!â Yuriâs voice is a note higher than usual. Her smileâis that lipgloss?âsparkles brightly. âI was just about to leave but youâre here, so I guess I can stay around.â
You donât realize youâve left your jaw on the ground. Yuriâs already beautiful, but todayâwell, is it okay to say this? Let alone think this? With her new striking blonde hair and the little green dress sheâs got going on, she looks⊠sexy.Â
Youâre surprised you still have words. âYuri, we just got dismissed.â
âIâm hanging out with Isa!â
âIsnât she like, on vacation?âÂ
Yuri bites her lip. Dang it. Your gaze lingers a little too long on that pouty mouth before you take another forbidden look at the rest of her. The curve of her back into her hips then her ass is deadly.Â
Yuri crosses her arms under her chest. Youâve no idea where to look that doesnât cross the line. Every bit of her is beautiful. Thereâs her sweet face, the hourglass pinch of her waist, then her plush thighs. Fuck. You shouldâve brought sunglasses or just plucked your eyes out. Yeah, that seems better. Anyone in this freezing library can tell youâre gawking at your best friend.
Youâre here for business, you remind yourself. Clear your throat. âWhy are you avoiding me, Yul?â
Yuriâs suddenly as pale as a ghost. All the color is lost in her face, nearly making the new Barbie blonde dye wash her out. âIâm not avoiding you.â
âThen why didnât you want to commute with me?â
âD-Dad drove me,â she stammers out. And itâs a lie right from the get-goâyou know her father. He wouldnât let her out in a dress like that, especially in front of you. He was quite skittish about you being around for most of Yuriâs growing up. You shook your head adamantly while he suddenly switched the topic around to manipulative boys. Heâd talk openly about how you seemed to have a plan to put a ring on her finger.
And right now? Well, you hate to prove the old man right. Yuri looks too damn good.Â
âIâm sure you can come up with a better excuse.â
Her eyes flare. âIâIâm not making excuses!â
Her voice cuts through the silence. Jesus, why does she always make a scene? It earns her a disapproving look from the librarian. Some juniors have turned their heads to glare at her. You recognize them as the ones Yuri told you about having too much audacity. Not even bowing to the upperclassmen or using honorifics. You told her she sounded like a grandma and she told you to shut up.
Now, you see her point. Their glares are scathing. One of them turns her chin up loftily after looking at you head to toe, taking note of your shoes and hair.
Youâre about to go off at her when Yuriâs soft hands on your shoulders bring you back to earth. She has a way of doing that, doesnât she? Grounding you, soothing you, reminding you that as long as sheâs on this earth sheâs tying you down with her. You wonder if youâve ever done the same for her.Â
Open your eyes. Her brows are doing that tense, wrinkling thing again. You want to kiss the fine line away so badly before you remember that it isnât your place to do so.
âAnd even if I am,â says Yuri, voice thinned down to a whispered snarl, âthatâs the best one youâll get.â
âReally, Yul? Youâre just gonna leave me in the dark?â
âI try my best to look hot for you and all you do is bombard me with questions. Of course Iâm not explaining shit.â
âWhat?â
You finally hold the world record of getting Jo Yuri to shut up. You didnât think it was possible before, but now, with her blood running cold and her body frozen like a mannequin, you can consider it done.
Sheâs quite consistent with being a human paradox. Ever on brand. With that silence the librarian can approve of for once, sheâs answered all your questions.Â
You want to strangle yourself. How the hell did you not know? It wasnât even a thought in your head. But if you need any more clarification, more confirmation from the shock written on her faceâyour best friend likes you. She is head over heels in love with you and doesnât know how to deal with it.
You stare back at her just as bug-eyed. You reel back to the moments she sought your attention, jumping on your back or sneaking a vulgar note with your espresso. Her gossiping with Minju over the phone about a boy. The weeks of blatant avoidance. Her hatred for poor Nako.Â
Yuri regains her senses. She pulls her hands away from you as if it burned. âI said I was hanging out with Isa, right? She just landed from Busan.â Each anxious syllable tumbles out of her mouth at a rapid pace. âIâm gonna help her with her luggage and, uh, tell her about the project. Yeah! Wouldnât want her to fall behind, right? Good. Iâll see you around! Bye!â
-
From Yuri: oh my god iâm getting flashbacks again
IM GONNA DIE THAT WAS SO EMBARRASSING
I actually cannot beleive you convinced me to do that
*beleve
*BELVEE
FUCK
From behind the counter, Yuri shoots Minju a desperate look. Sheâs lost count of the girl talk theyâve had. That little library fiasco stays in her mindâa lot like you.
Minju is the only one who can understand her humiliation. She spent weeks trying to put Yuri back together, telling her she was fine and you probably thought it was cute. Doesnât mean Minju canât laugh at her. She gives her friend a smirk before texting her a cheeky reply.
From Minju: youre the one who was a dumbass and said you wanted to seduce himâŠdont take your stupidity out on me
She waits for Yuri to peek at her phone screen as she attends to a customer. When she does, she looks furious. Minju pretends not to notice by nursing her frappe.
From Yuri: I DIDN'T SAY I WANTED TO SEDUCE HIM I SAID I WANTED TO LOOK HOT
wording matters bitch
From Minju: and what does ur wanting to be hot imply đ€
like heâs supposed to believe u picked out the sluttiest most fuckably gorgeous dress in existence becuz you wanted to look hot. JUST to look hot. right.
Yuri glowers. Minju sticks her tongue out at her.
From Yuri: you want me to shove your face into this fryer soooooo bad
iâm gonna kill you one of these days kim minju
no wait he probably thinks iâm a weirdo or like a mega freak
From Minju: âŠ.
wouldnât he like that? ;)
Yuri wants to ram this plate of chocolate waffles in Minjuâs head so badly. How could she crack a joke? Yuriâs been operating on anxiety-fueled adrenaline alone since her accidental confession. Itâs intensely serious for her.Â
The sweat beads at her fine brow. The nerves are getting to her so bad that sheâs sweating in an airconditioned facility. She couldnât get any more down bad. She wipes it with the back of her wrist as she contemplates apologizing. Lord knows she owes you a lot of it.Â
But whenever she sees your face, she starts dying inside. She screwed it all up. If only sheâd kept her big fat mouth shut. If only she tried to keep her feelings at bay instead of avoiding them.
She canât do this.
âStill torturing yourself?â Yenaâs strolled up to the counter and leaned against one of the stacked mats. Yuri rolls her eyes. She was the one who suggested she dyed her hair blonde. Look how that turned out.
âAgh, fuck you, Yena.â
âLanguage.â
âIâm sorry. My brain is just⊠I canât stop thinking about it. I wanna die everytime I remember.â
âHave you tried talking to him?â Yena asks. She doesnât need to answer; the sudden downcast, timid look is enough. She sighs. âYuri, come on. It's called trying for a reason.â
âWhat if he tells me he doesnât want to be friends anymore?â
Yena laughs. Her lipgloss (also the one Yuri wore for that day) shimmers, matching the cardigan she has wrapped around her shoulders. âIf you stayed friends after your cute liâl reunion,â she says with a laugh, âthen a little crush wonât ruin whatever you have going on.â
âReally?â
âTrust me. Now make me a milkshake.â
Yuri rolls her eyes as Yena gives her a playful wink. At least this will give her something to focus on. Ever since contact between you faded, she lost a lot of good company. No more of those inside jokes, light banter. She finds herself missing your teasing when sheâs the only one holding up The Cuppa. You never made her feel like she was alone.
God, she misses you. She might even be okay if you rejected her as long as you were friends again. Thatâs something she canât lose.
The whirring of ice drowns out her thoughts. Noise pollution had some purpose after all. After reheating some smores for Minju, whoâs taken a liking to them, she adds whipped cream on top of Yenaâs milkshake. She loses herself in the smell of sweets, serene music, and the constant noise of the blender.
The fewer the customers that come in, the more Yuri finally relaxes. She looks up at the clock. Her shift is nearly done. Her final order is for the old man who ordered espresso.Â
âIn a shotglass, will you, honey?â he requested. His smile was warm. âIâm putting off alcohol, but it wouldnât hurt to look for an alternative, right?â
Easy. Yuri knows what it feels like to hold something off, to search for it anyway in other things. Other people.
She takes a small glass and holds it under the machine. The smell of finely processed coffee beans lights her up. She turns around to place it on a small saucer.
But someoneâs hand is already perched near the utensils. It reaches out for the same saucer. And before Yuri can admonish the customer, their hands touch. It feels familiar, like sheâs held this hand before. Or had it ruffle her hair and pinch her cheek.Â
She looks up and gasps, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound, and yanks her hand back. Speak of the fucking devil, itâs you.Â
"Oh my god! Sorry! So sorry!" she stammers, stumbling backward, nearly tripping over her own feet. "IâI didnât see you, my bad! All yours! Enjoy the⊠the plate! I meant the saucer!âÂ
She practically shrieks the last part out, her voice hitting a register you hadnât heard since she was sixteen and thought youâd missed the bus.Â
Sheâs cute. Her hair is done up in this bun, a few strands falling to drape on her sweater. There are white, cursive words embroidered into the fabric: âcall me baby.â
(Well, if she insists?)
âItâs fine,ââ you say. âI just came to get one for Minju.â
Minju waves at the two of you from her seat. You wave back. Behind you, Yuri is certain sheâs going to explode. Minju is aware that her drink is a frappe in a cup, right? She doesnât need a damn saucer.
Thereâs a tremor running through her right now. Her stomachâs doing that thing again. Sheâs so lovestruck and itâs so pathetic that she canât do anything about it. Her friends are watching and youâre standing in front of her and sheâs so consumed by the thrill of it all.
âWhat are you doing here?âÂ
âWe need to talk, Yul. You know we do.âÂ
The poor thingâs near tears already. You offer her a gentle smile, lowering your gaze so youâre eye-level. You donât want to make her more nervous than she already is.
She says sheâll finish this shift first. You sit by Minju and Yena as she takes her sweet time cleaning up. Yujinâs already out back tying on her apron to take over. She can wait as long as she likes because Yuriâs suddenly vying for that Employee of the Month title. She polishes the already shining counter, checks the schedule for next week, and asks the old man in the corner twice if he likes his drink. You laugh; itâs an espresso. Itâs not like it changes.
Your own shot of espresso finally sits right across you. Her knuckles are white, curling tight as she folds her hands together on the table. Her friends exchange knowing glances.
âSo,â you start lightly. âHi.â
âHi,â Yuri replies quietly. You barely hear it.
âNow I think we can both agree youâve been acting weird?â
Yena muffles a cackle. Minju punches her in the shoulder. Theyâre quite enjoying their front row tickets to the cheesiest romance ever.Â
Yuri scoffs at this, crossing her arms. âWeird? Me? Never. Besides, I know what you want to talk about and, and Iâve actually been thinking about someone else.â
You smirk. âReally now?âÂ
Because from the beginning, letâs be honestâthrough her plethora of crazy exes, filmstar crushes, and the fifty miles that once kept you apart, you were the only one for her.Â
And through your plethora of mournful nights, jealous juniors, and the snowy night that brought you back together, you know sheâs the only one for you.
Thereâs no need for lying. Youâre always going to stand by her.Â
She shoots a quick, almost panicked glance at her friends, then puffs out her chest. âYeah, thereâs this⊠TA.â The wince she makes at her own lie is maddeningly cute. âHeâs really smart, so heâs totally my type, you know. I like smart men in glasses.â
Yenaâs laughter interrupts her. She tried her best to contain her giggles but watching Yuri in denial is too funny. Five star comedy of the year, did millions in the box office.Â
âA TA? Seriously? Yuri, youâve never looked at anyone beyond your textbooks and⊠well, him,â she gestures in your direction. âSince when did you like âsmartâ guys with glasses? You always said they were boring.â
âYeah, and you hate glasses!â Minju chimes in, her drink abandoned already. âRemember that time you accidentally wore my reading glasses and said you felt like our mean librarian?â
Yuri surreptitiously mouths vulgarities at them. Theyâre unbothered, knowing youâve got her cornered now. They bore hours of her rants about you, your hair, your smile. They think theyâre pretty deserving of a break.Â
Yuriâs the star actress in the theater club but she canât improv her way out of this.Â
âSounds like a real catch. Whatâs his name?â
âUh, itâs⊠itâs not important!â Yuri fumbles with her words. âJust know heâs a very attractive, smart, non-you person.â
Her cheeks are practically glowing. You just hum, pretending to be convinced, but a warmth spreads through you. In every little way, even when sheâs trapped in her own denial, Yuri makes you smile. Sheâs a ball of energy. Sheâs the shot of espresso you canât get enough of and will come back for again and again.
But she takes her time. Sheâs been teaching you patience all your life. You had to wait for her to become your friend. You had to wait several lonely years for her to come back to you.Â
Now, you have to wait for her to come to terms with those feelings. Sheâs still trying to drop the habit of putting up a front: cussing when she wants to say something sweet, covering her face when she cries, running from you when the love catches up to her in the most random parts of her day. And thatâs fine. Itâs okay. Youâll wait forever if you have to.Â
So, you smile. Youâll play her game.
âThatâs good to know,â you say graciously. âBut if you ever need anyone, anything, Iâm just here, Yuri. I hope we can still be friends?â
Itâs not quite the reaction sheâs looking for. She wants you to chase her and be fine if she tells you to go away. After all, she could only get so tired of running. âY-you donât want to be more than friends?âÂ
âDo you?âÂ
Yena and Minju squeal, holding onto each other for the grand climax. Yuri raises a threatening, fisted paw at them. She looks back at you sheepishly.
âFine,â she says, raising her chin. âMr. TAâs probably taken anyway. But that doesnât mean I like you or anything. I just think you wouldnât be too bad as a boyfriend.â
Thatâs the greatest compliment you can get from her. Youâll take it.
-
The first time you suggest karaoke, Yuriâs face goes pink. âAbsolutely not,â she says. She sounds offended that you even asked.
Sheâs still partial to the deal so this is your way of getting her to open up. You thought it was the perfect date idea.
So youâre standing there absolutely dumbfounded. Hereâs a girl with the most beautiful voice in the world and a passion for music. She records soft, beautiful demos in that recording studio down the road. She plays the piano, guitar, and almost every instrument you can think of. If she doesnât know how to play it, sheâs definitely learning to.Â
You need to know âWhy?âÂ
âMy voice is terrible.âÂ
âYuri,â you reply slowly, still trying to make sense of it all, âyouâre literally in theater.â
âSo?â she protests. She raises herself to meet your height (or at least the flat of your shoulders) as best as she can in her heels. âYou think just because weâre trying the whole dating thing you can get me to do stuff I donât wanna do?âÂ
You laugh. Youâve known her long enough to know her little bursts of rage are simply what they are: short bursts that donât make her love you any less. And itâs the same on your end, too. You love Yuriâwith all her quirks and brattiness and shouts. You wouldnât trade that for anything.
âSlow down, Yul.â Lean down and cup her small face in your palms. The slightest protest flickers in her expression. However, she doesnât move. âOf course not. Iâm just saying your whole thing is being a great singer so⊠itâs gonna be fun. Please?â
As much as she has her power over you, you have your own, too. You know what your little touches do to her. Her skin already feels warm under your fingers.
So there you have it: youâre on your umpteenth date with Yuri. Last time you had gone to the cinemas, where she pretended not to cry at the tragic ending. But trust that she spent the ride home with her face buried in your jacket. The date before that, you took her to the museum she talked about wanting to visit.Â
Youâll probably spend a fortune on her until she says yes. It doesnât matter though. Youâll wait forever, grovel at your knees, and dish out your bank accounts if you have to.Â
Tonight, the neon sign of the karaoke bar buzzes softly. Itâs a pink and blue beacon in the quiet street. Your fingers are interlaced. Itâs a completely new sensation with the knowledge that it means something deeper. It seems Yuri has gotten used to it; she squeezes you tighter when sheâs surprised, or when she just needs someone.
âBoyfriend and girlfriend, right?â youâd said before, and sheâd nodded, a blush creeping up her neck before she muttered, âDonât make it sound so serious.â
Sheâs a vision in red, by the way. Itâs a small little dress that hugs her hips, complete with knee-high boots. You tell her she looks beautiful even if you risk a slap. Youâll never let her forget.Â
Inside, the private booth is a capsule of dim light and velvet seats. Looks clean. It better be for the price you paid. And you still have food waiting to be served. The touchscreen of the large scale TVÂ glows with an endless menu of songs. Thereâs the classic Korean trot that tops the charts, and some English ones, too.Â
Yuri looks tiny compared to the TV. Sheâs staring in disbelief at the catalogue, the infinite number of options for bass and echo.Â
âYou should get first dibs,â you say, nudging her shoulder with yours.Â
âWhy? So you can laugh at me?â she retorts, but her eyes are sparkling. They donât even look away from the screen. It means you did a good job. She loves singing more than anything, and with this top tier noraebang, you made her dreams come true.
âNever. Why would I make fun of someone so perfect?â
She rolls her eyes, a classic Yuri deflection. âYouâre so cheesy. Donât say that ever again.â But she doesnât move away. Instead, she leans into your shoulder, her scentâclean like rain, sweet like something floral you canât nameâwrapping around you.
And please, she can pretend all she wants but sheâs a sucker for cheesy pickup lines.Â
After a few minutes of playful bickering and a lot of convincing, she selects a song. The title flashes on the screen: Casualty of Love. The familiar instrumental starts. You realize this is one of Yuriâs favorites, some of the many songs she covered on her old phone. The first note plays and she starts to sing.
It stops your world completely.
We may not have all the answers
Oh, I know that we can change some of the things that are beyond our control
Youâve heard her sing beforeâin practice rooms, humming along to tracks. You knew she was good. But this is not âgood.â This is something bigger than you, even bigger than her. Her voice, usually overpowering the loudest speakers when sheâs mad, is fragility that steals the air from the room.Â
And itâs so odd in the best way possible. Youâve never known her as someone to show this kind of raw vulnerability. Her voice is thick with emotion. Itâs like each note she draws out is a line in a story you know too well.Â
 And the vision of us may be blurry
Oh, but itâs clear to you. So clear.
But use your heart to see, just follow the beat
The path will lead you back to me
The drawl of her song brings you back to the past. It takes you on a whole journey. You vividly see her wrapped in her hoodie as she was brought away from you, and in the same one when she saw you again in that snowstorm. It just so happened she studies at the same university. It just so happened that pain had to be there to bring her back to you.
Sometimes itâs a game of give and take
Youâll give her anything she wants.
Itâs easy to break, but hold on and wait
As long as sheâd like.
Have a little faith!
Yuri isnât looking at the screen anymore. She knows all the lyrics by heart because itâs an echo of her life. It reflects all the little feelings sheâs tried to figure out. Those big, beautiful eyes connect with yours. Passion overflows from the bittersweet melody.
I will go down to the last round
Iâll be your strength to find you when you get lost in the crowd
So Iâll stand up tall, if by chance I fall, Iâll go downÂ
As a casualty of love
The whole song is a love letter to you. Sheâs mapping the architecture of her heart, and you see your name etched on every wall. Thereâs no hiding it.
Youâre motionless. Your breath is caught somewhere between your chest and throat. The love you feel for her, always present like a motion natural as breathing, expands. She is yours, and you are hers, and this voice is the proof of a soul that is impossibly, wonderfully complex.
The last note hangs heavily before it fades into nothingness. She places the microphone down, her shoulders dropping as if sheâs shed a weight. Itâs hard for her not to notice the way youâre looking at her right now. Like youâre in love with her or something. You remind her that every time yet it remains a surprise to her.
âItâs⊠a hard song. The pronunciation is tricky.âÂ
She doesnât have to sell herself short. Sheâs more than you can ask for. Stand up on shaky knees, âYouâre fucking breathtaking, Jo Yuri.â
She waves a hand dismissively. âItâs just singing.â
 Itâs the only time you wonât do something she tells you to do. Youâre a slave for all of her. Sheâs the most gorgeous girl in the world and it pains you that sheâd downplay herself like that. You want to tell her she shouldnât do that. You wonât allow her to.
But talking is her job. She doesnât stop you when you reach out to kiss her. She fits there, in the space against your heart, where she has always belonged. Sheâs smiling. Sheâs perfect. You donât even see the score.
The graduation party still hums in your veins, a pleasant buzz of cheap champagne and nostalgia. Perhaps not too much of the nostalgia. There are a lot of people youâd fare better without having in your life. You can certainly do without the sadistic physics prof.
Without Yuri? Thatâs a different question. Youâre not losing her again, especially when she looks this damn good.
She makes it all worth it. Holding her hand at the ceremony made you realize how far youâve come with each other. The little visits at The Cuppa and games with her at midnight have helped you more than she could ever know. You couldnât have made it without her. Hell, she deserves a name on your certificate for powering you through.
Sheâs your girlfriend. The love of your life. Your shot of espresso who brought you back into this world because youâve so much to do with her.
Sheâs kicking off her heels by the door of your house. It is really fucking hard not to stare at her. For the party, sheâs got this tiny pink top, exposing her arms dangling with jewelry and tight stomach. The skinny jeans donât do much in hiding any skin either.Â
Yuri looks fucking delicious.
âSo,â she says. Her smile is cheeky as she undoes her earrings. âWe did it.â
âWe did,â you reply. The space between you feels like a physical thing. You close it.
The corny, reminiscing conversation can be saved for later. Youâre focused on just getting your hands on her. And you can tell she wants it so bad, too. Â
Because the first kiss isnât hesitant at all. Youâre colliding into each other with all the pent-up frustration. Her lips are soft but insistent, tasting of sugar and champagne. You detect some of her favorite lipbalm, too. Your hands find her waist, pulling her flush against you, and she melts into the contact with a sigh. The heat between your legs causes you to grind against each other, fighting through the clothes. Itâs messy from the very start.
You break for air, foreheads resting together. Your voice is rough. âGod, Yuri. You have no idea how fucking sexy you are. All night, watching you laugh, that fucking top⊠I was losing my mind.â
That familiar, challenging glint is back in her eyes. âTook you long enough to do something about it.â But her cheeks are flushed, her breathing uneven.
âDid you really want me to fuck you in the library and get us expelled?â
âNo, but if I knew you were this bigââshe cups your hardening bulge and you groanââI wouldâve considered it.â
Yuri starts palming you through your pants. Each stroke has you groaning for life against her cheek. You take it as permission to squeeze her plump ass, dragging those ridiculous jeans down. Kiss her again, walking her backwards until her knees hit the edge of your bed. You tumble down together in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
Itâs an incredibly sexy sight: Yuri lying back on her arms with only that flimsy top and her matching pink panties. The gaze sheâs levelling you with is fucking wicked. You want to pounce on her, get your mouth on those tits, everything youâve ever dreamed of.
She glances at your cock freed from your clothes and laughs. Youâre already leaking. âImpatient much?â
âImpatient? Yuri, Iâve waited a lifetime.â
That shuts her up. Her eyes go wide, then dark. The rest followsâyour shirt, her lace, everythingâuntil itâs just skin and heat. You take a moment to just look. Her pale breasts are rising and falling rapidly with each short breath she takes. Her skin is soft and smooth. Each part of her is so pliable and ready for you.
She spreads her legs a little, opening herself up for you. âSee something you like?â
âEverything,â you say, and you mean it.
You kiss your way down her body, and her sharp wit dissolves into gasps and moans. Theyâre not delicate sounds. Theyâre loud, unfiltered, a little ragged. Start putting your money where your mouth is. A high âah!â when your tongue finds her hard nipple. Her hold on your hair tightens. You lavish attention on one breast, learning how she likes it, before moving to the other one. You suck a little more firmly, eliciting a low moan that vibrates through her and into you.Â
Thereâs a choked-off curse when your fingers slide through her bare wetness. Sheâs so fucking turned on and the slick, hot evidence of it makes your head spin.
âPlease,â she pants âNow. I need you now.â
You donât make her ask twice. Even Yuriâs grown tired of waiting. So you guide yourself to her entrance, your eyes locked on hers. Thereâs a second of perfect, aching tension, and then you push in.
The tight, searing stretch that makes you both groan. You bury your face in her neck, the scent of her perfume and sweat overwhelming. Yuri tries to adjust to your girth but she just squeezes tighter. You start to move, and itâs rough almost immediately, a desperate, driving rhythm born from years of friendship tipping into this. The bedframe knocks a steady beat against the wall.
The rhythm you find is punishing. You swear to god youâre being honest when you say you thought the first time would be romantic. Something straight out of a lovey-dovey novel, just to close off the chapter. If it were up to you, this would go like that.Â
But Yuri just does something to you. The alcohol in your systems fuels it. Her pussy grips around you perfectly, a tight sleeve that never lets go. And you canât even start on how sexy she looks. Your hands find free territory over her bouncing tits. Dip occasionally to her swollen clit. She gets impossibly tighter around you.Â
The room fills with the sound of skin against skin, ragged breathing, and the soft, rhythmic creak of the bed. Her pleas in your ear are fragmented, a mix of Korean and breathless, broken mumbles.Â
âFuck,â she breathes out, her head thrown back. âRight there⊠donât you dare stop.â
âWasnât planning on it, Yul,â you grit out. You then pull out a little, your dick coated in her wetness. The sound is obscenely wet. âIâm gonna fuck this little pussy until youâre crying.â
Shift her leg higher over your side and snap your hips deeper. The new angle punches a broken cry from her throat. Her voice is a wrecked needy whimper youâve never heard before.
âOh, god, daddy! Right there!â
The word is a punch thrown in your gut. It shouldnât make you feel like this. You didnât even like being called daddy until you heard that desperate sound from her. Seeing her like thisâcompletely undone, begging, vulnerableâwhile she calls you that⊠it sends a brutal surge of heat straight to your core. Your thrusts become more purposeful, harder.
âSay that again.â You donât recognize your voice anymore. Itâs filled with lust. It has infected the rest of your body, from your brain down to the cock thatâs ruining her.
âDaddy⊠you feel so good, daddy. So fucking big inside me.â
Youâre both hurtling toward the edge. Her moans are constant now, a sobbing, rhythmic chant of yes, yes, yes. Her body is tightening around you like a coiled spring. Itâs stretched to its limits. You feel the exact moment it snaps.
Her back arches clear off the bed with a raw cry. Yuriâs whole body shakes. Her cunt pulses around you in relentless waves. She clutches at you like youâre the only solid thing in the world. You hold her through it, watching her fall apart. Her cunt still clenches onto you. The sight of her, so thoroughly wrecked and peaceful, is what finally undoes you. A few ragged, deep thrusts later, you follow her over, your own release tearing through you with a groan you feel in your bones.
The only sound is your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city. Youâre far too tired to make small talk. Yuriâs still catching her breath beside you.
You canât move or remember much. Itâs the tipsiness biting you back in the ass, you know it. Try to make up for it by kissing your girlfriend on the forehead goodnight. Yuriâs arms wrapped around your neck conjure you sweet dreams. Yuri isnât crying or alone in them anymore. In this one, sheâs still in this small bed with you. Sheâs not going anywhere.
And you like to believe it isnât a dream when she murmurs, âYou know that TA with the glasses? It was you. There was no one else but you.â
She's somewhere on that terrace behind you. You can feel it the way you always can, this low awareness at the back of your skull whenever sheâs in the same space. You wonder if she feels it too, If somewhere across the party sheâs standing there, thinking about you with the same inconvenient frequency.
Put like that, it almost sounds like infatuation.
It isnât.
More like a stupid situation.
The terrace sits cantilevered over the cliffs of Ravello, and the Tyrrhenian Sea is performing its slow transformation at this hour, slipping from blue into burnished copper in lazy stages, a glow that polishes faces and smooths edges until everyone seems faintly cinematic, almost worth a second glance.
White tablecloths. Wine poured by the glass at prices that could cover a month's worth of groceries. The annual Ravello Literary Festival - nominally a celebration of literature, though in practice it functions as an elaborate excuse for publishing people to sunburn elegantly on the Amalfi cliffs while pretending, with great conviction, to have read each other's latest releases.
(You are not in this scene yet. Give it a minute.)
Right now, the opening belongs to Kim Chaewon.
She's standing near the center of the terrace in a cluster of three, and even from across the crowd you can tell she's the axis the group orbits around - not because she's the tallest (Chaewon is actually kind of tiny; she stands at five-four, but the heels put her around five-six, super slim, almost fragile-looking. Her stylist plays that up well) but because she holds space the way certain people do. The ones who learned to take up room with presence when they couldn't do it with height.
Tonight it's a white linen dress, thin straps, the neckline cut just low enough to show her collarbones without tipping into obvious. Her brown hair is cropped into that short bob she's been wearing all year: blunt bangs, clean edges, the kind of haircut that reads effortless and costs four hundred dollars. She's tan. Not too much. Just enough to make the white dress pop against her skin.
(Everything about Kim Chaewon is just enough. That's her entire brand.)
The woman to her left is Irene - thirty-four, silver jewelry catching the last of the light at her wrists, the composed stillness of someone who has spent nearly two decades running a publishing house and stopped being impressed by anything roughly around year five. She owns the imprint that publishes Chaewon's novels, and the relationship between them operates on several frequencies at once; business partnership, maternal mentorship, quiet mutual exploitation, and something resembling genuine affection buried under layers of professional pragmatism.
To Chaewon's right: Sana. Twenty-eight. Japanese-born. A novelist whose debut collection of interconnected short stories landed her on every "writers to watch" list last year and earned the kind of critical goodwill that Chaewon's sales numbers have never quite translated into. There's this loose, comfortable energy about her - she laughs easily, touches your arm when she's making a point, and none of it ever feels performed. She's holding a glass of prosecco and wearing a slip dress in pale ivory, and she's currently mid-sentence, telling Chaewon about the Italian translation numbers.
"Eleven days," Sana repeats, squeezing Chaewon's wrist. "Sold out. First print run. Eleven days. That's not normal, Chaewon, that's genuinely insane."
"It's the Italian market," Chaewon says, waving her glass. "They love anything with a coastal setting and a messy love story. I basically wrote bait."
"Oh, stop it." Sana laughs. "Take the win."
"I am taking it. I'm just contextualizing."
Irene, without looking up from her Barolo, interjects: "You're diminishing it. Which is what you do when you're performing humility. Don't. It's unbecoming."
"I'm not performingâ"
"You are. You've been doing it since I met you." Irene's gaze flicks up, brief and precise. "Your numbers are exceptional. Say thank you and move on."
Chaewon opens her mouth, closes it. Smiles - tight, acquiescing. "Thank you. Moving on."
Sana grins and clinks her glass against Chaewon's. "For what it's worth, my Italian publisher still hasn't returned my email from March. So I'm choosing to live vicariously through you."
"Your book is literary, Sana. The translation pipeline is slower. They'll get there."
"You keep saying that. 'Your book is literary.' You know that's just a nice way of saying it doesn't sell."
Chaewon tilts her head: "That's not what Iâ"
"It's fine. I've made peace with my niche." Sana takes a sip. "I sell modestly to people with graduate degrees and tote bags. You sell millions to everyone else. We both have our lanes."
"Your lane is the one with the Pulitzer at the end of it."
"And yours is the one with the villa in Provence."
"I don't have a villa in Provence."
"Yet."
Laughter breaks between them, genuine enough that Sana touches Chaewon's wrist again. There's something easy in it, a honesty that acknowledges yes, our careers exist on different planets, and no, we're not going to pretend otherwise, and somehow that's fine. Irene observes from her position at Chaewon's left, Irene watches them with the faintest trace of a smile - by her standards, anyway. In her two decades running the imprint, she's seen plenty of these literary friendships curdle the moment sales figures enter the chat. This one seems to be holding.
The prosecco moves in Sana's glass. Small, idle circles. But there's nothing idle about the way she's watching Chaewon right now. That particular brand of attention that precedes bad news delivered kindly.
Her voice, when it comes, has dropped half a register: "Speaking of the Italian market, actually. I saw the whole⊠thing. Online. About the review."
Chaewon lifts her glass and takes a long, measured sip, letting the moment extend past casual into something pointed, before setting the glass back down. "Which thing? There were several things."
"The TikTok discourse. The Reddit threads. My agent forwarded me the sales memo - the one that got leaked."
"That memo was taken completely out of context."
Sana nods. "Oh, totally. I know. I'm just saying⊠it must be exhausting. Dealing with the fallout from something like that."
Irene cuts in, measured: "Sana, maybe we don't need toâ"
"It's fine, Irene." Chaewon sets her glass on the table with a clink that says it is not, in fact, fine. "It's not exhausting. It's infuriating. Exhausting is a long flight. Infuriating is watching one single, self-important, pseudo-intellectual review turn into a referendum on whether my writing has merit. As if merit is something a fucking critic gets to define."
Sana exchanges a quick glance with Irene. Irene's expression says: here we go.
"Suddenly every twenty-year-old with a BookTok account and a ring light is an authority on literary value." Chaewon's cheeks are flushed (not from the wine). "Kids who have read maybe fifteen books in their entire lives are writing thousand-word threads about how my prose lacks depth. Because he told them it does. Because he wrote it in that specific way he does - that surgical little style where he pretends he's being objective while he's actually just eviscerating you. And people eat it up. They think they're reading criticism, but it's really just someone being cruel and dressing it up with fancy words."
"The review cycle will pass," Irene offers. Patient. Rational. The voice of a woman who has talked authors down from ledges higher than this. "They always pass. Three months from now, nobody will remember."
"This one didn't pass. This one metastasized."
"Chaewonâ"
"Do you know what my analyst projections looked like last quarter?" Chaewon turns to Irene fully. "Because you should. You publish me. Seven percent dip. That's not a blip, Irene. That's a shift. And it started the week his review went viral."
Irene holds her gaze. Doesn't flinch. "I'm aware of the numbers."
"Then you understand why I'm not going to just wait it out."
"He is good at what he does, though," Sana says quietly. "I mean⊠setting aside what he did to you - his actual criticism isâ"
"He's a frustrated artist who can't write fiction, so he tears apart people who can! That's all critics are. Every single one of them. People who wanted to create something and couldn't, so they appointed themselves the arbiters of everyone else's work. They sit in judgment because the alternative is admitting they don't have the talent to participate. And this oneâ" She presses her finger against the table. "âthis one in particular has made it his personal fucking mission to convince the world that I'm literary fast food."
"You're not fast food," Sana says.
"I know I'm not."
"You're more of aâ"
"Sana, I swear to god, if you finish that sentence with a food analogyâ"
Sana closes her mouth. Hides her smile behind her prosecco.
Irene sets her glass down with finality and gives Chaewon a look that carries the full weight of their professional history: "Here's what I'll say. Once. He wrote a review. It hurt. It went wider than it should have. But you are still the bestselling author on my list by a factor of three, your book is still in the top twenty, and this festival invited you, not him. So take a breath. Drink your wine. And stop giving him real estate in your head that he hasn't earned."
Chaewon stares at her. The flush is still high on her cheeks, but something in Irene's calm has landed, and for a moment she looks less furious and more tired.
Then Sana, who has been quiet for about four seconds, ruins it.
She's not looking at Chaewon anymore. She's looking past her shoulder, toward the far end of the terrace where the crowd thins out near the stone parapet. The polished limestone floor gives way to rougher stone at the edges, where the terrace meets the original cliff face, and the last stragglers have drifted into loose pairs and solo contemplation. Sana's eyebrows go up.
"Chaewon."
"What."
Sana nudges her elbow and tilts her chin toward the parapet: "Isn't that him over there?â
Chaewon turns. And yes. It is indeed you.
You're standing at the edge of the terrace, one hand resting on the parapet, the other holding a glass of champagne you've barely touched. You're not engaging with anyone. You're just - there, looking out at the beach below, where the last of the daylight is catching the white hulls of two catamarans moored in the harbor. You look unbothered. Comfortable, even.
Chaewon reacts before she can hide it. She looks caught off guard, then angry, and then thereâs a third emotion she locks away immediately.
She hands her glass to Sana. "Hold this."
Irene's hand lands on her forearm. "Chaewon. Don't."
"I'm just going to talk to him."
"You're going to make a scene."
"I'm going to talk to him. At a party. Where adults talk to each other." She's already pulling her arm free. "That's all."
"Chaewonâ"
But she's already moving. Shoulders set. That walk she does when she's about to be very, very unpleasant to someone.
You don't see her coming. You're watching the catamarans - two of them, side by side, their twin hulls catching the copper light. There's something about the geometry that holds your attention. Parallel lines that never converge.
"Hey. You."
You don't turn around. You take a sip of champagne. The sea is really doing something spectacular right now, and you'd rather not.
"Hey! I'm talking to you."
Louder this time. Loud enough that two people at the nearest table glance over. You let the moment sit for another beat - not to be rude, not exactly, but because you know the pause will cost her - and then you turn. She's closer than you expected. Close enough that you can smell her perfume - gardenia, you think, warm and sweet from her skin. Five-six in heels and radiating enough hostility to fill a space twice this size.
You greet her. First name. Calm. Pleasant. The way you'd greet a colleague at any professional function.
"You have a lot of nerve showing up here. Half the people at this party hate you."
"I don't think that's entirely true."
"It is."
"Sana spoke to me earlier, actually." You let that sit for a second. "She thanked me for the review I wrote about her new collection. The short stories."
"Of course she did. You were nice to her."
"I was honest. She didn't need to thank me. I was just doing my job."
She takes a step closer, and you can see the flush on her cheeks, the tension in her jaw. She's been drinking - not a lot, but enough to loosen whatever restraint she might have exercised sober.
"Your job," she repeats, stressing it just enough to sting. "Your job cost me a seven percent dip in projected first-quarter sales. Your job made my publisher schedule an emergency marketing call at six in the morning. Your job turned my book into a meme, you understand that? There are teenagers on the internet making edits of my cover with clown emojis because of what you wrote. How do you justâ how do so many people listen to someone so dumb?"
You look at her for a moment. Unhurried. "Your book is selling well, Chaewon. Extremely well, actually. It debuted at number three on the Times list and it's still in the top twenty. I genuinely don't understand the fuss."
"The fuss is that it should have been number one. The fuss is that I had momentum and you killed it."
"I didn't kill anything. I wrote a review. Youâre experienced enough to know that once you share your work publicly, youâll be exposed to all sorts of feedback and opinions.â
She's breathing hard. Her fists are clenched at her sides, knuckles pale against the tan. "Say it to my face, then."
"I'm sorry?"
"The review. Everything you wrote. Say it to my face. Right now. You were so brave behind your keyboard - be brave in person. Tell me what you really think."
You set your champagne glass on the parapet ledge. Carefully, so it doesn't tip. "All right."
And you do. Very politely.
"The premise is built on a foundation that's been used so many times it's essentially public domain at this point. Two strangers reconnecting after a shared tragedy - it's been done by Nichols, by Munro, by half the MFA programs on the eastern seaboard. That's not automatically disqualifying, but it means the execution needs to justify the retread. Yours doesn't. The plot follows a structure so predictable I could map the emotional beats by page number before I'd finished the first fifty pages. The second act complication arrives on schedule. The romantic false defeat happens exactly where you'd expect it. And the resolution - Chaewon, the resolution is the same resolution you've written in your last three novels, dressed up with different proper nouns."
She's staring at you. Very still.
"And then there's the dialogue," you continue. "Which is actually the most frustrating part, because you clearly have an ear for how people speak. You do. But you push it too far. You overwork every line until it sounds rehearsed. There's this compulsion to make every exchange feel hyper-naturalistic, and the effect is the opposite - it draws attention to the craft in a way that reminds the reader they're reading something constructed. You're trying so hard to give the story authenticity that it ends up feeling synthetic. Polished on the surface. Plastic underneath. Comfort food dressed as cuisine."
 Chaewon steps closer. So close you could count the lashes framing those dark, furious eyes. "You're an asshole." Quiet. Steady. Then not quiet, not steady: "You're a fucking asshole! You sit up there in your little ivory tower writing your little poison pen columns and you have never - not once in your miserable career - produced a single page of original fiction. You've never built a world. You've never made a reader cry. You've never stayed up until four in the morning bleeding onto a page because the story demanded it. You destroy. That's your entire skill set. And you're proud of it."
"Are you done?"
"I'm nowhere near done. You know what every critic in the history of criticism has in common? They couldn't do it themselves. Every single one of you. Failed writers. Frustrated artists playing judge because the alternative is admitting you don't have the talent toâ"
"You're making my point for me."
That shuts her up. She blinks at you, mouth still half-open on whatever cutting response died in her throat.
You straighten up. Hands in your pockets. Relaxed. Almost amused, and you can tell the almost amused is what's making her fingers twitch toward a drink she no longer has. (Because she handed it off to Sana. Which, looking back on it, was probably not her smartest move.)
"You came all the way across this terrace to yell at me, and you haven't refuted a single thing I wrote. Not one point. You've attacked my character, my career, my motives - but the actual substance of the review? Nothing." You let that breathe. "You only go after me because you have no arguments to counter mine."
Her lips part. Nothing comes out.
"But I actually like it," you add. Your expression changes subtly - not a smile, but the ghost of one, living somewhere behind your eyes. "The anger. The theatrics. Coming over here with your fists clenched. It's cute, Chaewon."
Her whole frame stiffens. The word âcuteâ lands with force, cracking straight through the composed façade sheâs built piece by piece.
An Italian terrace, sunset light, white linen dress, and you reduce her to cute.
She stares at you, and the flush creeping down from her cheeks has reached her chest now, you can see it above the white linen, spreading across her collarbones. Her mouth presses into a hard line. Her hands won't stop shaking, and it's sure as hell not fear making them tremble.
"You have no idea how much I hate you." She says it with her whole chest. Eyes wet - not from tears, from fury, from the kind of heat that builds behind your face when your blood pressure spikes and you can feel your own pulse in your temples. "You have absolutely no idea."
"Hate is a strong word, Chaewon."
"It's the right one."
You consider this. You pick your champagne glass back up from the parapet and hold it loosely, rolling the stem between your fingers. Below, the catamarans sway in the harbor, their hulls turning gold in the dying light.
"Sometimes I think about you too," you say. Not warmly. Not cruelly either. Something flatter than both. "I think about your mediocrity. About how someone with your instincts actively chose to write at half capacity, and still makes millions doing it. That irritates me. I'll admit that."
She opens her mouth but you're not finished.
"It irritates me because it proves something I don't want to believe." You wave a hand at the terrace, the whole scene. "That none of this has a future. Look around: beautiful people, expensive wine, conversations about absolutely nothing." You pause. "This generation either drowned in nihilism and can't feel anything real anymore, or they bought into capitalism so hard that selling out became the entire aesthetic. Either way, same result. Mediocrity sells. Sincerity doesn't.â
You place the champagne glass back on the parapet, turn, and start walking toward the stone staircase at the far end of the terrace. Narrow steps carved into the cliff face, descending toward a lower landing where the staff keeps extra chairs and folded tablecloths. Nobody goes down there during events.
"I'm not done talking to you." Her heels click behind you. Fast. "Hey. Hey! I said I'm notâ"
"Enjoy the party, Chaewon." You don't turn around. You take the first step down. "Isn't that why you write? To be surrounded by your own kind? The same breed of self-congratulatory artists, clinking glasses and telling each other how brave and important they all are.â
Her footsteps stop for a second - then resume, faster, following you down the stairs. The sounds of the party recede with each step. Glasses clinking, polite laughter, someone telling an anecdote about their Parisian editor. All of it fading.
"That's rich, coming from someone whoâ"
"Go back to your friends."
"âwho thinks standing alone at a railing makes him interesting. And don't you dare say I surrendered to capitalism.â She's two steps behind you now, her hand gripping the iron railing. "My latest book literally critiques capitalism. The entire third act is a structural dismantling ofâ"
"I read it."
"Did you? Or did you feed it into ChatGPT and ask for a summary so you could fake your way through another hit piece?â
You nearly smile at that. "Yeah, that would've been smarter. Could've skipped three hundred and fifty pages of freshman political theory arguments.â You take another step down. The stone is rough under your shoes, worn smooth in the center from centuries of feet. "Capitalism critique is everywhere now, you realize that? Publishing houses do it. Streaming services do it. Billion-dollar brands build entire marketing campaigns around how capitalism is failing. Writing a novel that critiques capitalism doesn't make you brave or superior - it puts you on the exact same shelf as every other pseudo-intellectual writer who thinks pointing at the problem counts as solving it."
She's quiet for three steps. You can hear her breathing.
"Here's what you're not getting," you continue, reaching the bottom. "Capitalism doesn't fight back against criticism. It doesn't need to. It just absorbs it. Packages it. Sells it. Your book retails at twenty-eight dollars hardcover. Two hundred thousand first print. Your publisher made a product out of your critique, and everyone profited - including you." You step onto the lower landing. "That's not rebellion. That's a business model with a conscience sticker on it.â
The stairs deposit you into a curved alcove cut directly from the cliff - a pocket of stone that tucks beneath the terrace overhead. The rock arcs above you where the terrace floor sits, forming a natural canopy that makes you invisible to anyone standing up there. They could lean on the parapet, scan the harbor, nurse their prosecco six feet above your head, and never know.
Unless you step to the left. That's where the stone ceiling ends and the open air begins - a gap where the architecture gives way to sky, and the sightline from the terrace parapet drops straight down to where you're standing.
It's cooler here. The party compresses into something distant and soft - laughter, the clink of stemware, a fragment of someone's sentence about translation rights - all of it reduced to murmur.
Below, the sea.
Chaewon follows you down the last step, breathing hard, and she's not done: "People are debating my book at universities. There are actual academic discussions happening about the themes Iâ"
"Is that supposed to impress me?"
"It means my work has substance.â
"People write theses on Taylor Swift's lyrics, Chaewon. Anything can be dissected if you apply enough academic framework to it. There are peer-reviewed papers on the semiotics of fast food branding." You lean against the stone wall, arms crossed. "Academic attention doesn't equal literary merit. It just means someone needed a dissertation topic. And while I'm sure your book provides plenty of material for a second-year cultural studies course, I don't think there's anything in it that's really worth the effort."
She's standing in front of you with the sunset at her back, and the copper light does something unfair to her - catches the edges of that bob, the loose strands the wind has pulled free, the bangs she keeps pushing out of her eyes that won't stay put anymore. The walk down the stairs and the argument and the salt air have undone about forty minutes of whatever she did in front of a mirror before tonight, and the result is better than the original. She looks wrecked and gorgeous at the same time, flushed and furious, and you clock it the way you clock everything: at a remove, converting sensation into observation before it has a chance to become something inconvenient.
You turn back toward the sea.
Which is exactly why you miss her hand until it's gripping your shoulder, spinning you. Suddenly both her palms are pressed flat against your chest, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, pulling it tight. Her knuckles have gone completely white from the pressure. When you focus, her face is inches from yours.
"You're a piece of shit." Her teeth are clenched. Every syllable pushed through them. "A smug, self-satisfied, worthless piece of shit."
"And you're a crybaby who craves validation." You don't remove her hands. You don't step back. "The worst kind of writer. The kind I genuinely can't stand. Not because you're bad - because you're needy. You need every single person in every single room to tell you you're brilliant, and the second one person doesn't, you come unraveled. And the worst part? Everyone around you lets you. Your publisher, your agent, your little entourage up thereâ" You tilt your head toward the terrace. "âthey all just nod along and validate whatever tantrum you're throwing this week. Nobody tells you no. Nobody pushes back. They just pat you on the head and tell you the mean critic doesn't understand your genius, and you eat it up because it's easier than actually sitting with the possibility that maybe - maybe - your work has problems. And if you really can't handle it, Chaewon - if one review is enough to send you spiraling across a terrace to grab a stranger by the shirt - then maybe you should seriously consider doing something else. Because this industry is going to keep hitting you, and the hits are going to get worse, and if this is how you cope, writing might not be for you.â
Her grip tightens on your shirt. Her jaw is trembling. "Take that back!â
"What are you going to do? Hit me?" You look down at her fists, bunched in the linen. Then back up. "Go ahead. But it won't make your writing any better."
She holds there for a full second. You're seeing everything in slow motion: her knuckles against the fabric of your shirt, her arms shaking, her eyes wet and furious and searching your face for something - a flinch, a crack, any sign that you're not as calm as you're pretending to be. The party hums above you. The sea moves below. You can feel her pulse through her fists where they press against your chest, hammering, and you genuinely think she's about to hit you. Or shove you backward into the parapet.
She moves.
Her weight shifts onto her front foot with every muscle in her body coiled toward violence, and you brace for it - the slap, the shove, whatever she's winding up to deliver.
She kisses you.
There's zero tenderness in it. Zero romance. This is violence, just happening to involve her mouth. She surges forward on her toes and crashes into you, lips first, and her teeth catch your lower lip immediately - not a nibble, a bite, sharp enough to draw blood. You taste copper. Her hands are still fisted in your shirt and she's pulling you down to her height, and the kiss is angry, graceless and wet, and between the collisions of mouth against mouth she's still talking, still spitting words into the space between breaths:
"I fucking hate youâ" Another kiss, harder. Her tongue against yours, then her teeth again. "You ruined my launchâ" She bites the corner of your mouth. "You ruined my yearâ" Her nails dig through the shirt fabric into your chest. "Arrogantâ" Kiss. "Pretentiousâ" Kiss. "Piece ofâ"
You kiss her back.
Not the way she's kissing you. Not frantic. You take her by the waist - both hands, firm, your fingers pressing into the linen where it sits against the curve above her hips - and you turn her. Smoothly. She makes a small, involuntary sound against your mouth as her back meets the stone wall, and her shoulder blades flatten against the rough surface, and you lean into her, and now you're the one setting the tempo.
You slow it down. You deepen it. Your hand comes up to the side of her neck - thumb against her jaw, fingers in her hair, tilting her head back. She goes with it. Hates that she goes with it. You feel the war happening in her body, the way she's simultaneously pulling you closer by the shirt and pushing against your chest with the heels of her palms.
She separates just enough to breathe, her lips swollen and still grazing yours, and her eyes are glassy and fierce at once - pupils blown, lashes wet, that flush crawling down her neck into her collarbones. Her fingers still twisted in your shirt. She swallows hard.
"If I let you fuck meâ" She licks her lower lip. Tasting you. Tasting herself. "âwill you write a better review next time? Is that what this is? Is that how you operate?"
You pull back an inch. Study her face.
She doesn't wait for an answer. The words are already loaded and she's pulling the trigger: "Because I've been wondering about Sana. That glowing review you wrote. Four thousand words of praise for a debut short story collection - from you, the man who hasn't said a nice thing about anyone's work in half a decade." Her jaw tightens. "You said she thanked you. She thanked you. So I'm asking. Did she get on her knees for that review? Was that the price of admission?"
"Careful, Chaewon."
"Did you fuck her in some hotel room and then go home and write about how luminous her prose was? Is that the pipeline? Because if that's what it takes, fine, here I am. At least I'm being upfront about it instead of pretendingâ"
You kiss her. Once. Brief. Hard enough to cut the sentence in half. You pull away slightly and look at her, and for the first time she canât read your expression. "I would never do something that low," you say. Quiet. Measured. "Not to her. Not to you. Not to my own work."
"Bullshit. Men like you alwaysâ"
"Men like me what? Say it. Finish the sentence."
She falters. Just for a beat.
"Here's what just happened, Chaewon. Pay attention, because I know how much you value close reading." You hold her gaze. "A woman - a young woman, a first-time author, someone who spent three years writing a book in a studio apartment in Osaka - received a positive review based on the quality of her prose. And your immediate response, your gut instinct, wasn't to consider that maybe she earned it. That maybe she wrote something genuinely good. Your first thought was that she must have spread her legs."
Her lips part, yet no sound escapes.
"You didn't question my integrity. You questioned hers. You took a woman's professional achievement and reduced it to a sexual transaction. Not because you have any evidence. Not because anything about Sana's behavior suggests it. But because the alternative - that a peer of yours might simply be more talented - is so unbearable to your ego that you'd rather tear another woman down than sit with it."
"That's not what Iâ"
"That is exactly what you did." Your thumb traces along her jaw. Slow. Gentle, which makes it worse. "You, Chaewon. The woman with the feminist book club recommendations on her Instagram. The one who posted that essay about women supporting women in publishing. Who put sisterhood in her bio last International Women's Day." You tilt her chin up. "And the moment another woman's work gets praised, you assume she fucked for it. Because in your mind, there's no other explanation for a woman succeeding where you didn't."
She swallows. You feel it under your fingers.
"So where's the sisterhood? Hmm?" You lean closer. Your lips nearly brush hers. "Where did it go? Or was it always just content?"
Her eyes are wet. Not from sadness - from the specific, burning shame of being seen doing something ugly and knowing you can't walk it back. Her mouth works. Her fingers clench and unclench in your shirt.
"You're arrogant, Chaewon. Not in the fun way. Not in the way that drives ambition or fuels good work." Your thumb settles on her lower lip. "In the corrosive way. The kind that eats talent from the inside out. The kind that makes you tear down other women because their success feels like your failure."
She stares at you. The flush on her chest has deepened three shades. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, and she's gripping your shirt so hard the fabric is stretched beyond recovery.
Her chin trembles once. She steadies it. "Sana is talented," she says eventually. Costing her something visible.
"Yes. She is."
"And I'mâ"
"Still pinned against a wall with my hands on you. So maybe save the self-reflection for later.â
You feel her swallow against your thumb. Her pulse hammers under your fingertips where they rest on her neck. Her chest rises and falls in these short, uneven breaths. Her lips are swollen from all the biting, parted slightly, and the look she's giving you is trying desperately to be pure hatred but can't quite commit.
"But," you say, your gaze dropping from her eyes to her mouth, down to her collarbones, following the way that white linen drapes against her skin in the dying light. Your hand slides from her neck down to her collarbone, thumb tracing the delicate ridge of bone. She doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. "âthe one thing I'll give you, Chaewon, is that you're unfairly fucking gorgeous.â
Her pulse is hammering so fast you can see it in her throat, her pupils are blown wide, she's breathing through her mouth, and every single one of these details contradicts what comes out of it next.
"So what's the plan here, huh?â She tugs at your shirt, pulling you closer even as her mouth pushes you away. âYou're gonna fuck me? Right here? Where anyone could just walk down those stairs andâ" Her gaze drops to your mouth for a half-second. Snaps back up. She shakes her head. "Jesus Christ. You're a fucking pervert."
"Is that what you want?"
"That's not an answer."
"It wasn't meant to be. I asked you a question."
She glances toward the staircase - calculating distance and risk in a single look - then back to you. Her fingers haven't released your shirt. She hasn't stepped back. Hasn't created a single inch of separation between her body and yours.
"I wantâ" She stops. Starts over, harder this time. "I need to get this out of my system. This frustration. You have no idea how the past few weeks have been for me. What this entire month has been because of you and your little hatchet job."
"So get it out."
"I will." She straightens up. There it is: the defiance snapping back into place, the bratty architecture rebuilding itself in real time, brick by brick. "But let's be honest with each other for once. You're not going to make me cum."
"It's not a theory. It's a prediction." She tilts her head. "Prove me wrong."
"I don't perform on command, Chaewon."
"Of course you don't. That would require actually delivering on all that confidence you walk around with." She pats your chest twice - condescending, calculated. "It's fine. I've learned to manage my expectations when it comes to you."
You look at her. She looks back. Defiant. Steady. Daring you with every molecule of her five-foot-four frame.
"You're still holding onto my shirt," you point out.
Her grip tightens reflexively. She glances down at her own fists.
"Force of habit," she says. Doesn't let go. âSo, what are you going to do about it?â
"Are you finished?"
"I'm asking you a question. What are you going to do?" She tugs your shirt again. Demanding. "Because if your plan is to just stand there looking constipated while I do all theââ
You don't answer. You let your hands do something instead. They start at her waist - where they've been resting against the linen - and they move upward. Slow. Over the curve of her ribs, feeling each one through the thin fabric, feeling the way her breathing stutters when your thumbs graze the underside of her breasts. She's not wearing much beneath the dress. You can tell. The linen is light, almost sheer in the fading golden light, and her nipples are already hard against the fabric, two small points pressing through the white.
Your palms settle over her breasts. She's small but full in a way that fits her frame perfectly, that perky firmness that you feel shift against your hands as she inhales sharply. You squeeze. Gently. Testing. Her eyelids flutter, and she bites down on her lower lip, and she's trying so hard not to react that the effort itself is a reaction.
You slide the straps of her dress down. One at a time. Left, then right. The white linen slips to her upper arms, and underneath there's a bra - simple, cream-colored, slightly sheer. Her breasts sit perfectly in the cups, the swell of them pushed together slightly by the cut, and you can see her nipples through the thin material, dark and stiff.
You lean in and kiss her while both hands come up to cup her breasts over the bra. She makes a sound into your mouth - involuntary - and you swallow it. You squeeze, firmer, rolling your thumbs across her nipples through the fabric, feeling them harden further under the pressure. She arches into your palms. Her hands come up to your shoulders, nails digging in, and her hips shift against the wall.
You take your time. You thumb the lace edge of one cup, pulling it down just slightly, exposing the upper curve of her breast. Kissing her jaw. Kissing the spot just below her ear. Feeling her pulse under your lips, rapid and heavy. She tilts her head back against the stone and her eyes close, and you drag your thumb across her bare nipple and she gasps, this tiny sharp intake that she immediately tries to smother.
Her patience shatters in under a minute.
"Are you serious right now?" Her eyes fly open and she snatches your wrist. "Do it quickly or don't do it at all. Someone could walk down those stairs any second and I'm not getting caught because you want to play out some slow-burn fantasy." She glances pointedly at your hands still cupping her chest. "What even is this? Are you savoring the moment? Writing mental notes for later?"
"I'mâ"
"Oh my god, have you literally never felt tits before? You're acting like a virgin who just got to second base. Either fuck me properly or get your hands off me.â
You stop. You pull back enough to look at her face. Then your hand comes up and catches her jaw - not roughly, but firmly, your fingers pressing into her cheeks, tilting her face up toward yours. Her eyes widen. Her lips compress between the pressure of your thumb and forefinger, and for a second she looks genuinely startled.
"I don't like being rushed," you say.
She tries to respond but your grip on her face makes the words come out slightly compressed: "Then you shouldn't be doing this in aâ"
"But fine." You release her jaw. "You're right. Let's get this over with quickly. I don't want to spend another second near you."
She opens her mouth to reply but you're already moving.
Your hand drops from her breast to her thigh. You gather the hem of her white linen dress - sliding it upward along her leg, the fabric bunching in your fist, her skin warm and smooth underneath. Your knuckles graze the inside of her thigh and her legs part, just slightly. The dress rides up past her hips. Simple white underwear. Cotton. A damp spot already darkening the fabric between her legs.
You slide your hand inside.
She's soaked. Not damp, not slightly wet - drenched. Your fingers slip against her folds, hot and slick, and the contrast between the venom coming out of her mouth for the past twenty minutes and the state of her cunt right now is so pointed it's almost funny. You cup her, letting the heel of your palm press against her clit, and her whole body jerks. Her hand flies to your forearm and grips it, nails leaving half-moons.
"Fuck," she breathes. Just that. One word. Raw.
You rub her slowly. Two fingers dragging along the length of her slit, spreading the wetness, circling her clit with a pressure that's just shy of enough. She rolls her hips into your hand, seeking more, and you pull back just slightly, keeping her at the edge of satisfaction, never quite landing where she needs you.
Then you push two fingers inside her. She gasps against your mouth and her hand tightens on your forearm. You feel her clench around your fingers - tight, wet, hot - and you curl them upward, pressing against that ridged spot on the front wall, and her legs nearly buckle. She grabs your shoulder with her free hand to stay upright, her heels sliding on the stone.
She kisses you. Desperate now, her teeth catching your lip again, her tongue pushing into your mouth, and it's messy, urgent and she's moaning against your teeth as you start to move your fingers in and out. Slow strokes. Deep. Curling on every withdrawal, dragging against that spot, and your thumb finds her clit and applies a steady, circular pressure that makes her thighs shake.
You pull your mouth from hers. Your lips brush her ear: "You're so predictable, Chaewon."
"Shut upâ"
"This whole performance tonight. Coming all the way across that terrace, getting in my face, making your little scene." You thrust your fingers deeper and she chokes on a moan. "You didn't come over here because you're angry. You came over here because you needed attention. My attention. And this was the only way you knew how to ask for it."
"That's notâ I didn'tâ" She's struggling to form sentences. Your fingers are working her steadily, a relentless in-and-out rhythm with your thumb circling her clit, and her hips are moving against your hand in tight, involuntary rolls. "I came over because you're a piece ofâ ahâ piece of shit who ruined myâ"
"You're a brat." You say it simply. Factually. Your fingers don't stop. "That's all this is. You came here tonight, found me minding my own business, started running your mouth, pushed and pushed and pushedâ" You curl your fingers and she whimpers, her forehead drops against your collarbone. "âall because you wanted me to do exactly this."
"Noâ"
"I bet in every possible version of tonight, you do the same thing." You press your thumb harder against her clit and she bucks against your hand. "Every scenario. Every outcome. You find me, you pick a fight, you act insufferable, and then you end up exactly where you are right now - pinned against a wall with my fingers inside you, pretending you didn't want it." Your lips move against her ear. "In every version of this, Chaewon, you're doing the exact same thing. Being an insufferable, bratty little nightmare until someone finally fucks you into silence."
She makes a broken sound against your neck. Her hips are grinding against your hand now, chasing it, and you can feel the tension building in her body - her thighs clamped around your wrist, her stomach muscles trembling, her walls fluttering around your fingers in that telltale rhythm.
"You're notâ" she starts, and her breath hitches. "You don't get toâ fuckâ you don't get to psychoanalyze me while you'reâ"
"While I'm what?"
"While you're fingering me, you arrogantâ oh godâ"
You increase the pace. Your wrist aches, but you don't care. You fuck her with two fingers, fast and deep, curling against her g-spot on every stroke, your thumb working her clit in tight circles, and she's falling apart in stages - first the insults dissolve, then the sentences, then the words, until all that's coming out of her mouth are these short, punched-out sounds, each one higher and more desperate than the last. Her nails rake down your forearm. Her head tips back against the stone wall, exposing the long line of her throat, and her eyes are shut and her mouth is open and her whole body is wound tight, trembling on the edge.
"Come," you tell her. "Since that's what you came here for."
She shakes her head. Stubborn. Even now. Even here, with her dress around her hips and her underwear shoved to the side and your fingers buried in her cunt, she's fighting it. "I'm not going to give you theâ the satisfactionâ"
"You're dripping down my wrist, Chaewon."
"That doesn't mean anythingâ"
"It means your body already made the decision your mouth is too proud to."
She grabs your collar and yanks you closer, teeth bared: "I've faked it with better men than you. Don't fucking flatter yourself."
You curl your fingers against that spot and her grip on your collar falters. You press your forehead to hers, look directly into her glassy eyes and say: "Then fake it. Go ahead. Put on a show for me. That's what you're good at, right? Performing?"
"Assholeâ"
"You're clenching so hard around my fingers right now you can barely breathe. Your thighs are shaking. Your clit is throbbing against my thumb." You twist your wrist and she chokes. "But sure. Tell me again how this doesn't mean anything."
Her head falls back against the stone. She's panting through clenched teeth, her chest heaving, and the defiance in her expression is crumbling at the edges but she holds it â jaw set, eyes burning. "I won't cum for you. I refuse. You don't get to have that."
"Babe, you're about thirty seconds from falling apart whether you give yourself permission or not."
"Don't call me babe, you pretentious piece ofâ"
You press your thumb flat against her clit, and she breaks.
Her whole body seizes. Her thighs clamp around your wrist and her back arches off the wall and her mouth opens in a silent cry that stays silent for one, two, three seconds - and then it's not silent anymore. It comes out of her in a long, shuddering moan that she tries to muffle against your shoulder, her teeth sinking into the fabric of your shirt, and you feel her clench around your fingers in rhythmic, involuntary pulses, wet and tight and relentless. Her hands are fisted in your shirt so hard the seams are straining. Her hips jerk against your hand in short, helpless thrusts. The orgasm rolls through her in waves, each one drawing another broken sound from her throat, and you keep your fingers inside her through all of it, still moving gently, dragging it out, making her ride it until she's twitching and gasping and pushing weakly at your chest.
You slow down. Stop. Hold your hand still, your fingers still buried in her, feeling the last tremors fade. She's breathing in ragged, uneven pulls, her forehead pressed to your shoulder, her entire body slack against the wall.
You withdraw your fingers slowly. She shivers at the loss.
And then you bring your hand up to her mouth.
Your fingers are slick, glistening in the last traces of sunset, and you press them against her lower lip. She opens her eyes - hazy, wrecked, furious - and stares at you. You don't say anything. The instruction is clear enough.
She holds your gaze. Defiant even now, even flushed and trembling and ruined, even with the taste of her own arousal shining on the fingers resting against her mouth. Her lips part. She takes your fingers in, slowly, her tongue sliding between them, and she sucks, hard enough that her cheeks hollow, her eyes locked on yours the entire time. She tastes herself and doesn't flinch. Doesn't break eye contact.
(She's Kim Chaewon. She'd rather choke than look away first.)
"I still hate you," she says.
"I prefer it this way." You say it against her temple, your lips brushing her hairline, her perfume mixing with the salt air and the faint musk of what just happened. "The more you hate me, the more I want to fuck you. It's a problem."
"It's a sickness."
"Probably."
Her eyes are black. Not brown anymore - the pupils have swallowed everything, blown wide, and the expression on her face lives somewhere in the space between wanting to tear your face apart and wanting to fucking consume you.
Without prior notice, her hand drops between you. She finds you through your trousers, already hard, straining against the fabric, and her fingers close around the shape of you, squeezing, measuring. Her eyebrows lift, and there's something almost clinical about the assessment, the way she traces the length of you through the cloth. Then her other hand moves to your belt.
She tugs at the buckle. "Prove it, then." Her fingers work the leather through the loop. "Show me how much you hate me."
You watch her struggle with the belt for two seconds. Then you take over - batting her hand away, pulling the leather free in one smooth motion, the metal clinking. She steps back half an inch to give you room, her shoulder blades finding the wall again, and her eyes track your hands as you unfasten the button, lower the zipper.
But you don't finish undressing. Not yet.
You grab her by the hips and turn her around.
She makes a startled sound - half gasp, half indignant yelp - as her palms hit the stone wall. The rough surface scrapes against her hands and she braces herself, and now she's facing the wall with her back to you and the white linen dress bunched around her waist. The view is nothing short of spectacular.
(Henry Miller once wrote that the best of life is lived with the brain below the navel, and while you've spent your entire career disagreeing with that sentiment on principle, right now, at this specific moment, staring at what's in front of you, the man makes an embarrassingly compelling case.)
Chaewon's ass is perfect. You've known this. You've noticed it before, in settings far more appropriate than this one - press photos, television interviews, that book signing last spring where she wore a charcoal pencil skirt that should have been illegal. Those tight, short evening gowns she favors for award ceremonies, the fabric clinging to the curve of her hips, her round ass always prominent and impossible to ignore. You've caught yourself looking more than once, and hated yourself for it, because acknowledging that a writer whose work you consider mediocre has an incredible ass felt like a concession you weren't willing to make.
And now sheâs here, slightly bent forward, hands braced on the stone. Her waist is so slim it makes the curve of her hips feel exaggerated. And her ass, round and tight, is framed by the bunched white fabric above and the smooth lines of her thighs below.
You push your pants and underwear down just enough - mid-thigh, functional, not bothering with more - and you step forward. You reach down and push her panties further aside with your thumb, and you press the head of your cock against her entrance.
She inhales sharply. Her fingers curl against the stone. But you don't push in.
You hold there. The tip of you resting against her, nudging between her folds, slick with how wet she still is. You rock your hips forward - just barely, just enough to slide against her without entering - and she clenches, her ass tightening, her thighs pressing together.
"Ask me," you say.
Her head whips around, brown hair catching the breeze. "Excuse me?"
"Ask me to fuck you."
A sharp bark of laughter escapes her, echoing off the cliff face. "You're out of your mind. You think I'm going to stand here and beg you? I don't beg. I've never begged for anything in my life and I'm certainly not starting with a man who uses the word dialectic in casual conversation."
You press forward another fraction of an inch. Not inside. Just there. Right at the edge. She pushes her hips back, trying to take you in, and you pull away. Matching her movement. Denying her.
Her palms slap the stone wall. "Oh, you think you're cute with that? You think this little game isâ just put it in. Stop being such a fucking tease andâ"
"That's not asking."
"I'm not asking. I don't ask. People ask me for things. Publishers. Agents. Producers. They line up and they ask me." She grinds her hips backward again and you retreat the exact same distance. A frustrated growl tears out of her throat. "God, you are insufferable. Even now. Even with your dick out you have to make everything a power trip."
You lean forward. Your chest against her back. Your mouth next to her ear, and she can feel you - hot, hard, pressing against her entrance without breaching it, and your breath is warm on the side of her neck as you say:
"If you don't ask, I'll leave you right here. In a public space. Dress around your waist. Panties pulled to the side." You press the head of your cock against her clit and she shudders violently. "Arousal running down your thighs. Without coming again. And I'll go back upstairs and finish my champagne." You drag yourself along her slit, slow, agonizing. "And you can fix your dress and go back to the party, dripping wet and unsatisfied. And everyone will see the flush on your face and wonder what happened to Kim Chaewon."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
"You're bluffing. You want this just as bad as I do. I felt how hard you are. You're not walking away fromâ"
You pull your hips back. One inch. Two. Creating distance. Her eyes go wide.
"Waitâ" She catches herself. Clamps her mouth shut. Her jaw flexes. She slams her palm against the wall. The war's written all over her face: pride versus desire, ego versus desperation. Six years of hating you and the unbearable emptiness of you pulling away.
Three seconds of silence. The sea crashes below. A burst of laughter from the terrace above.
She squeezes her eyes shut. Her nostrils flare. When she speaks, the words come through her teeth, ground down, every syllable costing her something she'll never get back:
"Fuck me." Low. Guttural. Furious. "Fuck me, you piece of shit. Are you happy? Is your little ego satisfied? Fuck me good. Fuck me until I can't think about your stupid fucking review or your stupid fucking face. And if you ever tell anyone I said this I will end your career, your life, and your bloodline. Now put it in before I change my mind andââ
You thrust into her.
No preamble. No gradual easing in. One firm, deep stroke that buries you to the hilt, and the sound she makes is incredible; this raw, punched-out cry that she wasn't prepared for, her fingers scrabbling at the stone, her back arching sharply. She's tight. Swollen from the orgasm, drenched, and the heat of her clenches around you in a way that makes your vision narrow for a second.
You don't give her time to adjust. You pull back and drive in again, establishing a rhythm that's hard and steady from the first stroke - not frantic, not sloppy, but intentional in its force. Each thrust pushes her forward into the wall, and she braces herself against it, her palms flat, her arms trembling with the effort of holding herself up.
Her hair sways in the sea breeze. That short brown bob, disheveled now, the bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat, strands catching across her parted lips. Her heels scrape against the stone beneath her, struggling for purchase - the angle is wrong for four-inch stilettos and she keeps sliding, her left foot stuttering, and she compensates by leaning harder into the wall, pressing her forearms flat against the rough surface.
You grip her hips. Both hands. Fingers digging into the soft skin above her hipbones, pulling her back onto you with every thrust.
âYou can be loud," you tell her, your breath coming harder now. "The sea. The music up there." Another thrust. Deep. She chokes on a moan. "Nobody can hear you."
She takes you at your word.
"Harderâ Is that all you've got?! Fuck me harder, you miserableâ every fucking review you wroteâ every wordâ I hope you were jerking off to this because this is the onlyâ ahâ the only honest thing you've everâ"
You pull her hips back sharply, changing the angle, and the next thrust goes deeper, hits differently, and her sentence dissolves into a strangled moan.
"Keep talking," you say. "I want to hear you run out of words."
"Fuck youâ" She grits through her teeth. "Fuck you and yourâ your pretentious fucking column and yourâ godâ your superiority complex and yourâ" Her head drops between her arms. You feel her clench around you, hard, involuntary, and the filth pouring out of her mouth is getting less coherent by the second. "You think this means something? You think because you can fuck me thatâ that you were right? About my books? Aboutâ"
"I was right about your books regardless of this."
"Shut up and fuck meâ"
"I'm already fucking you."
"Then do it betterâ"
You snake one hand from her hip to her hair. You gather the short strands at the back of her head - there's barely enough to grip, but you find purchase and you pull, arching her neck back, and a moan tears out of her that's so loud it bounces off the cliff face.
"Oh my godâ" Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, her mouth hanging open. "I hate youâ I hate you soâ fuckâ don't stopâ don't you dare stopâ"
You fuck her against that wall and the Mediterranean goes dark beneath you, slow and indifferent, the water shifting from copper to ink while the terrace hums above with clinking glasses and polite conversation and people who have no idea what's happening fifteen feet below them. The heels are useless now, her ankles buckling with every thrust, and the only reason she's still upright is because your hand is locked on her hip and your fist is tangled in her hair and the wall is doing the rest.
You're holding her together and taking her apart at the same time.
Her ass meets your hips on every stroke, that round, perfect curve you've spent years training yourself not to look at - in press photos, across crowded rooms - and now it's right here, bouncing against you, bare skin under bunched-up white linen, and the sight of her braced against centuries-old Italian stone with her designer dress shoved around her waist and her knuckles scraped raw from gripping the rock is fucking devastating.
"Make me cum." She says it suddenly. Her hand reaches back and grabs your wrist. "You hear me? Make me fucking cum. Right now."
You don't change pace.
"Are you deaf? I said make me cum, you useless piece ofâ after everything tonight, after all that shit you talked, the least you can do isâ" She chokes as you thrust deeper, but recovers, teeth bared. "âthe least you can fucking do is finish what you started. You owe me that. You owe me that."
You release her hair. Your hand slides around her hip to the front, finding her clit, and you press two fingers against it - rubbing in fast, tight circles while you keep thrusting. The dual sensation hits her immediately. Her whole body goes rigid, her walls clamping around you, and a high, thin sound starts building in her throat.
"Ohâ oh fuckâ"
"There it is."
"Shut upâ don't talk, justâ keep doingâ shitâ right there, right fucking there, don't you dare move your hand, don't you dare change a singleâ god â why are you so good at this, whyâ it's not fairâ" Her hips buck against you, chasing it, greedy. "Come on. Make me cum. Make me cum, you selfish fuckingâ I swear if you stop I'llâ I'll ruin your wholeâ"
She can't finish the threat.
It hits her in a wave.
Her eyes roll back (not a figure of speech), you see it happen as her head tips back onto your shoulder, her eyelids fluttering, her irises disappearing, and her mouth opens in a silent scream that finally breaks into a ragged, shaking moan. Her cunt locks around you in rhythmic contractions so tight you have to grit your teeth, and her legs give out entirely. You catch her - one arm banded around her waist, holding her upright while she shakes through it, her whole body seizing in pulses that seem to come from somewhere so deep that she probably doesn't even know where it came from. Her hand shoots back, seizing your neck, nails biting into your skin while she clings as if she might sink without you.
You keep fucking her through it. Slower now. Feeling every flutter and clench, her walls still spasming around you in the aftershocks, her thighs trembling against your hips. Your forehead is pressed to the back of her neck and your breath comes ragged and uneven and you're close - dangerously close - the pressure building at the base of your spine in a way that's becoming impossible to ignore.
"Where," you manage, and your composure is cracking, splintering at the edges, "where do you want me toâ"
"Are you seriously asking me that right now?" She shoves her hips back into you, grinding, swallowing you deeper. Her hand reaches back and grabs a fistful of your hair. "Where do you think? Inside. Cum inside me. Deep. Don't you dare pull out."
"Chaewonâ"
"What, you're going to get shy now?" She clenches around you - hard, purposeful, a squeeze that makes your knees buckle. "You fucked me against a wall in public and now you want to be responsible? Cum in my pussy. Fill me up."
"We shouldn'tâ"
"Breed me." She yanks your hair, pulling your mouth to her ear. "I know that's what you want. I know that's what this whole thing has been about. You want to mark me. You want to own something I can't take back." She rolls her hips in a filthy, grinding circle. "So do it. Pump me full. Breed this pussy. Put a load so deep in me I'll feel it for days."
"Come onâ" She's panting, shoving herself back onto your cock with short, vicious thrusts. "You had so much to say about my books, so much fucking commentary, but now you can't even cum when I'm telling you to? Breed me, you coward. Knock me up. I want every drop. I want it dripping out of me when I go back to that party and shake hands with my publisher."
"Fuckâ Chaewonâ"
"That's it. That's what you sound like when you're not being a smug piece of shit." She clenches again, rhythmic, milking you. "Give it to me. Stuff this little pussy full. I want to be leaking you. Breed me, breed me, breed meâ"
You bury yourself to the hilt and let go.
The orgasm rips through you, not gently, not gradually, but all at once, a slamming, full-body release that has you pressing her into the wall, your forehead dropping against the back of her neck, your hips jerking in short, involuntary thrusts as you empty yourself deep inside her. She moans at the feeling - the heat, the pulse of it - and clenches around you, milking every last spasm, her hand still gripping the back of your neck, her nails breaking skin.
You stay there for a long moment. Both of you breathing. The sea below, the party above, the darkening sky turning purple at the edges.
You pull out slowly. She shudders at the withdrawal.
And then - before you can step back, before you can reach for your belt - Chaewon drops.
She sinks into a squat right there on the stone, her white dress bunched around her waist, those ridiculous heels somehow still on her feet - balanced on the balls, stilettos angled against the rough surface - and your cum is already leaking out of her. You can see it in the dim light, a thin white trail sliding down the inside of her thigh, and she doesn't even seem to notice or care. She just takes the head of your cock into her mouth and starts cleaning you off with her tongue.
(It's genuinely hard to reconcile this image with the woman on the bestseller lists. The one teenage girls post about on TikTok with heart emojis and queen in the caption. Kim Chaewon, literary darling, squatting in a public place with cum dripping out of her pussy, sucking a man's cock clean while the party carries on above her.
If her fans could see her right now.)
She's thorough about it. Tongue swirling around the tip, tasting both of you, her dark eyes looking up at you through those messy bangs. Her lips are swollen and slick, and she sucks gently, almost lazily, with this expression that sits somewhere between contempt and satisfaction. Then she lets you go with a wet sound and wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb.
"Chaewon."
"What."
"I came inside you."
She looks up at you from her squat. Blinks once. "Yes. I was there."
"That'sâ are youâ"
"Don't be an idiot." She stands, tugging her dress down, her legs still shiny and slick. "It was dirty talk. I'm on the pill. I've been on the pill since I was nineteen." She reaches between her thighs and adjusts her panties, pressing the cotton back into place - your cum held against her skin by a thin strip of damp fabric. "You don't need to worry. The last thing I need is a pregnancy from a man who gave my book two and a half stars."
"It was two."
"Even worse." She tugs her bra strap up. Pushes her bangs off her forehead. Takes one breath, then another, and in about thirty seconds she's pulled herself together enough to pass inspection from a distance. Up close, though - the flush that runs from her cheeks to her chest gives her away. The swollen lips. That brightness in her eyes, wet and electric, that no amount of composure can disguise.
"I need to go." She straightens the hem of her dress without looking at you. "People will notice I'm gone."
She takes a step toward the staircase and your hand catches her wrist.
She stops. Looks down at your fingers circling her arm, raising an eyebrow.
"This isn't over." You hold her gaze. "I want you in my room tonight."
A beat. The corner of her mouth twitches - and the brat flickers back to life behind her eyes, bruised but not broken, her cutting tongue is quick to respond: "Already desperate for more?" She twists her wrist free, slowly, letting your fingers drag across her skin. "That's embarrassing for you. Don't get your hopes up." She takes a step back, toward the stairs. Then another. "It won't happen again."
She turns and walks up the stone steps. Her heels click against each one, steady, measured, the rhythm of a woman reassembling herself with every stride. Her thighs press together slightly as she climbs - holding everything in, and your mind goes straight there: she's full of you. Your cum inside her cunt, trapped by her underwear, leaking into the fabric with every step. You're absolutely certain she's fucking loving it. That she'll be at that party feeling you leak inside her panties, getting hornier by the minute, thinking about how you filled her up.
Chaewon doesn't look back.
(She'll be at your door by midnight.)
âąâąâą
The reality with Kim Chaewon is this: you don't hate her.
You know she thinks you do. She's built an entire narrative around it - the bitter critic, the failed artist, the man who made her his personal punching bag because he couldn't create anything of his own. It's a clean story. Sympathetic protagonist versus petty antagonist. Very on-brand for her, actually.
Very commercial.
But hate requires a kind of emotional investment you haven't made. What you feel is closer to disdain. Contempt, maybe, on your worse days. Not for who she is - you barely know who she is - but for what she's become. For the distance between the writer she could have been and the product she chose to be instead.
Her first two books weren't bad.
They weren't good, either - not in any way that would survive serious critical scrutiny, not the kind of work you'd hand to a colleague and say read this, something is happening here. But there was raw material in those early pages. An instinct for emotional architecture that hadn't yet been sanded down into formula. She had this way of structuring interior monologue that felt genuinely intuitive or accidental, as though she stumbled into moments of real clarity before the commercial instincts kicked in and smoothed everything over.
The first novel had this one passage. Chapter eleven. The scene in the laundromat.
You still think about it sometimes, which irritates you more than her sales numbers ever could. The protagonist is alone, folding clothes that belong to someone who just left her, and the prose does something unexpected: it slows down. Gets quiet. Stops trying to impress. For about four pages, Kim Chaewon wrote like someone who had forgotten she was being watched. The sentences got shorter. The observations got sharper. There was a detail about the way dryer sheets smell when they're warm, and how the character associated that specific scent with domestic failure, and it was precise in a way that nothing else in the novel managed to be. Four pages of a writer writing for herself instead of for the crowd.
And then chapter twelve started and the machinery kicked back in. The manufactured tension. The recycled emotional beats. The relentless, suffocating need to be liked by the reader, to be accessible, to never challenge or alienate or demand. But those four pages stayed with you. They're the reason you kept reviewing her. They're the reason her mediocrity feels personal.
You've never told her any of this. You never will.
(Credit where it's due: you've been editing this story as you tell it. Leaving out the part that doesn't fit the narrative. The part that came first, chronologically, and that you've spent six years pretending is irrelevant to everything that followed. It's not irrelevant. You know it's not. And since tonight has already stripped away every other pretense, you might as well lose this one too.)
The first time you met Kim Chaewon, you weren't interested in her books. You didn't even know who she was.
It was some event in New York: one of those publishing-adjacent cocktail things where everyone wears black and pretends to have read the longlist. Early in her career, probably her first or second time at something that size. You were standing near the bar, talking to an editor from The Atlantic, and she walked past. That's all. She walked past.
And you lost the thread of whatever you were saying.
She was - god. Too beautiful. That's the phrase your brain produced at the time, and it still holds. She didn't look like anyone else at that party. Not a writer, not an editor, not an actress doing press, not a journalist working a source. You genuinely couldn't place her, and that was rare for you - you could usually categorize everyone at these events within thirty seconds. But she resisted the taxonomy. She seemed a bit out of place, actually, standing near the bar with a drink she wasn't really drinking, watching the room with these careful eyes that were taking in everything while pretending to notice nothing. She was wearing a black dress that night, simple, nothing expensive, and her hair was longer then, past her shoulders, and she kept tucking it behind her ear in this gesture that was either nervous or calculated, and you couldn't tell which, and that ambiguity was what got you. You didn't know who she was, but you wanted to find out.
(And she is still beautiful. Thatâs what really bothers you about her. How beautiful and perfect she is. Your exact type, down to the specifics you'd never list aloud. And as a consequence, everything else about her - the commercial instincts, the Instagram aesthetics, the careful curation of a literary persona that prioritizes brand over craft - becomes something you don't just critique professionally. You resent it. Because it would be so much easier to dismiss her completely if she weren't the most attractive woman you've ever seen.)
That night in New York, you talked to her for a while. Twenty minutes, maybe. She was funny, sharper than you expected, quick with references, a little nervous in a way that made her more interesting rather than less. You asked her what she was working on. She said something vague about a novel. You asked if she wanted to get a drink somewhere quieter. She said sure, let me grab another one first - and disappeared. You scanned the room for her twice, then gave up. She'd simply left.
It was months later that you made the connection. You were halfway through her debut, reading it for a review, already taking notes, already identifying the structural problems that would become the backbone of your critique, and you decided to look up the author. The photo on the jacket. The bio. Kim Chaewon. And you stared at the name for a long moment, because it looked familiar, and then the memory surfaced: the bar, the black dress, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she said sure, let me grab another one first and vanished.
That girl wrote this.
She doesn't remember you. You're certain of it. In all the years since the public feuds, the review cycles, the festival encounters, the viral TikTok debacle, she has never once referenced that night. Never said we've met before or I remember you from New York. You were a stranger she talked to at a party and immediately forgot. A non-event. It took your first published review of her debut, almost a year later, for Kim Chaewon to become aware that you existed at all.
Your second encounter - which was, from her perspective, the first - happened at a reading in Brooklyn. You spotted her across the room and waved. Casual. Collegial. She looked at you, recognized the byline photo she'd presumably been seething over for weeks, and gave you the middle finger.
And no - you didn't start disliking her books because she rejected you at a cocktail party. That's the version she'd write if she ever fictionalized this, the version where the male critic's professional animosity is really just wounded ego, just a man who couldn't handle being turned down. It's reductive and self-flattering and exactly the kind of easy psychology she'd deploy in one of her novels. The truth is less dramatic: you already didn't care for the story before you knew who the author was. The prose had problems that existed independently of the woman who wrote it.
(But did finding out make you like her less? Did the memory of being dismissed at that bar curdle something that might otherwise have remained purely professional?
You've never let yourself answer that. Over the years, you've gotten really fucking good at not answering it.)
What you will say - what you've said in print, repeatedly, and stand behind - is that her writing suffers from a fundamental misunderstanding of psychological depth. Where Hemingway had his iceberg theory - the conviction that the dignity of a story depends on what's been cut, on the vast architecture of meaning that lives beneath the surface - Chaewon operates on the opposite principle. She over-explains. Every character's interior life is excavated and displayed with the thoroughness of an autopsy report. She narrates motivation, deconstructs emotional responses, maps the psychological terrain of every decision until there's nothing left for the reader to infer. It's not depth. It's annotation.
And worst of all: she writes about the mundane. Breakups, reconnections, the circular emotional arithmetic of modern relationships. No dragons. No galactic empires. No murder mysteries or geopolitical thrillers where the plot does the heavy lifting for you. Just people in apartments, making the same mistakes on repeat, trying to figure out why they keep wanting things that hurt them. And that should be commendable, because writing about the ordinary is exponentially harder than writing about the extraordinary. When you set a novel on a spaceship or a battlefield, the setting generates its own tension. The world does work for you. But when your entire narrative takes place in coffee shops and bedrooms and the passenger seat of someone's car at two in the morning, the prose has to carry everything. Every sentence has to earn its oxygen. There's nowhere to hide.
Chaewon knows this. On some level, she understands exactly how difficult the terrain is that she's chosen to work in. The problem is her solution to that difficulty, which is to explain. Relentlessly. Exhaustively. Every flicker of interior life gets excavated and mounted on the page with museum-grade lighting. Her characters don't just feel things - they feel things, then think about why they feel them, then contextualize those feelings within the broader pattern of their emotional history, then arrive at a thesis statement about what the feeling means, all while the reader sits there thinking yes, I got it four paragraphs ago, thank you. The excessive detail doesn't deepen the analysis. It drowns it. The weight of all that psychological annotation collapses onto itself until you can't feel anything underneath it anymore, because she never trusted the reader - or herself - enough to leave something unsaid and let the silence do the work.
The ambition is there. The restraint isn't. And restraint, when you're working with the mundane, isn't optional. It's the whole game. The banality of the subject matter demands that the prose do less, not more - that it trusts a well-placed detail to carry the emotional freight that three paragraphs of interior monologue can't. Hemingway understood this. Carver understood this. Chaewon understands it in theory and ignores it in practice, because leaving space means risking the reader not getting it, and Kim Chaewon cannot bear the thought of not being understood.
And that's the real tell, isn't it? That need to be understood. Because once you see it, you can't unsee it - the fingerprints are everywhere. Chaewon's characters don't exist independently of her. They're not autonomous people navigating their own messy, particular lives. They're vehicles. Projection screens. Every protagonist she's ever written is a thinly veiled apparatus for Chaewon to demonstrate how perceptive she is, how deeply she gets the human condition, how exquisitely she can map the interior landscape of a woman in crisis.
The characters don't drive the story. Chaewon drives the story, and the characters sit in the passenger seat while she narrates the route. You can feel her behind every monologue, every overwrought epiphany, every moment where a character arrives at some devastating self-knowledge that's a little too clean, a little too eloquent, a little too convenient to be coming from a fictional person rather than from the author showing off through them.
Her stories aren't about her characters. They're about Kim Chaewon, and how badly Kim Chaewon wants you to know that Kim Chaewon understands. The novels are mirrors she built for herself and then hung in public, and every reader who praises the depth of her characterization is really just praising Chaewon's reflection and calling it art.
And you know why.
You looked into her background after the identification. Before the debut, she'd been writing fanfiction. Prolifically. Tens of thousands of words posted on platforms you'd never visited, accumulating followers and kudos and comment threads full of heart emojis - and it confirmed something you already suspected: fanfiction writers learn to give readers what they want, and Chaewon never unlearned it. She carried that training into her professional career and it made her millions, and it also made her incapable of producing anything that genuinely costs the reader something. She reinforces your long-held theory that anyone whose foundational craft was built on fanfiction is, at the structural level, writing to satisfy rather than to challenge. No amount of applied artistic intention or pseudo-intellectual framing will ever fully purge those instincts. Chaewon is the proof.
(You're aware this is an uncharitable reading. You're aware that plenty of serious writers emerged from fan communities. You don't care. The theory holds for her, that's what matters.)
âąâąâą
It's twelve-seventeen in the morning and you're sitting on the edge of the hotel bed in a t-shirt and trousers, barefoot, reading a paragraph by Bolaño on your phone that you've already read three times without absorbing a single word.
She messaged thirty minutes ago through Instagram. Which means she opened the app. Typed your name into the search bar. Scrolled through whatever results came up. Found your profile. Tapped the message icon. Composed four words and hit send. The mental image of Kim Chaewon actively hunting you down on social media does something quietly devastating to your ego.
What room are you in?
You stared at it for ten seconds. Typed back your room number. Sent it.
omw
That was twenty-eight minutes ago. You put the phone down. Picked it up. Put it down again. Brushed your teeth. Sat on the bed. Opened Bolaño. Read the same paragraph about the Mexican poets three times while retaining absolutely nothing.
(In a normal situation you'd already be asleep. You keep early hours. You like mornings. You like the quiet discipline of a ten-thirty bedtime and a six o'clock alarm and the smug superiority of being awake before the rest of the world. This is not a normal situation. Whatever is happening now does not belong to the orderly life youâre used to.)
The knock comes soft. Two quick raps. Businesslike.
You cross the room. Open the door.
There she is: the white linen dress from the party is gone. She's wearing a loose cream-colored top, thin cotton, sitting off one shoulder in a way that could be intentional or could just be the cut. A dark skirt that falls just above her knees. No heels. Flat sandals. Her hair is different too; the precise, expensive bob from the terrace has relaxed, the humidity and coastal air coaxing a slight wave into it that she hasn't corrected. The bangs are pushed sideways, slightly tousled. No earrings. Minimal makeup. She looks like she got ready in a hurry and then spent fifteen minutes undoing evidence of the hurry.
Chaewon doesn't wait for an invitation. She shoulders past you through the doorway, her arm grazing your chest, and walks straight into the center of the room with the energy of someone inspecting a rental property. Her eyes sweep the space - terracotta tile, white bedding, shuttered windows cracked open to let the night air in. The half-empty bottle of mineral water on the nightstand. Your phone screen still glowing with a page from The Savage Detectives.
She turns. Leans against the desk. Crosses her arms.
"So. What do you want?"
You close the door. The latch catches with a clean click. "You came to my room, Chaewon."
"Because you told me to."
"I mentioned it. You made the decision."
Her chin drops and her eyes roll skyward. "Wow. Semantics. Groundbreaking." She drums her fingers against her own bicep. "I'm here. Get to the point."
You stay where you are. Leaning against the closed door, arms loose at your sides. She's standing with her weight shifted to one hip, jaw set, chin angled up in that particular tilt she defaults to when she wants to look unbothered. The posture reads as boredom. The details don't. Her foot is tapping an uneven rhythm against the terracotta. Her fingers keep pressing into her arm, kneading the muscle there. She doesn't realize she's doing either.
"You changed," you say.
"Obviously. I wasn't going to parade through a hotel hallway at midnight in a cocktail dress." She pauses. Looks away for half a second. "And I had to change everything I was wearing. After earlier."
"You changed your hair, too."
Her hand lifts - instinctive, self-conscious - and her fingers touch the wave sitting at her jaw. She catches herself doing it and shoves the hand back into the crook of her arms, fast, annoyed. "It's the humidity. It does this. I can't control it."
"It suits you."
She shrugs. One shoulder. Barely a movement. "Okay. Cool."
"You look pretty."
"I heard you the first time." Clipped. She starts picking at a thread on the sleeve of her cream top, suddenly fascinated by it. "You don't need to keep stacking compliments. I own a mirror. I'm aware."
"Fine."
"And I didn't come here forâ" She waves her hand, a gesture that encompasses you, the room, the compliment, the full scope of whatever this situation is becoming. "I came because you said it wasn't over. So." Her palms spread open. "Finish it. Say whatever speech you've been rehearsing so I can go back to my room and pretend tonight didn't happen."
You push off the door and walk past her to the nightstand. Pick up the water bottle. Pour a glass. Take a sip. Set it down. Everything unhurried. You can practically hear her teeth grinding. "You messaged me," you point out. "You opened Instagram. You typed my name into the search bar. You found my profile and you wrote me a message. That was all you."
She shoves off the desk. "You absolute prick, I know you did that on purpose. You said come to my room and didn't give me a room number. What was I supposed to do, knock on every door in the building? If you brought me here just to run another psychological evaluationâ"
"I didn't bring you anywhere. You practically ran."
"I did not run."
"Twenty-eight minutes. That includes changing your outfit, changing your underwear, doing something with your hair, finding my profile on Instagram, navigating a hotel you've never been in before, and walking here." You take another sip of water. "That's efficient, Chaewon. That's someone who wanted to be here."
"I just want this to be over already."
"Then come here."
She doesn't move.
She stands three feet away, bathed in the amber glow of the bedside lamp, her jaw tight, the pulse visible in the hollow of her throat. The wave in her hair catches the light. Her chest is rising and falling a fraction too fast for someone performing indifference.
You sit on the edge of the bed. Lean back on your hands.
"Come here."
Something behind her eyes gives way, just a small structural collapse somewhere deep in whatever internal argument she's been losing since she knocked on that door. She closes the distance in two sharp strides. Her knees bump yours. This close, you can smell her. Not the gardenia from the party, something different, lighter, softer. A private scent. The salt air is still caught in her hair.
She looks down at you. You look up at her.
"You're insufferable." She says it quietly. Gently almost.
Your hand finds the back of her leg. Bare skin, smooth, warm from the walk. She tenses â one quick contraction that runs up her thigh â but she doesn't move away. Your fingers drift higher, tracing along her calf, slipping beneath the hem of her skirt. Slow. Giving her every chance to step back.
She doesn't step back. Her hand lands on your shoulder instead, fingers curling into the cotton of your t-shirt, gripping loosely.
"Kiss me," you say.
Her expression doesn't change. She holds your gaze with that stubbornness that defines everything she does â writing, arguing, standing in hotel rooms at midnight refusing to admit why she's there. Her fingers tighten in your shirt. Her thumb moves against your shoulder, almost absently.
"No."
"No?"
"You do it." She says it plain. No coyness. "I kissed you first on the terrace. I'm the one who started this. So it's your turn." Her chin lifts, just enough. "Unless you can't."
"You bit a hole in my lip."
"And you loved it." Her free hand comes up between you. Her thumb finds the small cut on your lower lip â tender, still slightly swollen â and she traces it. Gently. So gently it catches you off guard, the careful attention she gives the mark she left, studying it like she's reading her own handwriting on someone else's page.
She holds her thumb there. Against your mouth. Her eyes on yours.
"So kiss me back."
You don't stand up. You hold her waist and pull her down toward you instead. A compromise. So neither of you has to fully give in.
She lets out a sharp breath as her knees land on the mattress on either side of your thighs, straddling you, and your mouth finds hers before she's fully settled. Your hand slides up to the back of her neck, fingers threading into the damp, wavy hair at her nape, and you kiss her properly; slow, deep, taking every second she'll give you. She responds immediately. Her lips part. Her tongue meets yours. Her hands slide up your chest to your jaw, tilting your head where she wants it, and the kiss deepens as her weight settles fully onto your lap. Warmth and pressure through the fabric of her skirt, through your trousers.
She shifts her hips - a small roll that presses her down against you - and your hands drop from her waist to her thighs. Bare skin under the hem of her skirt. Smooth. Warm. Your palms run down the outside of her legs, feeling the taut muscle there, then slide back up. Under the skirt this time, fabric bunching against your wrists as your hands travel higher.
You find her ass and squeeze. Both hands. Full grip. She's not wearing the same underwear from earlier. Something thinner. A different texture (lace, probably), you can feel every curve of her through it, that round, perfect shape filling your palms completely, and you pull her tighter against you. She gasps into the kiss and catches your lower lip between her teeth. Gentle this time. Just pressure. Testing the cut she made earlier.
She pulls back an inch. Her lips are wet, slightly swollen. She says: "You're obsessed with my body."
"And you're obsessed with me."
"Those aren't the same thing."
"It's worse, actually. I'm obsessed with something I can actually touch. You're obsessed with a man who gave your book two stars."
"Don't flatterâ"
"You're in my lap at midnight, Chaewon. I didn't come find you."
She grabs a fistful of your t-shirt and twists it: "Don't act innocent. Don't you dare. You've spent years building this. Every review. Every time you showed up to an event I was at and stood in the corner watching me with that fucking look on your face." She leans in, her forehead nearly touching yours. "You put yourself inside my head, review by review, takedown by takedown, until I couldn't go a single day without thinking about you. You engineered this. And now that you've got exactly what you wantedâ" She grinds down against you, one slow, filthy roll of her hips that makes your grip on her ass tighten hard enough to leave marks through the lace. "âyou get to live with it."
Her hands drop to the hem of your t-shirt. She grabs it and pulls upward, and you lift your arms to let her strip it off. She tosses it somewhere behind her and then presses both palms flat against your bare chest, fingers spread, and pushes.
You go down. Back flat on the mattress. She's straddling you, looking down with the lamplight behind her, and her expression is focused now, intent, the anger still present but running alongside something hungrier. Her nails drag lightly down your chest, not scratching, just feeling, tracing the lines of your ribs, the plane of your stomach. Cataloging.
"Lie still," she says.
She slides off your lap and repositions herself between your legs, her knees on the mattress, her hands going to your belt. (This isnât like the terrace, where she struggled. Now her hands are steady. Buckle first, then leather, then button, then zipper. Each movement controlled, practiced in thought before action.)
"This time I want to do it properly," she mutters, tugging your trousers down your hips. You lift slightly to help. She pulls them to your thighs, then your underwear, and your cock springs free hard, fully hard, straining upward, because how could it not be with Kim Chaewon kneeling between your legs in a hotel room on the Amalfi Coast at midnight.
She wraps her hand around you. Firm grip. Her fingers are small but strong - a writer's hands, you think absurdly - and she strokes once, base to tip, watching your reaction with those analytical eyes. Her thumb swipes across the head, spreading the bead of moisture there, and she strokes again. Slow. Steady. Not teasing, just assessing.
"You're pretty," you say.
Her hand pauses mid-stroke. She looks up at you. "I know."
"I mean it."
"I said I know. You don't need to say it." She resumes stroking, her grip tightening slightly on the upstroke. "Don't be romantic. It doesn't suit you."
"I'm not being romantic." You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at her properly, kneeling there, her wavy hair falling across her forehead, one strap of her cream top sliding off her shoulder, her small hand wrapped around your cock. "It's a fact. The same way I find you beautiful, I find you fuckable. Those two things coexist in my head without any romance between them."
Her eyebrows rise.
"And I knewâ" You watch her hand move. "âsooner or later, you'd end up with my cock in your mouth."
She stops stroking.
"Because thisâ" You nod toward her hand, her position, the whole arrangement. "âis the closest you'll ever get to pleasing me. You can't do it with your prose. You certainly can't do it with your plotting. But this, you might actually be qualified for."
Silence. Her jaw tightens. Her grip on your shaft tightens too, not painfully, but enough that you feel it, a warning transmitted through her fingers.
"Those are brave words," she says, very quietly, "to say to a woman who currently has your dick between her teeth." She leans forward and her lips graze the head of your cock, parted just enough that you feel the edge of her incisors. "One wrong sentence and I could end your whole evening. Your whole career, frankly. Hard to write scathing reviews when you're in a hospital explaining to a nurse how you lostâ"
"Okay, you make a fair point. Please don't bite my dick off."
She laughs, caught off guard. Then she composes herself. Bites her lower lip. Her gaze drops to your cock in her hand and she studies it the way she probably studies a first draft: measuring, appraising, already planning what she's going to do with it.
"I think I'd rather keep enjoying myself." She strokes you. Base to tip. Slow. Her thumb sweeps across the head and her grip tightens on the way back down. "I'm not going to compliment your personality. Or your professional integrity. Or your hideous fucking opinions about contemporary fiction." Another stroke. Firmer. Her wrist rotates at the top and your hips twitch. "But this I can work with."
She lowers her mouth onto you.
Her lips part around the head, stretching, and the warmth hits you first - wet, encompassing, her tongue pressing flat against the underside as she takes you in. Not rushing. Just the first couple of inches, her mouth adjusting, learning the shape of you. She pulls back until only the tip remains between her lips and swirls her tongue around it in a slow circle. Then sinks back down, taking more this time, and you feel the ridge of your cock drag across the roof of her mouth.
Her cheeks hollow as she sucks. One hand wraps around the base of your shaft, her small fingers not quite meeting, and she strokes in tandem with her mouth, down when her lips descend, up when they rise. The coordination is precise. She finds a rhythm and settles into it, her head moving in smooth, unhurried bobs, her eyes falling shut.
You exhale. Slow. Controlled. Your hand comes to rest on the top of her head, fingers sinking into the soft waves of her hair. Not pushing. Not guiding. Just there.
She hums around your cock, and it's a low, satisfied sound, kinda casual, and the vibration runs through you from root to spine. Her free hand slides up your thigh and her nails drag lightly across your skin as she takes you deeper, her lips stretching further down your shaft, and you feel the back of her mouth, the beginning of her throat. She holds there for a beat, breathing through her nose, then pulls back with a slick, sucking drag that makes your fingers curl in her hair.
"You're quiet," she murmurs against the head. Her lips brush you as she speaks, shiny and swollen. She kisses the tip. Soft. Then her tongue slides out and laps at the slit, tasting, and her eyes open to watch your reaction. "Usually you have so much to say."
"I'm letting you work."
"How generous." She takes you back in. Deeper, her jaw opening wider, and you feel yourself slide past the back of her tongue. She gags (barely, a small contraction she controls immediately) and pulls back to a comfortable depth, sucking hard. Her hand twists at the base. Her tongue does something against the underside, this rolling, pressing motion, and your thigh muscles go taut.
She pulls off. A thin strand of saliva stretches between her lower lip and the head of your cock, catching the lamplight before it breaks. She licks her lips and strokes you with her wet hand, spreading the slickness.
"You know what's funny?" She presses her lips to the side of your shaft. Not sucking. Just resting there, talking against your skin: "You spend all this time critiquing other people's technique." A kiss, halfway down. "Their pacing." Another kiss, near the base. "Their execution." Her tongue drags all the way up, flat and slow, from root to tip. "But you won't say a word about mine."
"Your execution is fine."
"Fine." She squeezes your cock. "I sell thirty million copies and you call it comfort food. I suck your dick and it's fine." Her mouth wraps around the head and she sucks, hard, cheeks caving in, then releases with a wet sound. "You're going to have to do better than that."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to be honest. You're always telling me to be honest." She takes you into her mouth again, and this time she goes further than before - past the halfway point, past the place where her gag reflex kicked in, pushing herself, and you feel the tight ring of her throat resist and then yield, and a groan escapes you before you can catch it. She pulls back, eyes watering, a triumphant glint cutting through the gloss. "There. Was that fine?"
"That wasâ"
She doesn't let you finish. She's back on you, both hands now, one wrapped around the base and the other cupping beneath, and her mouth is working you with a new intensity. Faster, wetter, sloppy in a way that's less about technique and more about hunger. She's moaning around your cock, these small, muffled sounds that she's either performing or can't help, and either way they're sending jolts through your nervous system. Spit is pooling at the base of your shaft, running down her fingers, dripping onto the sheets.
She pulls off, gasping. Wipes her chin with the back of her hand. Looks up at you from between your legs with mascara starting to feather at the corners of her eyes and her lips puffy and glistening and her chest heaving under the cream top.
"You can fuck my mouth." She says it simply. Directly. No preamble.
"Chaewonâ"
"I mean it. Stop being polite. I'm not fragile." Her tongue traces the vein running along the underside of your shaft. "I can feel you holding back. Your hand's been sitting on my head for five minutes doing absolutely nothing." She wraps her lips around the tip, sucks once, releases. "So grab my hair and fuck my throat. I want you to. I want to choke on it."
"I was admiring the view before things get rough."
"Things got rough on that terrace six hours ago. We're way past admiring." She takes you deep again, all the way, her nose pressing against your stomach, her throat convulsing around the head, and holds herself there until her eyes stream, then pulls off with a ragged gasp and a string of spit.
You thread your fingers through her hair. Gather the short damp strands at the back of her skull, finding enough to grip. Her eyes widen slightly (anticipation, not fear) and her hands come up to brace against your thighs.
You push her head down.
Her throat opens and she swallows around you. You pull her back up by the hair and push her down again. Setting the pace yourself now. Each stroke burying you in the tight heat of her throat, each withdrawal drawing a gasp from her that she barely gets out before you're pushing in again. Her nails sink into the muscle of your thighs. Her eyes are watering freely, the mascara smudging into dark crescents beneath her lashes. Spit is running freely down her chin, dripping onto the sheets, and every time you thrust into her mouth she makes this muffled, desperate sound, half gag, half moan, that she'd be mortified by if she could hear it from the outside.
You fuck her mouth with deep strokes with a rhythm she can anticipate but not control, pulling her hair to tilt her head at the angle you want. She gags on a particularly deep thrust and you hold her there, feeling her throat constrict and flutter around the head of your cock, her fingers scrabbling at your thighs, tears spilling down her cheeks. You hold for one second. Two. Then pull her back.
She gasps, a broken sound. Drool slips past her lower lip and gathers on the sheet between your thighs. Her chest rises and falls in sharp pulls of air as she looks up at you, eyes glazed and unfocused, lips swollen and wet, hair knotted tight in your fist. Spit streaks her chin, her neck, even her hand. Sheâs completely undone, staring at you like sheâs daring you to even think about stopping.
"More," she rasps. Her fingers dig into your thighs so hard they'll bruise. "Harder.â
You drag her back down onto your cock and give her exactly what she asked for. Harder now. Each thrust draws a low creak from the bedframe, her choking sounds steady and hungry, fingernails scoring your thighs as the room becomes saturated with slick, unrestrained rhythm.
(Somewhere above you, through the ceiling, someone is playing classical piano. Debussy, maybe. The juxtaposition is nearly absurd.)
(God, the sight of her. Kim Chaewon: bestselling fucking author, Instagram darling, the woman whose sales you supposedly tanked by seven percent - on her knees with your cock in her mouth. Mascara streaking down her cheeks, spit dripping from her chin, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes every time she gags. And there's something almost worshipful about the way she's working you.
She'd absolutely kill you if you said that out loud.)
You maintain the same pace, steady and deep. Fingers tangled in her hair, palm firm against her jaw to keep her in place. Each stroke presses farther, and you feel her throat tighten before she forces it to relax, swallowing, tongue sliding along you. Saliva spills freely, messy and unfiltered, coating you in wet heat.
Good. Let it run. You want every inch soaked. Thereâs more coming.
"Get it wetter," you tell her.
She moans something unintelligible around your cock and redoubles her effort, her mouth producing obscene, sloppy sounds as she works you with her throat and her tongue, twisting, stroking, spitting on the shaft and spreading it, and the sheer enthusiasm of it makes your stomach clench. She's performing - of course she is, she performs everything - but the performance is so committed it becomes indistinguishable from sincerity.
You hold her down one final time. Deep. Her throat spasms. Her nails break skin on your thigh.
Then you let go.
She pulls off gasping, coughing, one hand flying to her chest as her lungs expand. Strings of saliva hang between her swollen lips and the head of your cock, catching the lamplight. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and sits back on her heels, panting. Her eyes are streaming. The mascara has migrated to her cheekbones in dark smears. Her hair is a disaster, the careful waves twisted and matted from your grip.
You sit up and reach for her. Your hands find the hem of her cream top and you pull it upward, over her stomach, over her ribs, over her head. She lifts her arms to let you, and the top comes free and drops to the floor, and she's bare from the waist up.
No bra. Just her.
Small and firm breasts, proportional to her frame, the kind that don't need support, that sit high on her chest with a natural perkiness that her designer outfits always hinted at without confirming. Her nipples are dark, already stiff, and her skin is flushed from her collarbones to her sternum.
You lean forward and press your lips to the center of her chest. Right between her breasts. You breathe her in - salt air, residual perfume, the faint musk of sweat and arousal, something warm underneath it all that's just her, just skin. You stay there for a moment. Inhaling. Your hands resting on her waist.
Then your mouth moves to her left breast. You drag your lips across the curve of it, feeling the soft weight against your mouth, and her hands fly to your head the moment your mouth closes around her nipple. Both of them, fingers plunging into your hair, gripping hard, pulling you in - not guiding, not suggesting, but trapping your face against her chest with a possessiveness that contradicts every word she's said tonight, pushing the soft swell of her breast further into your mouth, and the exhale that escapes her is shaky, thin and completely involuntary.
"Harder," she breathes. Her nails drag across your scalp. "Suck harder. You weren't shy when you had your fingers inside me, don't get shy nowâ"
Your cheeks hollow around her nipple, tongue pressing the stiff peak against the roof of your mouth, and the sound she makes is small and desperate and cuts off mid-breath. Her legs shift against the sheets. Her hips roll once, searching for contact that isn't there.
"You're really obsessed with my body." She says it through her teeth, her fingers tightening in your hair until it stings. "Aren't you? You pretend it's about my writing - all that intellectual bullshit, all that criticism - but this is what you actually think about. My tits in your mouth. Fucking pervert."
You graze your teeth across the nipple. Light. Just enough.
She gasps - sharp, startled - and her spine curves, pressing her chest against your mouth. "Ohâ god. Do that again."
You do it again. Slower. Letting her feel the edge of your teeth drag across the sensitive peak before you close your lips around it and suck, hard, and her grip in your hair turns vicious.
"You've been staring at my chest for years." She's panting now, her ribcage expanding rapidly beneath your mouth. "Every event. I always caught you looking and you alwaysâ ahâ you always pretended you weren't. At least now you're being honest about it, you depraved piece ofâ"
You switch to the other breast. Your mouth drags across her sternum - the flat, warm plane between, her heartbeat hammering beneath the bone - and then your lips find the right nipple, already stiff, already flushed dark and swollen from arousal, and you close your mouth around it and bite.
Not gently.
"Fuckâ" Her legs jerk. Her heel digs into the mattress. "Careful with yourâ no!" She stops herself. Her fingers rake through your hair and press your face harder against her breast. "No, don't be careful. Bite me. I like it. I can take it."
You bite again. Harder. Enough to leave the faint impression of your teeth in the soft skin around her areola. She whimpers; this breathy, broken sound that doesn't belong to the woman who called you a piece of shit on a terrace six hours ago.
"You like that?" you murmur against her breast.
"Shut upâ Justâ use your mouth. Less talking, moreâ" She pushes your head down, back onto her breast, and you take the nipple between your lips and pull, sucking with a slow, steady pressure that makes her toes curl against the sheets. Her head tips back. Her eyes flutter closed. Her thighs press together, squeezing, and you can see the tension building in her stomach, the muscles in her abdomen flickering.
"You could make me cum from this," she whispers. There's something almost accusatory about it, as though this is another grievance to add to the list. "From just this. From sucking on my tits. That's how wound up you've got me. Are you happy? Is this what you wanted?"
You drag your tongue in a slow circle around her nipple. She shudders head to toe.
"Look at you," she murmurs. Her fingers comb through your hair, almost tender for a moment, before her nails scrape down to the base of your skull. "The big important critic. Mr. Intellectual Integrity. And here you are with your face buried in my chest, sucking on my tits in a hotel room in Italy, making little sounds you don't even realize you're making." Her thumb traces the shell of your ear. Her hips roll again, restless, needy. "If your readers could see you right now. If the editorial board could see you. On your knees for the woman you said writes comfort food." She lets out this breathless, mean little laugh. "What would they think?"
You pull back. Look up at her. Her nipples are swollen and slick, glistening in the lamplight, flushed a deep, bruised pink from your mouth. You kiss her. Hard, brief, your hand gripping her jaw, tasting the small shocked sound she makes against your teeth.
Then you're moving, making room for her. "Lie down.â
She kneels on the mattress, watching you. Processing the shift in spatial dynamics. Then she stretches out on her back. You start at her feet. Her sandals. You undo the left one, slide it off, set it on the floor. Then the right. Her toes are painted a muted pink. Your hands travel up her calves to the waistband of her skirt. You unzip it at the side, and she lifts her hips as you pull it down her legs and off. Underneath: black lace panties, just as you suspected. Different from the cotton pair on the terrace, and the implication of that choice - standing in front of her suitcase, selecting these, for this - for you, is very flattering, thank you.
You hook your fingers into the lace and pull them down. Over her hips, down her thighs, past her knees. She kicks them free and they land somewhere near the sandals.
She's naked now. Completely. Just a body. Slim, toned, those improbable curves that start at her narrow waist and swell into hips that seem designed to fill your hands.
"On all fours."
She holds your gaze for a beat. Then she rolls over and rises onto her hands and knees.
You move behind her, ositioning yourself on your knees, your still-hard cock heavy between your legs, slick with her spit. You take a moment. Just looking.
She glances back over her shoulder. Impatient. "Why are you just sitting there? Are you going to fuck me or write another review?"
"I'm going to fuck you." Your hands settle on her hips. Slide backward. Cup her ass. "But I was thinking of something different this time."
You grip both cheeks and spread them. Wide. Exposing everything: the wet, swollen folds of her pussy, and above them, the tight pink ring of her asshole. Completely visible. Completely vulnerable. She feels the air against her and goes very still.
Your thumb finds her asshole. You don't press, just drag the pad of it across the tight ring, slow, spreading the slick wetness that's already dripping from her pussy. She shivers. A full-body thing, starting at the base of her spine and rolling upward through her shoulders, and her thighs clench together, the goosebumps rise across her lower back in a wave you can actually see in the lamplight.
She's so sensitive there. Every nerve ending lit up and screaming.
"No." She says it immediately. Reflexively. Her head whips around. "Absolutely not. You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm letting youâ"
"You want it too." You circle her hole again. Feather-light. Her hips buck forward, then push back - contradicting her mouth before she can catch herself. "I can feel it, Chaewon. The way you're reacting to this. You're shaking."
"I'm shaking because I'm angryâ"
"You're shaking because you're curious." Your other hand grips her hip, holding her steady while your thumb keeps its slow, maddening orbit. "And because you know how good this is going to feel. All that anger. All that frustration you've been carrying around for months..." You lean forward, your chest close to her back, your mouth near her ear. "I'm going to fuck every bit of it out of you."
She makes a sound. Something caught between a moan and a protest that dies in her throat. "Not a chance." She tries to pull forward, crawling up the bed, but your grip on her hip holds firm and she barely moves an inch. "I would never give you my ass. Of all the men on this planet - you? The man who ruined my book launch? Not in this lifetime."
You slap her. Open palm, sharp, right across her left cheek. The crack bounces off the hotel walls and her whole body jolts forward. She yelps - surprised, indignant, aroused in a way she can't disguise because her back arches and her ass pushes up and her fingers claw at the sheets.
You squeeze where you just hit. Kneading the warm flesh, watching the pink bloom spread under your palm. "This ass is perfect." You spread her cheeks apart again, wide, thumbs pulling her open. "You already know that. I already know that. Everyone who's ever watched you leave a room in one of those tight little dresses knows that." You run your thumb across her hole one more time and her entire body breaks out in goosebumps again, her skin prickling under your hands. "And you know exactly what I want to do with it."
"You're a pervert," she whispers. But her hips have stopped trying to escape. They're rocking, subtly, pushing back toward your hand.
"Maybe." Your thumb circles. Slow. Patient. Tracing the tight ring, never pressing in, just suggesting. The wetness from her pussy is everywhere - coating your thumb, dripping down the crease between her legs, making everything slick. Her thighs twitch. "But this is what I want. This or nothing. I'll get dressed, you can go back to your room, and we'll pretend tonight was a bad decision at a festival."
"Or?"
"Or you stay."
"Even if Iâ" She swallows. Her bravado is crumbling at the edges. "I don't have any lube. You can't justâ it doesn't work withoutâ"
"You spent the last ten minutes getting my cock as wet as it's ever been." You reach down and wrap your hand around yourself - still drenched, coated thick with her spit, glistening in the lamplight. "Trust me. That's not the problem."
She drops her head between her arms. Her words come out muffled against the pillow: "It's going to hurt. A lot. It's going to hurt a lot and Iâ"
"Yes." You don't lie to her. She'd know if you did. "At first."
She turns her face to the side. One eye visible, blown and wide, searching your face for something she can hold onto. Her lower lip is caught between her teeth. "And after that?"
Your hand leaves your cock and finds the small of her back. You slide it upward. Slowly. Over each knob of her spine, between her shoulder blades, up to the nape of her neck where the short hair curls damp against her skin. Then back down. The same path. Slow. Your palm warm and steady against her, tracing the architecture of her body, and you feel the tension start to loosen - not all of it, not even most of it, but enough. A fraction of the rigidity melting out of her muscles. "After that, it's going to feel incredible. And I'll go slow." Your hand settles on the curve of her lower back. Resting there. Warm. "I would never hurt you, babe."
"Promise me." Almost inaudible. She's not looking at you anymore - she's looking at the headboard, at the wall, at anything that isn't your face. "Promise you'll go slow. Promise me."
"I promise."
She buries her face in the pillow. You watch her back rise and fall. Once. Twice. Three times. Deep, shaky breaths, the kind you take when you're gathering every scrap of nerve you have left. She faces you again, cheeks blazing. Tears gather in her eyes, but her gaze is unyielding.
"Okay." She exhales hard through her nose. "Fuck it. Okay. Go slow. And if it hurts too much I'm kicking you in the balls.â
You position yourself behind her. One hand on her hip, steadying. The other guiding your cock upward - past her dripping pussy, past the slick crease between her legs, until the head rests against that tight, clenched ring. She tenses immediately. Her entire body locks up, every muscle going rigid, and you feel the resistance before you even begin to push.
"Breathe," you tell her. Your thumb strokes her hip. "Relax. Push back against me."
"Easy for you toâ" She cuts herself off. Inhales. You feel the effort it takes her to unclench, the conscious relaxation of muscles that every instinct is telling her to keep tight.
You press forward. Just the tip. The head of your cock pushing against her hole, stretching it, and the resistance is extraordinary. Hot and so fucking tight, her body fighting the intrusion even as she tries to let you in. She makes a sound into the pillow, high and muffled.
"Fuckâ" Her hand shoots back and grabs your wrist. Not pulling you away. Just holding on. "That'sâ oh god, that'sâ"
"I know." You hold still. Giving her time. The first half-inch is inside her and the pressure around you is almost unbearable, this crushing, clenching heat. "Just the tip. That's all. Tell me when."
She's panting. Quick, shallow breaths. Her thighs are shaking visibly. The hand on your wrist squeezes, releases, squeezes again.
"More," she manages. "Slowly. Slowly."
You push in another inch. Her back arches sharply and a moan tears out of her, deeper and rawer. Her asshole stretches around you, gripping, and you can feel every fraction of progress, every millimeter of her yielding.
"Talk to me," you murmur. "Tell me what it feels like."
"It feelsâ" She gasps as you shift slightly, adjusting the angle. "âit feels like you're splitting me in half. Fuck. Fuck. I can feel everyâ I can feel all of you, everyâ" Her sentence fractures. She buries her face in the pillow.
You stop. "Too much?"
"No." Muffled. Immediate. "No. Don't stop. Justâ give me a second."
You wait. Your hand moves in slow circles on her lower back. You feel the tremors running through her, the way her body oscillates between tension and surrender. Her asshole clenches rhythmically around you - involuntary spasms, her muscles trying to accommodate something they weren't built for.
"Okay," she breathes. Her grip on your wrist loosens. "Okay. More."
Another inch. She cries out. Her fist pounds the mattress once, hard, and her toes curl against the sheets, and the sound she makes is so raw and exposed that it barely sounds like her, this polished, curated, camera-ready woman reduced to animal noise by the pressure of your cock slowly opening her ass.
"You're doing so well," you say.
She laughs. Choked, incredulous, wet. "Don't patronize me while you'reâ ahâ while you're literally inside myâ"
"I'm not patronizing you."
"You just said you're doing so well while your dick is in my ass. That'sâ" She gasps as you slide another fraction deeper. "âthat's the most patronizing thing anyone has everâ oh godâ"
"Should I stop?"
"If you stop I'll kill you." Her nails rake the sheets. "I mean it. I will literallyâ nnhâ murder you and bury you under this hotel. Keep going."
You push the rest of the way in. Slow. Inexorable. And when your hips finally press flush against her ass, when you're buried to the hilt in the impossible tightness of her, she goes completely silent. Her arms give out. Her chest drops to the mattress. Her mouth is open against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, and her whole body is trembling in one continuous shudder.
You stay there. Fully seated. Not moving. Letting her feel the entirety of it - the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming, inescapable presence of you inside her in a place no one has been before.
"Chaewon?"
"Don'tâ" She holds up one finger. "âdon't talk. Just. Give me a minute."
You give her a minute. Your hands rest on her hips. The trembling slowly subsides.
When she speaks again, her words come thick and dazed: "I can feel your heartbeat. Inside me. I can actually feelâ"
She doesnât finish the sentence. The words dissolve as she turns her head against the pillow, cheek flattened into the cotton, hair clinging to her damp forehead. When her eyes find yours, theyâre glassy and dark, pupils blown so wide thereâs barely any brown left. She swallows, breath hitching, and the plea slips out fractured: âFuck me,â she whispers, broken. âFuck me hard. Make me scream. I donât care anymore, I donât care about any of it. Just move."
You pull back. Slowly. An inch, then two, and she whimpers at the drag, her hole gripping you, clenching involuntarily around the shaft as it withdraws. You push back in. Same pace. Measured. Controlled. Feeling her stretch around you, feeling the impossible tightness yield, accommodate, accept.
Then you do it again. Faster. And again.
Her moan starts low in her chest and climbs. By the third stroke it's something feral, bouncing off the hotel walls, and her fist pounds the mattress as you establish a rhythm - steady, deep, each thrust pushing her forward on the sheets. Her ass clenches around you with every stroke, this vice-grip heat that makes your jaw clench.
"Oh my godâ" She buries her face in the pillow. Her shoulder blades flex beneath her skin. "Oh my god oh my god oh myâ" The words blur together, becoming less language and more sound, this continuous stream of half-formed syllables muffled by cotton.
"You like this," you observe, a little petulantly, your hands grip her hips and pull her back onto you with each thrust, forcing her to take the full length. "You like me."
Her head snaps up from the pillow. "Noâ"
"Then why are you here, Chaewon?"
âFuck youâ" She chokes on a moan as you thrust deep, grinding your hips against her ass. "âI hate you. I've said itâ I've said it so many timesâ how many times do I have toâ"
"You've said it plenty." You pull almost all the way out and drive back in, and the cry she makes rattles the windows. "And yet."
"And yet nothingâ"
"And yet you're in my hotel room." Another thrust. Hard. Her arms buckle. "At midnight." Harder. "With my cock in your ass." Harder still, and she screams into the pillow, this ragged, torn sound. "So I'll ask again. Why are you here?"
She groans. Grumbles. Her fists twist the sheets into knots and her body rocks forward with each impact, the mattress creaking beneath her knees. "I don't know." The words tear free. "Damn it, I don't know. I don'tâ I can't explain it, I can't rationalize it, I just... It's good. Too fucking good. Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop, fuck me hard, motherfuckerâ"
The restraint dissolves. You give her what she's asking for. You fuck her ass with a force that shoves her forward on the bed, her knees sliding on the sheets, her hands bracing against the headboard to keep herself from being pushed into it.
You raise your hand and bring it down on her right cheek. The crack echoes through the room. Her flesh ripples from the impact - that perfect, round ass jiggling from the force of it - and Chaewon cries out, sharp and surprised and electric.
"Fuckâ yesâ"
Another slap. Left cheek. Harder. The pink bloom spreads across her skin, visible even in the dim lamplight. Her toes curl. Her back arches deeper. "You want me to mark you?"
She moans against the headboard, her forehead pressed to the wood. "Yes, yes! Hit me harder. Be a man for once in your miserable fucking lifeâ"
You hit her harder. Open palm, full force, right across the center of her ass while you're buried inside her, and the dual sensation - the sting outside, the fullness inside - rips a sound out of her that's barely human. The handprint blooms red and vivid on her skin.
"Harderâ" She's not even forming complete thoughts anymore. "âharder, motherfucker, is that all youâ fuckâ you spent six years ripping me apart in print and you can't evenâ"
Another slap. Her flesh bounces. She screams and pushes her hips back into you, grinding, taking you as deep as her body will allow.
"Every fucking reviewâ" She's ranting now, the words pouring out between moans, between the sharp cracks of your palm on her ass. "âevery snarky little sentenceâ you smugâ condescendingâ you don't know shit about my writingâ you don'tâ fuck, right thereâ you don't know what it costs meâ"
"Tell me what it costs you." You don't slow down. Each thrust punctuated by the slap of skin, by the wet sounds of her body taking you, by the creak of the mattress. "Tell me, Chaewon. Since you're finally being honest."
"Everythingâ" The word breaks on the way out. "âit costs me everything, you asshole, every book costs me everything and you sit there and you tear it apart inâ oh godâ in five thousand words and you make it sound soâ so fucking easy toâ"
She can't finish. Your hand comes down on her ass again and her sentence dissolves into a moan so loud she claps her own hand over her mouth. You reach forward and pull her hand away.
"I said I wanted to hear you scream."
"The people in the next roomâ"
"Fuck them."
She laughs - this wild, unhinged, desperate laugh that breaks into a groan as you snap your hips forward. "You're insane. You're absolutelyâ you're a fuckingâ godâ why does this feel soâ"
"Say it."
"Noâ"
"Say it feels good, Chaewon."
"It feelsâ" She grits her teeth. Fighting it. Even with her ass in the air and her face pressed to a pillow and handprints blooming red on both cheeks, she's fighting you for every inch of ground. "âit feels like I'm being fucked by the most arrogant man I've everâ"
You spank her again, mid-thrust, and she breaks: "Goodâ it feels good, you piece of shit, it feels so fucking good and I hate that, I hate you for that, I hate that you're the one whoâ who makes me feelâ"
Her voice is climbing. Getting thinner. More fractured. Her thighs are shaking violently now, the tremors visible in her calves, in her feet, in the way her toes keep curling and uncurling against the sheets. You recognize the signs - the same ones from the terrace, from the wall, the tension building in her core, her body winding tighter with every stroke.
"Make me cum." She says it clearly. Cutting through the moans, the panting, the chaos. A command issued from somewhere beyond pride. "Make me cum with your cock in my ass, you fuckingâ I need toâ I'mâ"
You grab her by the hips and thrust hard, burying yourself inside her with no restraint. The pace loses any pretense of control. It's raw, it's frenetic, it's two people who have spent years building walls against each other and are now demolishing them with the crudest tools available. The sound of flesh on flesh fills the room. The headboard knocks against the wall. Her ass is red and hot under your palms, the skin radiating heat where you've marked her.
âCome on,â you tell her, though youâre falling apart now, breath ragged, chest slick with sweat. âYou want to scream? Then scream, Chaewon.â
Her right hand shoots backward and grabs your forearm. Her nails sink in deep enough to draw blood. Her mouth opens - and then she's gone.
It hits her all at once. No warning. Just impact. Her body snaps tight, every muscle seizing. She clamps down around you so fiercely it makes your head spin. And the noise she lets out, fuck, it starts low in her belly and climbs its way up, breaking out of her in this deep, animal groan that just keeps going. Her back bows, chest lifting, head thrown back as she convulses. Her eyes roll until thereâs nothing but white, and when the sound finally dies her mouth stays open, breath gone, body still jerking in sharp, rhythmic spasms around you.
She comes from her ass. Untouched. Nothing against her clit, nothing inside her pussy, just the fullness of you in her ass and whatever psychological alchemy converts years of hostility and a kiss against a stone wall into the most intense orgasm she's ever had. You feel it in the way she clenches - rapid, desperate contractions, her body milking you - and in the way her thighs give out, her knees sliding on the sheets.
"I can'tâ" She's sobbing. These dry, breathless heaves. "âI can't believe Iâ youâ fuckâ"
Her arms collapse. Her chest hits the mattress. She goes down face-first into the pillow, her ass still raised, still impaled on your cock, trembling through the aftershocks. She shudders one final time. Then she goes still.
Breathing. Just breathing. Shallow and rapid, gradually slowing. Her back rising and falling. The red handprints on her ass vivid against her skin. Her hair plastered to the side of her face, one eye visible, half-closed, glazed over.
You pull out slowly. She winces, a small sound escaping through her teeth, and her hole clenches at the emptiness, and she buries her face deeper into the pillow. The room is quiet except for breathing. Hers. Yours. The distant sound of the sea through the shuttered windows. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes.
Kim Chaewon lies face-down on your bed, naked, trembling, marked, and silent for the first time since you met her.
Her hand reaches back blindly. Finds your knee. Rests there.
You lean down and press your lips to her shoulder. Then the ridge of her spine. Then the space between her shoulder blades, where a thin sheen of sweat makes her skin taste like salt. She doesn't move. Just lies there, face-down, breathing. "How are you doing?" you murmur against her back.
Silence. Then, muffled by the pillow: "You fucked my ass."
"I did."
"Don't be grumpy about it."
"I'll be as grumpy as I want. I just came from getting fucked in the ass by a man who called my book comfort food. I'm entitled to whatever emotional response Iâ"
You turn her over. Gently. One hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. She goes willingly, though her expression says otherwise, and her hair fans across the pillow in damp waves, her body is flushed from her cheeks to her navel, and the handprints on her ass must be pressing against the sheets because she winces slightly when her weight settles.
You kiss her. Thereâs nothing showy about it. Your hand slides to the back of her head, holding her there, your mouth moving with an unhurried softness that isnât calculated, isnât tactical. Itâs just there. Her lips are warm and slightly swollen. She opens without hesitation, her tongue brushing against yours, and for a second the tension dissolves. No edge. No bite. Just mouths. Just heat
You shift your weight, guiding her as you move - rolling onto your back, pulling her with you until she's on top, straddling you, her thighs bracketing your hips. Her palms rest flat on your chest. The kiss doesn't break. It adjusts, finds its new geometry.
She grumbles against your mouth. Pulls back half an inch and says: "Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Being sweet." She says the word the way most people say disgusting. "I can't handle you being sweet. It doesn't fit. It makes me feelâ" She inhales, then exhales. "I prefer it when you fuck me angry. When you're mean. This⊠this soft shit makes me want to throw up."
"I was buying time." Your hands settle on her waist. Thumbs tracing the jut of her hip bones. "Letting you rest."
"Rest? I don't needâ"
"Before I continue."
You reach between you. Her mouth clicks shut. Her eyes flicker wider, and her body tightens over yours, a subtle wave of tension rolling up from her thighs to her chest. Your cock is still rigid, aching, wet, and you press the tip against her asshole. She's looser now, still open from before, but the contact makes her gasp.
You thrust upward. She grunts. Her nails dig into your chest and her back curves, her head dropping forward, hair falling around her face. You're inside her again - that same devastating tightness, but easier now, her body remembering, accommodating. Her arms loop around your neck and she presses herself against you, chest to chest, skin to skin, and you grip her slim waist and hold her there.
For a moment neither of you moves. Just breathing. Her heartbeat against your ribs. Yours against hers.
She speaks into the crook of your neck, her lips brushing your skin: "Have you thought about this before?"
"About what?"
"This. Me... Having me. Did you ever imagine it? When you saw me at events, or in interviews, orâ" She swallows. "âwhen you were writing about me. Did you think about what it would be like?"
You stare at the ceiling. Her weight on your hips. Her breath on your throat. It takes a few seconds, but you finally reply: "Sometimes.â And then, because the honesty is already out and there's no retrieving it: "When I'd see you at events. Or in an interview. I'd wonder what it would be like if things were different."
"Different how?"
You don't answer. You roll your hips upward instead. A slow and deep stroke that pushes the full length of your cock into her ass, and she inhales sharply, her eyes fluttering, her fingers tightening behind your neck. You pull back and push in again, setting a rhythm that is unhurried. Her body rocks gently on top of you with each thrust.
She starts to moan. Soft, almost reluctant sounds that she breathes against your jaw. Her hips begin to move, matching your rhythm, grinding down onto you as you push up.
"I don't understand this," she whispers. Her forehead presses against yours. Her eyes are open, inches away. "I hate you. I know I hate you. I feel it. It's real. But at the same time I want toâ" She kisses you. Brief. Subtle. "âI want to kiss you. I want to stay here, exactly like this, with you inside me, and I want to kiss you and I want to feel you and⊠and I also want to tear the skin off your face with my fingernails. Both things. At the same time. What the fuck is wrong with me?"
"Nothing." You brush the hair from her eyes. Your hips don't stop moving. "Hate and love sit closer together than people think. Same intensity. Same obsession. Same inability to stop thinking about the other person." You thrust deeper and she bites her lip, suppressing a moan. "The line between them is so thin it barely exists. You've been on one side of it for six years. Maybe tonight you're standing on the line itself. Looking both ways."
"That's so fucked up."
"It is."
"Then why does it feel so good?"
"Maybe that's why."
She presses her mouth to yours and moans into the kiss as you grip her ass with both hands and spread her cheeks wide, driving up into her. The angle shifts. The depth shifts. And the noise she makes turns thick and needy and almost painfully beautiful.
You start fucking her harder.
She breaks the kiss and her head falls back, her throat exposed, and her hips slam down to meet each thrust. "You're right," she manages. "You're right and I hate you for being right. The only thing that matters is that this is fucking good. It'sâ" She rolls her hips in a grinding circle that makes you both groan. "âit's addictive. You're addictive. Your cock in my ass is addictive. Your stupid fucking criticism is addictive." She laughs - breathless, slightly unhinged. "It's humiliating. It's degrading. And I can't get enough of it. What does that make me?"
"Human, I guess.â
"Fuck off." Sheâs grinning when she says it. This wild, feral grin with her hair in her face and her cheeks flushed and her body bouncing on your cock. "Don't stop. Don't fucking stop, you greedy little fuck.â
She rolls her hips in a slow, grinding circle and looks down at you. Sweat on her upper lip. Hair stuck to her temples. Her palms flat on your chest, nails leaving half-moons in your skin. And she asks, plain as anything, no filter left: "You want to cum in my ass, don't you?"
You don't answer fast enough.
"Don't bullshit me." She clenches around you - tight, purposeful, punishing - and your hands fly to her hips. "I've known since the terrace. No. Before the terrace. Since you started writing about me. Every nasty, obsessive, over-analytical word you ever put in print - it was always about this. Getting me underneath you. Getting me on top of you. Getting inside me." She drops her hips down hard and your cock sinks deeper into her ass and she hisses through her teeth and keeps talking: "You wanted to split me open and fill me up and watch it leak out. That's the real review, isn't it? That's the one you've been drafting in your sick little head for six fucking years."
"Chaewon, you don'tâ"
"Shut up. I'm talking." She grabs your jaw. Squeezes. Forces your eyes to hers. "You already came inside my pussy tonight. On a public terrace. Against a wall. You made me feel like some cheap whore. You pumped me full and I walked back to that party with your cum dripping into my underwear and smiled at people while it ran down my thigh." Her grip tightens on your jaw. "So now you're going to do the same thing to my ass. You're going to flood this tight little hole until I'm leaking. Until I can feel it when I sit on the plane tomorrow."
You hold her hips firm, fingers pressing deep as you drive upward. She inhales sharply, her restraint cracking for just a moment before it seals shut again. "I want to hear you say it." She bends closer, lips grazing yours, heat spilling from her mouth as she whispers: "Tell me you want to cum in my ass. Out loud. Use your words, Mr. Critic. You're so good with words."
"Fuckâ" You can barely get the words out. "I want to pump your ass so full it comes pouring back out. Want to see it dripping down your legs, see you soaked with it." Your grip tightens on her. "Is that enough? You satisfied?â
"There he is. There's the real you. The filthy fucking pervert hiding behind all those big vocabulary words." She sits up straight and starts moving, not gentle, not tentative, but mean. Slamming herself down onto your cock, her small body generating a force that shouldn't be possible from a frame that size, the headboard hitting the wall in sharp, rhythmic cracks. Her abs flex with each drop. Her thighs work. Her ass takes you to the hilt on every downstroke and she doesn't flinch.
She looks right at you when she says it: "Breed my ass. Every drop. Every fucking drop you've got. I want it deep. I want to be so full of your cum I can taste it."
"Fuckâ"
"You bred my cunt, now wreck my ass. I want both holes stuffed. I want to go back to my room dripping from everywhere." She's panting, sweat running from her temples to her jaw, dripping onto your chest. "Ruin me. You've been ruining me professionally for years - might as well do it physically too, you miserable piece of shit."
She slams down again. And again. The rhythm is savage, relentless, her body moving with this violent intensity that feels like it should belong in a fight, not this. But god, it works. "I'm going to think about this every nightâ" She grabs her own hair with one hand and pulls, arching her back, changing the angle, taking you impossibly deeper. "âevery single night in my apartment when I can't sleep, when I should be writing, I'm going to think about your fat cock stretching my asshole and your cum filling me up and I'm going to hate myself so much and I'm going to touch myself until I'm shaking and it's your fault. All of it. Every orgasm I have for the rest of my life with my fingers in my ass thinking about tonight is on you."
Your hands clamp onto her waist. You plant your feet flat on the mattress, bend your knees, and drive upward - meeting her downstroke, doubling the force - and the sound she makes isn't a moan. It's a scream. Raw. Shattered. Ripped from somewhere beneath language.
"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuckâ" Her rhythm breaks. She can't maintain it against your upward thrusts so she stops trying and just takes it, her body bouncing on your cock, her hands braced on your chest for balance, her mouth hanging open. "âgive it to me, cum in my ass, please, I need it so bad, I need you to fill me up, I needâ I fucking needâ"
Her sentences collapse. She's babbling now, fragments, pleas, profanity strung together by desperation. Her thighs are trembling so badly she can barely hold herself up. Tears streak from the corners of her squeezed-shut eyes, cutting through the flush on her cheeks.
"âplease please please cum in my ass, I want it, I want every fucking drop, make me yours, fill me, breed me, I can'tâ I need to feel itâ I need to feel you cum insideâ" She opens her eyes. Looks down at you. Tears and sweat and something beyond either. Her small hands find your face and hold it, and she says - quiet now, wrecked, a whisper against the chaos of her own body: "Give it to me. I want it so fucking much."
You cum. It tears through you - this massive, rolling wave that starts at the base of your spine and detonates outward, and your hips stutter upward, burying yourself as deep as her body will allow, and you feel yourself pulse inside her. Once. Twice. Again. Each spasm pumping thick, hot cum deep into her ass, and the sensation is surreal, this impossible tightness gripping you, milking you, and the warmth spreading inside her.
The feeling crashes over her all at once. She freezes on top of you, completely still, and her eyes go wide. Her lips part. "Oh myâ" The words die. She's feeling it, every pump, every throb, the warmth spreading inside her, and her expression just... breaks open. Shock bleeds into euphoria bleeds into something that looks almost like relief. "Oh my godâ" she breathes. "âI can feel it. I can feel all of it. You're soâ there's so muchâ oh god, oh fuck, don't move, stay, stayâ"
You stay. Buried to the hilt, still pulsing, still emptying yourself into her, and she sits perfectly still on top of you with her eyes closed and her lips parted and this expression of devastated bliss, feeling every twitch, every throb, every hot spill of cum filling her ass. "I love it," she whispers. Not to you. Not to anyone. Just a statement released into the dark room. "Fuck. I love it."
The last aftershock fades. Your muscles go slack. Your hands fall from her hips to the mattress.
Chaewon collapses. She folds forward, her full weight dropping onto your chest, her face pressing into the crook of your neck. Her arms tuck between your bodies, her fists loosely curled against your ribs. She's small. She weighs nothing. Her heartbeat hammers against your sternum.
"Don't pull out," she murmurs into your neck. "Not yet. I want to stay like this for a minute. I want to feel you." You wrap your arms around her. One across her lower back. The other between her shoulder blades, your hand cradling the base of her skull. "Tighter," she breathes into the curve of your neck. Quiet. Nothing like her.
You tighten your arms. Pull her closer. Her body presses flush against yours, every contour matched, and she burrows into you, her nose against your throat, her damp hair tickling your jaw. Her breathing is starting to slow. Evening out. Her fingers uncurl against your ribs and flatten, palms warm on your skin.
Neither of you moves. The room settles, radiator ticking, waves crashing softly somewhere beneath the window, a pair of footsteps trailing down the corridor. Her breathing has slowed to something deep and steady against the side of your neck. You can feel the warmth of each exhale on your skin, followed by the cooler absence when she inhales. Five minutes pass. Maybe more. You're not tracking it.
Then she speaks: "You're right."
Your hand pauses on her back. "About what?"
She doesn't answer immediately. She shifts, lifting her head from the crook of your neck, and looks at you. (There's a tear sitting on the rim of her lower lash line. Not falling. Just sitting there.) "I know," she says. "I know I'm a fraud." Your mind is still swimming. Dopamine-flooded, hazy, that post-orgasm fog where thoughts form slowly and arrive already half-dissolved. You blink at her. "Everyone praises me. My publisher. My agent. My readers. Everyone at that party tonight. They tell me I'm brilliant. They tell me I'm the voice of a generation." She laughs, small, bitter, directed inward. "And you know who doesn't even read my books? The critics who actually matter. The ones at The New Yorker, the ones at the London Review. They don't bother. I'm not worth their time."
The tear moves. Slides down her cheek slowly, tracing the line of her jaw.
"You're the only respected critic who actually reads my work. Cover to cover. Every single book." Her lips press together. "And then you destroy it. But at least you read it. At least you cared enough toâ" She stops. Swallows. Her fingers curl tighter against your ribs. "Teach me how to be better."
You stare at her. This woman - naked in your bed, marked and flushed and undone, mascara smudged under her eyes, a tear tracking down her face - asking you. Asking the man she's spent six years despising, the man she called a frustrated artist and a failed writer, to teach her.
Your thumb comes up and catches the tear at her jawline. Wipes it away. "Don't cry."
"I'm not crying. I'm leaking. And it's your fault."
You almost smile. Then you sit up slowly, easing her off your chest, your hands finding her waist. You lift her and set her down beside you on the bed. She sinks into the white sheets without resistance, her hair fanning across the pillow in dark waves. The lamplight paints her in gold. Every part of her is bare and small against the wide expanse of hotel linen, collarbones catching shadow, the soft rise of her stomach moving with each breath. Chaewon's looking up at you with those dark, wet, searching eyes.
She looks so beautiful. And so completely lost.
(This is a moment your systematic mind never prepared for. You had a framework for tonight - she'd come, you'd fuck, she'd leave. Transactional hostility with a physical outlet. Clean. Contained. You did not account for Kim Chaewon lying naked in your bed asking you to make her a better writer. You don't know how to solve this. You're not sure it's yours to solve.)
"I can't help you," you say.
Her expression fractures. "Why not?"
"Because I can't change the way you write. That's notâ" You pause. Choose your words the way you choose them in print. "That's not what I want. And I promise you, it's not what you want either. You don't need someone else's voice telling you how to use yours."
She sits up. "But I want to be better. I win awards. I sell millions. My books get translated into thirty-six languages. And sometimesâ" Her hands twist in the sheet. "âsometimes I lie awake at three in the morning wondering if I actually deserve any of it. If the awards are for the writing or for the sales. If the translations happened because the prose is good or because the IP is marketable."
"Chaewonâ"
"Do I deserve it?" She asks directly. Looking at you. Demanding an answer she knows you won't soften.
"You need to find your own way to that answer." You hold her gaze. "Not mine. Not your publisher's. Not BookTok's. Yours."
A small change passes over her face. Whatever flickers behind her eyes draws inward, restrained, almost private, yet you catch it. The moment she realizes you're not going to hand her what she came for. That you can't, and that the distinction between can't and won't doesn't actually matter when you're the one left empty-handed.
She holds your gaze for another second. Then she's moving; swinging her legs off the bed, bare feet on the cool terracotta, bending to pick up the cream top from where it landed near the nightstand. The dark skirt next, crumpled by the foot of the bed. The black lace underwear tangled in the sheets, which she extracts without looking at you. She presses it all against her chest - this bundle of fabric held tight against her bare skin, arms crossed over it - and walks to the bathroom. Her spine is very straight. The red marks on her ass are visible for one more second before the door clicks shut behind her
You sit on the edge of the bed. Stare at the far wall. Run both hands through your hair.
(You could have given her something. A reading list. A structural critique. A paragraph of actionable feedback. You've written thousands of words about what's wrong with her prose - surely you could have offered one concrete sentence about how to fix it. But that's not what she needed to hear, and giving her a prescription would have been its own kind of condescension. She doesn't need a teacher. She needs to stop being afraid of writing something that won't sell.)
The shower stops. You pull on your underwear and trousers. Sit on the edge of the bed, barefoot, waiting for the act to conclude.
The bathroom door clicks open.
She steps out dressed, hair damp, face clean. All that smudged mascara washed away. She doesn't look at you. Just moves toward the door with her sandals dangling from one hand. Her fingers find the handle.
"Chaewon." She stops. Doesn't turn around. "There's a chapter in your first book that I really liked."
Now she turns. Slowly. Her expression is guarded, braced for another blow. "Which one?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
"What?"
"You can figure it out yourself. Read it again. You'll know which one it is. It reads differently from everything around it." You meet her eyes across the room. "I really enjoyed it. And I think you know why." She stares at you. Processing. "You're smart enough. You've already proven yourself to the world. So stop trying to prove yourself to the world. Write what you think is best. Not what sells. Not what your publisher wants. Not what your analytics suggest will perform." You lean back on your hands. "That's how you started in the beginning, isn't it? Everyone around you had a hand in shaping who you are"
"Maybe," she says. "I didn't really know what I was doing back then." She looks down at her feet on the terracotta tile. "I think I still don't."
"Maybe it's time to find out."
She lifts her gaze. Holds yours. Something passes between you. (Not tenderness exactly, and not the hostility that's defined every other interaction you've had.) Something adjacent to respect. Something that might, with enough time and enough distance, grow into understanding.
âMaybe,â she says once more.
She opens the door. Steps through it. Pulls it shut behind her without looking back.
âąâąâą
Itâs an absurdly beautiful morning, pure Amalfi Coast perfection. The sky is a seamless blue, the sun skipping light across the sea, the cliffs glowing honey-gold above the harbor. You move along the beach in linen and white, sleeves rolled, unhurried. Your flight from Naples isnât until later, which means thereâs time.
You spot her from about fifty feet out. She's standing near the waterline in a floral dress - loose, light, some kind of wildflower print in pale blues and greens that the breeze keeps pressing against her legs and then releasing. Flat sandals. Her hair is doing its own thing today, the short bob wavy from a night of coastal humidity, unstyled, bangs pushed carelessly to one side. No makeup, or none that you can detect from this distance. She's squinting at the water with one hand raised to block the sun, and she hasn't seen you yet.
You cross the sand toward her. Your shoes are wrong for this - leather soles on loose ground - but you don't slow down. She turns when you're about ten feet away.
"You came."
"You asked." She folds her arms across her chest. A barrier, or the performance of one. "So what's this thing you wanted to show me? I don't have much time."
You start walking along the waterline, and she falls in beside you without being asked. The sand here is firm, packed damp and dark by the retreating tide, and her sandals press clean outlines into it with each step. The breeze tugs at the hem of her dress. Pulls at her hair. You reach down and take her hand.
Chaewon looks at your fingers laced through hers. Studies them. Her thumb moves - a small, almost unconscious stroke across your knuckle - and she doesn't pull away. You walk together for a full minute without speaking. Just the water folding over itself at the edge of the sand, and the distant clank of rigging from the harbor, and her hand warm and small inside yours.
You stop. Let go. Point toward the harbor.
She follows your gaze, scanning the moored boats, the white masts, the slow rocking of hulls against fenders. Turns back to you with one eyebrow raised.
"You dragged me all the way out here to look at boats."
"Catamarans."
"Those are boats."
"They're catamarans."
"They float. They have sails. Boats." She gives you a sideways look, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Have you seriously never been to a beach before?"
"Yesterday," you say. "Before you came to yell at me on the terrace. I was watching those catamarans. I'd been looking at them most of the evening." She waits. The breeze shifts, carrying brine and a faint trace of engine oil from somewhere in the harbor. "Actually - that's not entirely true. Before the catamarans, I was watching you. From across the terrace. You were with Irene and Sana, and the sunset was behind you, and I thought... I thought you were the most beautiful thing on that terrace. Including the Amalfi Coast. And then I turned around and stared at the boats instead."
She doesn't respond. Her eyes stay on the harbor. On the two white shapes rocking gently in the morning swell.
"A catamaran is a twin-hulled vessel." You say it the way you'd say anything to someone standing next to you on a beach - easy, unhurried, pointing out something you find interesting. "Two separate bodies running parallel, held together by a rigid frame. They never merge into one hull. The gap between them - that distance - is what makes the whole thing work. Push the hulls together, force them into a single body, and it stops being a catamaran. It gets slower. Less stable. Less itself." You look at her. She's still watching the harbor. "I've spent six years reviewing your books. You've spent six years hating me for it. And all of that: the reviews, the public fights, the Reddit threads, the TikTok wars, every single ugly thing between us, that's the crossbeam. That's the rigid frame connecting the two hulls. Same water under both of us. Same wind filling both sails. The space between us isn't emptiness, Chaewon. We hold each other steady in this strange way thatâs only ours.''
The breeze moves through a long silence. Chaewon stares at the catamarans, her lips pressed together, the floral print rippling against her shins. The morning sun catches something at the corners of her eyes. Moisture. Not tears (she wouldn't allow tears after last night) but the precursor.
She turns to face you. Holds your gaze. "That's really beautiful." No sarcasm. No edge. Just the words, offered plainly, and for once she doesn't immediately armor them with a qualifier. Then, after a beat: "You should write something. A real story. Not reviews. Not criticism. Fiction."
"The world doesn't need more writers."
"That's a cop-out."
"It's not. Everything that needed to be said has already been written. Centuries ago, most of it. The same countries are still fighting the same wars over the same borders. The same political cycles repeat on thirty-year loops. The old solutions are still valid and still ignored." You watch the catamarans sway. "Every novel published this year is a copy of a copy of a copy. Every manifesto. Every campaign speech. Every piece of art hanging in every gallery in every city on earth. We're not generating new ideas anymore."
"And yet you spend your entire career reading new books."
"Reading them and confirming exactly what I just said."
She tilts her head. "That is genuinely the most depressing thing anyone has ever said to me on a beach. And I once got dumped in Jeju-do." A pause. "Drop the nihilist act. It doesn't work on me."
"I'm not being nihilistic. I'm beingâ"
"You're being a coward." No malice. No heat. Just a clean, quiet observation, delivered the way you'd note that the tide is going out. A fact about the landscape. "You've convinced yourself nothing new can be said because that exempts you from ever having to try. You get to sit in the critic's chair permanently, holding everyone else to a standard you've never once applied to yourself, and you never have to risk producing something that someone could tear apart the way you tear apart everyone else." She uncrosses her arms. Lets them hang at her sides. Open. "You're afraid of being judged. That's the whole thing. That's all this has ever been."
It lands. You feel it land - a clean hit, center mass. You consider reaching for something evasive, something clever and deflective and safe, the rhetorical equivalent of turning away to watch the boats. But she's standing there in a floral dress on a beach in southern Italy, and eight hours ago she was in your bed with her walls down and her defenses stripped and her body open, asking you to show her something real. The very least you owe her is a fraction of the honesty you've been demanding from her writing for six years.
"It's not exactly fear. I'd just rather not find out. I've spent too long being the stone. Turning into glass at this point feelsâ"
"Same thing. That's fear in a nicer suit." She studies you. "The great critic. Terrified of his own medicine."
You exhale. Nod. Barely, but enough. She sees the concession, the tiny crack in the parapet, and she has the grace not to push her fingers into it. She just lets it sit there between you, acknowledged, unexamined, a small honest thing resting on the sand.
She turns back toward the water. Bites her lower lip. The catamarans rock gently, their white hulls bright against the deep blue of the harbor.
"Can I use that?" she asks. "The catamaran thing. In my next book."
"Be my guest. I won't charge royalties."
"Wow. First nice thing you've ever done for me."
"Second."
She turns away fast, but not fast enough, you catch the twitch at the corner of her mouth, the smile she's physically fighting down, her teeth pressing into her bottom lip to contain it. She reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ear. The same one from the first night you ever saw her. She doesn't know you remember it. She doesn't know there's anything to remember.
"I have an idea," she says after a moment. Still facing the water. Her sandals are at the edge of the tide line, the next wave lapping close enough to darken the sand near her toes. "A dynamic between two characters. Something I've been working through since last night." She pauses. Picks her next words with the same care she'd use on a difficult sentence in a third draft. "But I think I'll need to meet with you. From time to time. For... research purposes."
"Research purposes, huh?â
"Inspiration." She turns her head just enough to catch your reaction from the corner of her eye. "I need to understand the dynamic from the inside. For authenticity."
"Ah. Authenticity. Your favorite thing."
"Do you have a problem with that arrangement?"
"None whatsoever."
"Good." A short nod. Brisk. Professional, as if you've just agreed on deliverables and timelines rather than a series of encounters that will inevitably end with her clothes on your floor and her fingernail marks on your back. "So we'll be in touch."
"We'll be in touch."
The waves roll in. Retreat. Roll in again. A gull cuts across the harbor, banking low over the catamarans, and the morning sun lays a bright strip across the water that reaches all the way to the beach.
"One last kiss," you say.
Her eyebrows go up. "You're very demanding for someone who just told me nothing new exists under the sun."
"I'm requesting. Not demanding."
"Whatever." She's turning toward you, her weight shifts forward onto her toes, and her chin lifts. "Be quick about it. I have an interview in an hour and I need to fix my face."
"Your face is fine."
"My face is a disaster. Quick."
You step into her. Your hands find her waist through the thin cotton of the dress - warm from the sun, warm from her body underneath - and you settle them on the curve above her hips. She doesn't step back. Doesn't fold her arms. Just stands there looking up at you, dark eyes steady, the wind moving through the wildflower print and through her hair and through the small space between your mouth and hers.
You lean down and kiss her. She hesitates. Her lips stay closed for a breath; one final negotiation with herself about what this is and what it means and whether she can afford to let it mean anything at all. Her body is still. Her hands remain at her sides.
Then her mouth softens. Parts. Her hand rises to the side of your neck, fingers sliding up into your hair, and the kiss deepens past whatever boundary she'd set for it. Slow. Unhurried. Soft in a way that would have been impossible twelve hours ago, when everything between you was teeth and heat and skin scraping against stone. Her fingertips trace the line of your jaw. Your thumb maps the ridge of her hip. The sea exhales behind her, and for a suspended moment the world contracts to a very small radius. No reviews. No bestseller lists. No discourse. No audience. Just her mouth and your mouth and the sound of the water doing what water does, over and over, indifferent to everything.
She pulls back first. Her hand stays on your neck for an extra second. Then drops. "I need to go." She steps back. Steady. Composed. "I'm going to be late."
"I know."
"This doesn't mean I like you."
"Understood."
"And I still think your reviews are reductive, mean-spirited, and occasionally grammatically suspect."
"I'd be disappointed if you felt otherwise."
She almost smiles. Catches it at the last second, presses her lips into a line, and turns on her heel. She starts up the beach toward the coastal road, quick strides, the floral dress swaying against her legs, her sandals leaving sharp impressions in the wet sand. With every step she's putting herself back together. Becoming Kim Chaewon again - the bestseller, the brand, the woman who doesn't need anyone's approval and certainly not yours.
Twenty feet away, she stops. Turns around.
You raise your hand. A wave. last time you tried this gesture, she responded with her middle finger and an expression that could peel paint off a wall.
Chaewon looks at you across the sand. The morning light is full on her face now, catching the slight wave in her hair, the wildflower blues and greens of her dress, the flush that still hasn't faded from her cheeks.
She waves back with a barely-there smile she'd deny under oath and in front of a jury. Then she turns and walks away. The floral dress rounds the curve of the coastal road and disappears behind a low stone wall covered in bougainvillea.
You stay on the beach. Hands in your pockets. Sun on your face. The morning settling into itself around you - the heat building, the tourists beginning to appear on the far end of the sand, the faint sound of a cafe opening its shutters somewhere up the hill.
(Sometimes you let yourself think about it. What would have happened if she'd stayed. If she'd actually gone to the bar and come back with that second drink and sat down next to you and decided - for whatever private, unknowable reason - that you were someone worth talking to for another hour. If you'd gotten her name that night, heard it from her own mouth instead of reading it months later off the spine of a book in your apartment at two in the morning with a red pen in your hand and a sinking feeling in your stomach.
You wonder if knowing her first as a person instead of a product would have changed the way you read her. You wonder if you would have been kinder. Or if she would have made that impossible too. You wonder, occasionally, in the specific quiet of a late night when your critical faculties are offline and something less disciplined takes over, whether the two of you were always going to end up here - hostile, entangled, orbiting each other at a distance calibrated to cause maximum damage - or if there was a version of this where she came back with the wine and sat down and everything that followed was entirely different.
She didn't come back, though. And you'll never know.)
In the harbor, the two catamarans rock gently in their moorings. Twin white hulls catching the light. Running parallel. Connected. The rigid frame between them holding everything in place.
A/N: Made this before my exams and thought I'd publish it after they were finished. Due to Tumblr's block limit and the way I made this, I had to divide it into multiple parts. Not really sure how to fix that, or make everything fit so sorry for the inconvience!
You could never seem to meet eye to eye with Choi Jiwoo.
It wasnât because you hated each other, no.
God no.
Someone like her didnât seem to have the capabilities to hate someone, you were sure of it.
You could never really see her eye to eye because of a simple reason.
She went to work in the early hours of the morning.
And you worked into the later hours of the night.
By the time you came home, the apartment was already half-asleep. The lights were off except for the kitchen, where Jiwoo always left one bulb on like a courtesy, like she was expecting someone even if she wasnât. Your keys learned the lock by memory. Your shoes came off by the door. You never turned on the overhead light. You never wanted to disturb the quiet she left behind.
Sometimes there would be a mug in the sink, rinsed but not washed. Sometimes a plate with crumbs and a faint smell of sugar. Once, a paper bag sat on the counter with a pastry inside, folded carefully like an afterthought she didnât want to waste. You never texted to say thank you. She never asked if you ate it. The exchange lived in silence, where neither of you had to perform gratitude out loud.
In the mornings, sheâd hear you only in traces. The hum of the refrigerator door opening at an ungodly hour. The soft clink of glass against the counter. The sink running just long enough to rinse citrus and ice away. When she woke up for work, the apartment smelled faintly of coffee she didnât remember making and something sharper underneath it, lime, whiskey or soap that hadnât fully done its job.
Your schedules overlapped only in the kitchen, never in real time. You existed to each other as evidence rather than presence, never talking and never meeting.
But it was never like this before.
Believe it or not, you liked her.
Yes, you liked Choi Jiwoo. I mean, who wouldnât? There was just something about her, maybe it was her silent yet observant nature or maybe because you lived around her orbit and you couldnât help yourself.
Maybe it was the way she noticed things without announcing that she had. The way the trash was always taken out on nights you forgot. The way your favorite glass never seemed to migrate into her cabinet, even though she used everything else without ceremony. Jiwoo moved through the apartment like she was careful not to leave dents in the air, and somehow that made you pay attention.
Liking her felt harmless at first. Almost academic. An observation rather than a feeling. You liked the way she tied her hair before work, efficient and neat. You liked that she never slammed doors. You liked that she hummed sometimes, softly, when she thought she was alone. These were small, manageable things. Things you could tuck away and ignore when your shift ran long and the bar noise followed you home like a second skin.
It only became a problem when you had the brightest idea of telling her.
The thought arrived unceremoniously, somewhere between wiping down the bar at closing and counting tips under bad fluorescent lighting. It felt practical at first. Sensible, even. Like correcting an imbalance that had been left alone too long. You told yourself it didnât have to be dramatic, just honest. Just a sentence or two, delivered gently, like everything else between you.
You rehearsed it on the walk home. You trimmed it down, softened the edges. Took out anything that sounded like expectation.
You didnât expect courage to feel this quiet.
She was there when you got home. Actually there. Sitting at the kitchen counter in an oversized sweater, hair loose, mug warming her hands. It startled you so badly you almost laughed.
âHey,â she said, smiling like this wasnât rare, like this was normal.
âHey,â you echoed, heart thudding far too loud for the hour.
You lingered in the doorway longer than necessary. She noticed. Of course she did. Jiwoo noticed everything.
âYou okay?â she asked.
You nodded too quickly. Then you shook your head. Then you sighed, because there was no elegant way out once she was looking at you like that.
âCan I⊠talk to you?â you asked.
Her expression shifted, not alarmed, just attentive. She set her mug down. âYeah. Of course.â
You sat across from her, the same spot where youâd traded drinks and coffee weeks ago. The kitchen light hummed. The clock blinked a useless time. You stared at the table for a moment longer than necessary, gathering words like loose change.
âI didnât mean for this to happen,â you said finally. âBut Iâve grown more comfortable around you and maybe even a little attached. I appreciate your company a lot but with that, I think I. . .like you. More than. . .roommates.â
Silence followed.Â
Jiwoo didnât look away. That somehow made it worse.
She took a breath, slow and measured, like she was choosing each word carefully. âI wondered if you did,â she said softly.
Your chest tightened. Hope flared before you could stop it.
âIâIâm really glad you told me,â she continued. âReally. I care about you. I do.â
The way she said it already told you where this was going.
âBut I donât see you that way. . .youâre nice, gentle at that and Iâm not sure how it would have gone if I had to share this place with someone else.â she said, gentle as a hand on your arm.Â
âIâm sorry. . .â
Then there it was.
What felt like letting a gentle hand stab your heart
You swallowed, nodded once. âYou donât have to be sorry.â
âI know,â she said. âBut I still am.â
You sat there for a moment, letting it settle. It didnât hurt the way youâd imagined, well, maybe a dramatic sting to the heart.Â
âI donât want things to be weird,â she added quickly. âI really like what we have. I donât want to lose that.â
You looked up then, meeting her eyes properly for the first time in a while. There was concern there. And warmth. And nothing else.
âYou wonât,â you said. And you meant it.
She smiled, relieved, and reached for her mug again. The moment loosened, unknotted itself. Conversation drifted back to safer ground. Work. Schedules. The price of groceries. You laughed once, surprised that you could.
Later, when she went to bed, you stayed in the kitchen a little longer than usual. You rinsed your glass. Wiped the counter. Set the coffee machine for the morning, same as always.
Some things didnât change.
And some things did, quietly, without spectacle.
-
Living with her after saying what you felt, was awkward at first.
You couldnât look back at her, shortened your replies and maybe even took an extra hour or two at the club.
Not because she asked you to.Â
Jiwoo never did anything to make it worse.
That somehow made it harder.
You learned new routes through the apartment. You mastered the art of coincidence, timing your showers so you wouldnât have to share the hallway. You stopped lingering in the kitchen. The light still stayed on, but now it felt like it was shining on the absence you left behind.
She noticed, of course she did.
The pastries still appeared, but less often. The coffee was still set for the morning, but sometimes you forgot on purpose, like denying yourself would make things even. You told yourself the extra hours at the club were practical. More tips. Fewer thoughts. A louder place to hide.
Jiwoo tried to give you space in the careful way she gave everything else. She didnât push. She didnât ask. She filled the silence with normalcy, with routine, with the same quiet kindness that had made you like her in the first place.
One morning, you caught her in the kitchen by accident.Â
She was dressed up, not in the jeans and sweater youâd grown used to seeing her in before she left for work, but something more prepared. Intentional. A black one piece dress you didnât recognize, soft fabric that caught the light differently, half-hidden beneath a polo that looked two sizes too large, like sheâd grabbed the first thing within reach and pulled it on without thinking too hard about the effect.
You stalled in the doorway.
She glanced up from the counter, fingers still curled around her phone.
âGoing somewhere?â You said before you could stop yourself.
âYeah, my friends set me up with a date.â She said, always straight to the point.
The words landed lightly. Too lightly. Like she hadnât meant for them to weigh anything at all.
âOh,â you said. Again. You were getting tired of that sound coming out of your mouth.
She nodded, slipping her phone into her bag. âYeah. Just coffee. Nothing serious.â
Nothing serious.
You smiled like that helped.
âThatâs⊠nice,â you managed. Your voice behaved. You resented it for that.
She studied you for half a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking over your face like she was checking for something. Finding nothing, or maybe deciding not to look too closely.
âI wonât be late,â she added, for reasons you didnât ask for.
âTake your time,â you said, and meant the opposite of hurry and the opposite of stay.
She hummed, distracted, and reached for her keys. The movement pulled the polo higher on her shoulder, the black fabric beneath catching the light again. You looked away too late.
âWish me luck?â she asked, not teasing.
You swallowed. âGood luck, Jiwoo.â
She smiled then. Warm. Familiar. The same smile she gave you when she liked a pastry you brought home or when you remembered to buy her oat milk without being asked.
âThanks,â she said. âIâll see you later.â
The door closed softly behind her. It always did.
You stood in the kitchen long after her footsteps faded, the coffee machine still warm under your palm. The light hummed overhead, dutiful as ever, illuminating a space that suddenly felt too clean. Too intact. Like nothing had just shifted.
You told yourself you were happy for her.
You told yourself this was what moving on looked like.
You told yourself youâd already lost, so there was nothing left to brace for.
Still, you poured yourself a drink at ten in the morning and didnât bother rinsing the glass right away, it was probably five somewhere in the world.
That night, you stayed late at the club, later than usual. The music was loud enough to erase the thought, the crowd dense enough to forget faces. You worked on autopilot, smile practiced, hands steady.
Somewhere between shaking a drink and sliding it across the bar, you realized you were counting time again.
Not until she got home.
Just until you didnât have to picture her sitting across from someone else, laughing easily, telling them things youâd never asked for, never deserved.
When you finally unlocked the apartment door, the kitchen light was on.
There was a mug in the sink, rinsed and not washed.
And for the first time since youâd told her how you felt, you wished sheâd been cruel enough to make it easier.
-
Everything continued to the present.
The days stacked neatly on top of each other, indistinguishable in the way routines liked to pretend nothing had changed. You worked late. She woke early. The apartment stayed functional, courteous, almost kind. Whatever sharp edges had surfaced after that morning were sanded down by time and avoidance.
Maybe you should be grateful that you two never got to see each other eye to eye.
Grateful that you didnât have to watch her come home flushed and smiling, shoes kicked off by the door, phone lighting up with a name that wasnât yours. Grateful that you didnât have to learn the sound of her laughter when it was meant for someone else. Grateful that whatever she was building now existed entirely outside your hours.
You told yourself distance was mercy.
The kitchen kept doing what it always did. Coffee brewed before dawn. Glasses appeared in the sink after midnight. The light stayed on, a quiet truce neither of you ever discussed. Sometimes there were pastries again. Sometimes there werenât. Sometimes you set the timer, sometimes you don't.
All you know was that she was still going out with the guy her friends set her up with.
You didnât have a name and not a singular idea about him.
He existed only as a concept to you. A silhouette you refused to fill in because giving him details would make him real, and reality had already done enough damage on its own. He was just the guy. The one who occupied the hours you didnât. The one who got the version of Jiwoo that existed after sunrise and before exhaustion.
You wondered, briefly, if he noticed the things you had. If he saw the way she listened more than she spoke. If he clocked the tiny pause before she smiled, like she was checking whether it was appropriate. If he understood that her kindness wasnât flirtation, that it was simply how she moved through the world.
You hoped he did.
You hoped he didnât.
Nothing in the apartment confirmed or denied his existence. Jiwoo didnât bring it home with her. No unfamiliar shoes by the door. No new scent clinging to her jacket. No laughter bleeding through the walls at night. If anything, she was more careful now. Quieter. Like she was keeping two worlds from overlapping out of respect.
For you, maybe.
That thought lingered longer than it should have.
You told yourself it didnât matter. You werenât entitled to information you hadnât earned. You were just roommates again, orbiting each other politely, like planets that had learned not to pull too hard.
Still, sometimes you caught her studying you in the kitchen, eyes flicking up when she thought you wouldnât notice. Sometimes she asked if youâd eaten. Sometimes you asked if she was tired. Small things. Neutral things. Things that meant nothing if you insisted they didnât.
The guy stayed nameless. Faceless. A rumor passed between coffee mugs and rinsed glasses. You never asked about him. She never volunteered details. Whatever existed between them was contained, separate, protected by the same unspoken boundaries that now defined your home.
And maybe that was for the best.
-
It was one of those late nights again.
Silence filled the apartment for two, and only the light in the kitchen was on as you laid down on the couch. You shifted against the cushions, eyes closed, letting the ache of work spread through your body. The hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of the overhead bulb were the only companions you allowed yourself tonight.
Somewhere in the kitchen, you heard movement, soft, and present. It wasnât enough to startle you, but enough to make you lift one eyelid. Jiwoo. Her silhouette passed through the doorway, shoulders hunched slightly under the weight of her bag, hands busy with a mug.
You shifted against the hard cushion again, trying your best to drift off to sleep and pretend to not notice her.
Then you heard it.
The sound was small, almost imperceptible at first, but unmistakable. Sniffles. A shaky breath. The kind of noise you didnât expect from Jiwoo, the quiet, composed, careful Jiwoo who never let anything spill over.
She wasnât moving toward her room. She was standing there, in the kitchen light, hands curled around the mug like it was the only thing keeping her steady. Her shoulders shook subtly, and the soft sniffles carried clearly through the quiet apartment.
Something in your chest tightened. Concern, maybe. Something sharper than irritation or tiredness.
You pushed yourself up on the couch, feet hitting the floor softly. âJiwoo?â you asked, voice low.
She didnât answer at first. Just another shaky breath. Another sniffle. Then, finally, her head tilted slightly toward you, hair falling loose from her bun, eyes glossy in the dim light.
You hesitated. Part of you wanted to stay still, respect the space sheâd built between you. Part of you wanted to cross the small distance and just⊠be there. Be present.
Slowly, you rose, moving toward her. She flinched the slightest bit, but didnât step back. Her mug was still clutched in her hands, knuckles pale.
âHey⊠whatâs wrong?â you asked, keeping your voice gentle.
Her lips pressed together, and then a single shaky breath escaped. âItâs nothing,â she whispered, barely audible. But the way her body trembled betrayed her words.
You took another small step closer. âIf you're crying then it doesn't sound like nothing.â
She finally looked at you, really looked, eyes wide and unsure. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, the distance between you both collapsed in a moment of unspoken need.
âIâŠâ she started, but the words faltered.
You didnât move to speak over her. You just stayed there, letting the silence fill the spaces where words failed. The hum of the fridge, the faint overhead buzz, the soft clink of her mug.
Jiwoo sat down on the couch after you guided her there. A glass was set down on the low table, just in case she needed it before you sat down next to her.
You let the silence sit in the space between the both of you, not as a barrier to avoid her but as something to wait.
Jiwoo stared at her hands, fingers wrapped tightly around nothing now, the mug abandoned somewhere behind her. Her shoulders were still tense, lifted like she was bracing for impact that never came. The couch dipped slightly under her weight, under yours, close enough to feel but not close enough to overwhelm.
Her breathing was uneven. You counted it without meaning to. In. Out. A hitch. Another breath.
âI didnât want to bother you,â she said finally. Her voice was quiet, scraped thin. âYou look so tired lately.â
The words hit harder than you expected.
âYouâre not a bother,â you said, immediately, too quickly. Then you softened it. âYou never are.â
She let out a shaky laugh that didnât sound like laughter at all. âI know. I just⊠I keep telling myself that.â
Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor. You noticed then how red her eyes were, how carefully she was holding herself together, like this was something sheâd practiced doing alone.
âYou can talk to me or not, Iâll stay here either way.â You told her, eyes drifting across the living room that was softly illuminated by the streetlight outside.
Jiwoo didnât answer right away.
Your words settled somewhere between the two of you, quiet and steady, like youâd set something fragile on the table and stepped back from it.
Outside, a car passed. Headlights slid across the wall for a moment before disappearing again, leaving the apartment in its familiar half-light.
She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand, embarrassed by the sound of it. âYou always say things like that,â she murmured.
âLike what?â
âLike itâs simple.â
You shrugged slightly, though she wasnât looking. âSometimes it is.â
Her shoulders dropped a little. Not relaxed exactly, but less rigid than before.
âPeople are pretty. . .weird.â She mumbled, soft enough for you to still hear.
âYeah, I think thatâs what makes us human sometimes.â You chuckled.Â
Jiwoo gave a quiet hum at that, like she wasnât sure whether to agree or argue.
For a while, neither of you spoke again.
The apartment settled back into its quiet rhythm. The fridge hummed like a lazy bassline, the light above the stove buzzed faintly, and somewhere outside a motorcycle coughed past before fading into the distance.
Jiwooâs fingers twisted together in her lap.
For a long moment she just watched them, like the answer might be written somewhere in the creases of her knuckles.
Then she exhaled slowly.
âI went on another date with him earlier,â she said.
The sentence hit you with a quiet thud.
You leaned back slightly against the couch, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.Â
âAlright,â you said gently. âAnd?â
Jiwoo let out a breath that sounded halfway between a sigh and a laugh.
âAnd I donât know what it means.â
Your brow furrowed.
âWhat do you mean?â
âHeâs nice,â she said quickly. âReally nice. When weâre together, heâs attentive and sweet and he listens. He walks me to the train, he remembers the drinks I like, he asks about my day at the cafe.â Her voice softened at that part.
Then her shoulders sagged again.
âBut when weâre not togetherâŠâ She shook her head faintly. âItâs like I donât exist.â
You turned your head toward her.
âHe doesnât text back?â you asked.
âSometimes,â she said. âBut it takes hours. Or a day. Or heâll just react to something I send and thatâs it.â Her lips pressed together. âThen the next time we meet he acts like everythingâs perfect.â
The confusion in her voice was quiet but heavy.
âI keep thinking maybe Iâm expecting too much,â she added. âMaybe people just⊠communicate differently.â
âI think so,â she said carefully. âOr⊠I want to.â
That answer made something twist uncomfortably in your chest.
âAnd he asked to see you again tonight?â you asked.
She nodded.
âBut halfway through dinner he said he might be too busy next week,â she continued. âThen ten minutes later he asked if I wanted to try this new restaurant together soon.â
You blinked.
âThatâs⊠confusing.â
Jiwoo laughed weakly. âExactly.â
Her hands tightened again.
âI feel stupid,â she murmured. âLike Iâm analyzing every message he sends. Every pause. Every word.â She rubbed at her eyes again. âI keep wondering if he actually likes me or if Iâm just⊠convenient.â
The word hung in the air like a bruise.
Your jaw tightened.
Convenient.
Youâd spent weeks pretending not to look at her. Pretending your chest didnât tighten every time you heard her keys in the door. Pretending the confession youâd thrown into the air months ago didnât still linger somewhere between the walls of this apartment.
And now she was crying over someone who couldnât even text her back.
Life always did have a strange sense of humor.
You rubbed the back of your neck.
âCan I say something?â you asked.
Jiwoo glanced at you cautiously. âYou always do.â
âFair.â
You leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on your knees.
âIf someone likes you,â you said slowly, âthey shouldnât make you feel like a puzzle you have to solve.â
She was quiet.
âThey might be busy,â you continued, âor awkward, or bad at texting. But they donât leave you sitting there wondering if you matter.â
Jiwoo stared at the floor again.
âI keep thinking maybe Iâm just impatient,â she said softly.
A faint, confused smile flickered across her face.
âYouâre the most patient person I know,â you finished.
Her eyes softened slightly.
âBut if heâs just bad at expressing things?â she asked quietly. âWhat if Iâm giving up too quickly?â
You leaned back again, thinking.
The truth sat heavy on your tongue.
You could say it.
You could tell her the thing that had been sitting in your chest ever since that night months ago when youâd confessed too suddenly, too clumsily, right before leaving for work.
But she was already hurting.
So instead you said something else.
âIf someone likes you,â you said, âtheyâll make room for you.â
Jiwoo tilted her head slightly.
âThey wonât treat you like an extra shift they can pick up when they need extra cash.â
Silence stretched again.
She sat with that thought for a long time.
Then she spoke, quieter than before.
âYou never treated me like that.â
The words hit you square in the chest.
You let out a slow breath.
âJiwooâŠâ
She turned toward you fully now, knees pulled slightly onto the couch.
âI know things got weird after you said⊠what you said,â she continued gently. âAnd Iâm sorry if I made it worse.â
You shook your head immediately.
âNo, that was on me. I dropped that on you out of nowhere and then ran off to work like a coward.â
She huffed a small laugh.
âYou did kind of sprint out the door.â
âTo be fair, they needed an extra set of hands,â you muttered.
She studied you carefully.
âYou started staying later at the bar after that,â she said.
You scratched your cheek.
ââŠmaybe.â
âAnd avoiding the kitchen when I was home.â
ââŠagain, maybe.â
Her lips curved faintly.
âYouâre not subtle.â
âNeither are you,â you said. âCrying in the kitchen at three in the morning.â
Jiwoo groaned softly and covered her face.
âI didnât think you were awake.â
âIâm pretty much nocturnal at this point.â
She lowered her hands slowly.
âIâm sorry you had to see me like this. Iâm just a bit of a mess sometimes.â
You shook your head and looked at her.
âEverybody has been a mess at some point in their life. If it makes you feel any better, Iâve cried over weirder things before.â
Jiwoo peeked at you through the gaps between her fingers.
ââŠweirder things?â she asked cautiously.
You nodded, leaning back against the couch again.
âYeah.â
She slowly lowered her hands, curiosity nudging past the embarrassment.
âLike what?â
You rubbed the back of your neck, suddenly looking very interested in the carpet.
âOnce cried because the stray cat that used to visit our home stopped coming by.â
âYou didnât try to adopt it?â She asked.
âMom had a bad case of allergies so I didnât really have much of a choice.â You chuckled.
Jiwooâs expression softened.
âThatâs actually really sad,â she murmured.
You shrugged, a little sheepish. âI was nine. It felt like a betrayal at the time.â
âDid the cat ever come back?â
âNope.â You leaned your head back against the couch. âProbably found a better house with someone who could actually feed it tuna instead of sneaking it scraps.â
Jiwoo huffed a quiet laugh, the sound still fragile but lighter than before.
The tension in her shoulders loosened a little. Not gone, but less sharp around the edges.
âYouâre weird,â she said.
âTakes one to know one.â
She looked down again, though this time the silence didnât feel as heavy. Her fingers rested loosely together instead of twisting themselves into knots.
After a moment, she spoke again.
âI donât think I like feeling like this.â
You turned your head slightly. âLike what?â
âLike Iâm waiting,â she said. âWaiting for him to decide if Iâm worth his time.â
Your jaw tightened a fraction.
âThat sounds exhausting.â
âIt is.â She gave a small sigh. âI check my phone too much. I reread messages. I try to guess what tone he meant.â She shook her head faintly. âIt makes me feel a little ridiculous.â
You tilted your head.
âYou should think about yourself too,âÂ
Jiwoo blinked. âWhat?â
âYouâd be surprised about the amount of times Iâve heard people talk about relationships behind the counter.â You started again. âBreakups, first dates, cheating, engagements, all of it.â
She listened.
âAnd the one thing that always stands out,â you continued, âis that they never really think for themselves.â
She looked thoughtful, tilting her head.
âSometimes theyâre so blinded that they would do whatever the other told them to,â you huffed, âOther times, they would stay even when it hurts, a little, a lot, they would never leave their side.â
Jiwoo listened quietly, her eyes following the slow movement of your hands as you spoke.
You didnât realize you were gesturing until you stopped.
âPeople do that a lot,â you continued, voice softer now. âThey bend themselves around someone elseâs feelings until thereâs barely anything left of their own.â
The words hung there, heavier than you intended.
Jiwooâs fingers curled slightly in her lap again, but not the anxious twisting from before. This time it looked more like she was holding onto the thought.
âAnd you think Iâm doing that?â she asked.
You hesitated.
âA little,â you admitted. âNot because youâre weak or anything like that. You just⊠try very hard to be fair to people.â
Her lips pressed together.
âThatâs not a bad thing.â
âIt isnât,â you said quickly. âBut sometimes fairness turns into you carrying the whole weight of something thatâs supposed to be shared.â
Jiwoo leaned back into the couch, letting out a slow breath through her nose.
âI keep telling myself maybe heâs just busy,â she said. âOr maybe heâs bad at texting. Or maybe Iâm expecting too much too soon.â
You glanced at her.
âAnd what do you tell yourself when he is texting you back?â
She blinked.
âWhat do you mean?â
âWhen heâs attentive. When he remembers your drink order. When he walks you to the train.â You shrugged. âDo you think heâs overthinking it? Wondering if heâs asking too much of you?â
Jiwoo was quiet.
Her eyes drifted down again.
ââŠno.â
âExactly.â
The apartment hummed around you, steady and patient.
âYouâre putting a lot of effort into understanding him,â you said. âBut it doesnât sound like heâs putting the same effort into understanding you.â
She rubbed the sleeve of her sweater between her fingers.
âI just donât want to give up on someone too quickly.â
âThatâs fair.â
You leaned forward, elbows on your knees again.
âBut thereâs a difference between patience and waiting around for someone to decide if youâre worth keeping.â
Jiwoo swallowed slightly.
âI hate that part,â she admitted.
âWhat part?â
âThe waiting.â
You nodded.
âYeah. Waitingâs the worst.â
She turned her head a little, studying your profile in the dim light.
Jiwoo opened her lips, wanting to say something but stopped herself. Instead, she cleared her throat.
âI think I should get some sleep.â
You nodded once, slow.
âProbably a good idea.â
Jiwoo pushed her palms lightly against the couch and stood. The cushion rose back into place after her, leaving a small hollow where she had been sitting. For a second she lingered there, like she had forgotten something.
Or maybe like she was deciding something.
You didnât ask.
She bent down to grab the mug sheâd abandoned earlier, fingers wrapping around it again out of habit more than anything. The tea inside had gone cold.
ââŠThanks,â she said quietly.
âFor what?â
âFor listening.â
You shrugged faintly, though she wasnât looking directly at you anymore.
âPart of the roommate package.â
That earned the smallest huff of amusement.
Jiwoo took a few steps toward the hallway, then paused near the edge of the kitchen light. The warm glow cut across the floorboards, stopping right before your feet like a stage mark neither of you had crossed in weeks.
She glanced back.
âYou should sleep too,â she said.
âI will.â
âYou say that every night.â
âAnd every night I mean it.â
Her mouth curved just slightly.
For a moment it looked like she might say something else. Her fingers tightened around the mug again, shoulders lifting a fraction before settling back down.
But whatever the thought was, she tucked it away.
âGoodnight,â she murmured.
âNight, Jiwoo.â
She disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps soft against the floor until the quiet swallowed them.
A moment later, you heard the faint click of her bedroom door.
The apartment settled again.
You leaned your head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. The kitchen light still hummed faintly, washing the room in that familiar half-glow that had become the only thing the two of you consistently shared lately.
For a while, you just sat there.
Then you stood, stretching the stiffness from your shoulders.
Your eyes drifted toward the kitchen counter.
The coffee maker was still there, exactly where it always sat.
You hesitated.
It would be easy not to do it tonight. Easy to leave it alone, crawl into your own bed, pretend tomorrow would be like every other day that had stacked itself neatly on top of the last.
But your hands moved anyway.
Water first.
Then the filter.
Then the coffee grounds she liked, not the cheaper kind you used for yourself.
You set the timer for five in the morning.
The quiet click sounded louder than it should have.
For a second, you rested your hand against the counter, staring at the little digital numbers blinking back at you.
You told yourself it was habit.
Routine.
Nothing more than that.
Still, when you finally turned off the kitchen light and the apartment fell into darkness, the smell of coffee grounds lingered faintly in the air.
-
You rarely had days off, and when you did, you couldnât really figure out what to do with them.
The hours felt strange when they belonged entirely to you. Too quiet. Too open.
So they usually ended the same way.
Youâd end up drifting between the living room and your room, catching up on sleep that had been shaved away by late shifts and loud music, or finally watching the show youâd been meaning to start for weeks but never had the energy for.
Today was one of those days.
âDo you want to grab some groceries with me?âÂ
You looked up from the sanctuary that was the living room couch and at Jiwoo who stood a couple steps away.
You blinked, caught off guard. âUh⊠yeah, sure.â
She gave a small smile, the kind that didnât fill the room but made the edges of it softer. âCool. I figured itâd be better than wandering around alone⊠or just napping all day.â
You pushed yourself up, stretching stiff muscles. âI mean⊠I do need snacks. And coffee. And probably something youâll judge me for buying.â
Jiwoo laughed softly, a little brighter than usual. âI won't judge. Maybe.â
Soon enough, both of you got dressed and met at the door
The two of you fell into an easy rhythm as you walked out the door, the rare daylight spilling in from outside and painting the apartment in warm hues. For once, your schedules aligned, not by accident, not in the half-light of exhaustion, but deliberately, side by side.
Outside, the street hummed with life. The smells of morning pastries and roasted coffee drifted past, blending with the faint scent of the city. Jiwoo fell into step beside you, her bag slung lightly over one shoulder. You noticed the way she adjusted the strap absentmindedly, how her eyes scanned the street but always seemed half-focused on you.
âI wasnât sure if youâd say yes,â she murmured, almost to herself.
You glanced at her. âWhy not?â
She shrugged. âYou always seem⊠busy. Or like youâd rather be anywhere else.â
âIâm standing right here,â you said, shrugging back. âGuess Iâm not anywhere else today.â
She smiled at that. It wasnât wide, but it was genuine, quiet, the kind that stuck in the chest longer than it should.
You walked a little further before either of you spoke again.
The sidewalk stretched ahead, familiar but strangely new in the daylight. Most of your memories of the neighborhood lived in neon reflections and late-night quiet, when the streets felt half-asleep and the world smelled like rain and cigarette smoke.
A bakery door chimed as someone stepped out with a paper bag, warm air spilling onto the sidewalk. A cyclist passed with a soft whirr of their chain. Somewhere down the block a dog barked twice like it had an important announcement to make.
Jiwoo slowed slightly beside you.
âYou usually sleep around this time, donât you?â she asked.
âUsually,â you said. âMy bodyâs probably very confused right now.â
âShould we have gone later?â
You shook your head. âNah. Itâs fine.â Then you glanced at her. âBesides, you look like you needed to get out of the apartment.â
She blinked, surprised by the observation.
ââŠMaybe I needed to.â
You glanced at her again, a little more carefully this time.
Jiwoo didnât elaborate. She just kept walking beside you, hands tucked loosely into the sleeves of her sweater, the strap of her bag sliding down her shoulder before she nudged it back up again.
It was a small habit of hers. One youâd started noticing more lately.
For a few steps the silence continued.
Then she spoke again.
âMy phoneâs been quiet today.â
You didnât need to ask who she meant.
âYeah?â you said.
She nodded faintly.
âI didnât text him this morning.â
You raised an eyebrow. âBold move.â
âIâm experimenting,â she said, though there was a trace of nervousness in her voice. âUsually Iâm the one who says good morning first.â
âAnd today?â
âI wanted to see if he would.â
You looked down the street ahead.
âAnd?â
She pulled her phone out of her pocket, glanced at the screen, then slipped it back in.
âStill nothing.â
You gave a small shrug.
âMorningâs still young. Maybe heâs still sleeping.â
âThatâs what I keep telling myself,â she said, though it sounded like she didnât fully believe it.
A bus rolled past, stirring a breeze that tugged lightly at her hair. She pushed a loose strand behind her ear.
âYou know what the annoying part is?â she added.
âWhat?â
âI keep checking anyway.â She made a small frustrated noise. âEven though I told myself I wouldnât.â
You chuckled.
âCongratulations. Youâre experiencing the universal human condition.â
âVery comforting,â she said dryly.
âAll Iâm saying is that youâre not the only one whoâs experiencing all of this.â you replied.
Up ahead, the bright sign of the grocery store came into view, the automatic doors sliding open and closed as people passed through.
She slowed slightly.
Then, more quietly, she said, âThanks for coming with me.â
You looked at her.
âItâs groceries,â you said.
âI know,â she said. âBut still.â
There was something gentle in the way she said it, something that lingered in the space between the two of you.
You scratched the back of your neck.
âWell,â you said, âsomeone has to stop you from buying the expensive cereal again.â
Her eyes widened.
âThat cereal is good.â
âIt practically costs the same as a small car.â
âIt has almonds.â
âFancy almonds,â you corrected.
Jiwoo laughed as the two of you stepped through the sliding doors, cool air washing over you from inside.
She grabbed a basket and handed it to you.
âYouâre carrying it,â she said.
âWhy me?â
âYouâre a gentleman, arenât you?â
You sighed dramatically but accepted the basket anyway.
âFine,â you muttered.
Jiwoo started down the first aisle, glancing back at you with a quiet grin.
-
You slowly walked through the aisles, basket still in hand.Â
Jiwoo walked a couple of steps away, grabbing things she needed and pointing at things she could probably buy another time.
âDo we really need three different kinds of pasta?â you asked, staring at the boxes now stacked in the basket.
Jiwoo glanced over her shoulder. âTheyâre different shapes.â
âTheyâre still pasta.â
âThatâs exactly why theyâre different.â
You lifted one of the boxes, inspecting it like it held secrets to the universe. âThis one looks like tiny scrolls.â
âTheyâre fusilli.â
âFancy spirals.â
She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.
You continued walking.
Jiwoo grabbed eggs. Milk. A small pack of strawberries she examined very carefully before approving.
At one point she reached into the basket to move something again and her hand brushed yours.
Just for a second.
You both froze like someone had quietly pressed pause on the moment.
Then she pulled her hand back.
ââŠSorry.â
âItâs fine.â
You cleared your throat and shifted the basket slightly.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Jiwoo continued down the aisle like nothing happened.
You stopped near the snacks.
Jiwoo tilted her head slightly as she studied the shelves.
âYou said you needed snacks,â she reminded.
You grabbed a bag of chips without thinking and tossed it in.
Her eyes immediately dropped to the basket.
ââŠOf course you did.â
âWhat?â
âYou work in a bar and your diet is still that of a college freshman.â
âHeyâ.â
She crouched slightly and picked up a box of something healthier.
âTake these.â
You looked at the label.
âJiwoo.â
âYes?â
âIt looks like they forgot to add flavoring at the factory.â
âTheyâre good for you.â
âYou sound like a doctor.â
âSomeone has to keep you alive.â
You watched as she slipped the box into the basket anyway.
Her hand lingered there for a second while she adjusted the items inside, organizing things like it mattered.
You stood there, eyes drifting to the side of her face when the thought hit you.
One day, you wouldnât be the one that helped her with groceries, wouldnât carry the basket over your arm as she fixed the things inside and wouldnât be the one who talked to her as if you two were the only ones in the store.
The thought stung your chest, softly at first before it spread throughout your lungs.
By then, youâd forgotten how to speak when she briefly looked up at you.
âDid you forget how to blink?â Jiwoo asked.
You snapped out of it, realizing youâd been staring at her for far too long.
ââŠNo.â
Her eyebrow lifted slightly.
âThat was suspiciously delayed.â
âI was thinking.â
âAboutâŠ?â
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
Because the truth would sound ridiculous if you said it out loud.
I was thinking about the day someone else stands here instead of me.
So you shrugged lightly instead.
âNothing important.â
Jiwoo watched you for a moment longer like she didnât quite believe that. Then she turned back to the basket, nudging the box of healthy crackers further to the side.
âHold it straight,â she said.
âIt is straight.â
âItâs leaning.â
âItâs because youâre pushing it.â
âJust shut up and hold it.â
You adjusted the basket just enough to satisfy her.
The moment smoothed over again.
Just like that.
-
You moved toward the next aisle together.
Jiwoo stopped near the bread section and reached for a loaf without much thought. She squeezed it gently like sheâd done this a thousand times before, then nodded to herself and added it to the growing pile in your arm.
âYouâre very decisive about bread,â you said.
âIâve been burned before.â
âBy bread.â
âBy badly burnt bread.â
You nodded solemnly.
âA tragic story.â
She nudged your shoulder lightly with hers as she walked past you.
âDonât mock my suffering.â
Your shoulder stayed warm long after the contact ended.
A couple walked past you then.
They were laughing about something small, arguing over which cereal to buy. The guy held the basket while the girl tossed things inside without much thought.
The scene was so ordinary it almost blended into the storeâs background noise.
But it still tugged at something in your chest.
Because you realized something quietly devastating.
Thatâs how the two of you probably looked right now.
Like people who belonged in the same routine.
Like people who did this every week.
Like people who would go home together and cook dinner and argue about pasta shapes.
The thought settled heavy in your ribs.
Because it wasnât real.
This was a coincidence of schedules.
A rare day where both of your lives slowed down at the same time.
Jiwoo worked mornings.
You worked nights.
Your worlds barely overlapped.
Most days you only saw her half-awake or half-exhausted, passing in the hallway like two trains crossing tracks for three seconds.
And one day, eventually, that passing would stop altogether.
Sheâd move.
Or you would.
Or someone would come along who actually lived in her hours instead of just borrowing them.
Someone who could walk with her in daylight without their body begging for sleep.
Someone who could share mornings.
Not just late-night leftovers and quiet apartments.
Your grip tightened slightly on the basket.
-
You turned to the next aisle.
Jiwoo still walked further ahead, a couple of steps that you couldnât quite reach.
Her hand carefully treaded along the shelf, across the plastic of the packs of powdered coffee and the bags of beans ready to be made into a steamy drink.
Then she turned her head over her shoulder briefly.
âDo you have anything to do tomorrow? Besides from your shift, of course.â you heard her ask.
âNot much, why?â
âYou should come by the cafe tomorrow, weâre holding an event.â
You slowed a little when she said that.
Not enough for her to notice. Just enough that the wheels of the cart made a softer sound against the floor.
âAn event?â you asked.
Jiwoo nodded, turning back toward the shelves. Her fingers tapped lightly against a row of coffee bags before she picked one up to read the label.
âYeah. The ownerâs doing one of those tasting things. Different beans, little pastries, free samples if people sit through the explanation.â She gave a small shrug. âItâs mostly an excuse to get more customers through the door.â
âSounds dangerous,â you said. âFree food attracts crowds.â
âIt does,â she said, smiling faintly.
She placed the bag of beans in the cart.
Then glanced back at you again.
âYou should come.â
The words landed lightly, like they hadnât been given much thought.
But they echoed around in your head anyway.
You leaned your elbows against the handle of the cart.
âWhat time?â
âLate afternoon,â she said. âAround four.â
Your shift started at seven.
Plenty of time.
Your first instinct was to say yes without thinking.
Instead, you tilted your head slightly.
âWhy? You need a body to fill a chair?â
Jiwoo rolled her eyes a little.
âI just thought you might like it.â
You hummed.
âFree coffee does sound appealing.â
âItâll be nice,â she added after a moment. âThe place gets cozy when itâs full.â
You followed beside her.
âYouâre working the whole time?â
âYeah.â She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. âServing drinks, explaining the beans, pretending I know sophisticated things about flavor notes.â
âYou donât?â
âI know what tastes good,â she said. âApparently thatâs not the same thing.â
You chuckled quietly.
For a moment, the image formed in your mind without permission.
Jiwoo behind the counter.
Hair tied back.
Sleeves rolled up slightly while she poured coffee, talking to customers with that small, patient smile she used when people asked too many questions.
People would like her.
Of course they would.
She had the kind of warmth that made strangers comfortable.
Someone would probably sit there longer than they needed to.
Just to keep talking to her.
The thought nudged at something unpleasant in your chest.
You cleared your throat.
âSo this is a recruitment effort,â you said.
âFor what?â
âTo convert me into a regular customer.â
She laughed softly.
âYou already are.â
âThatâs because you give me discounts.â
âIâll give you one free drink if you look like youâre about to fall asleep.â
âSee?â you said. âSpecial treatment.â
She shook her head, smiling.
Then she slowed again near the refrigerated drinks.
âSeriously though,â she said, voice quieter now. âYou should come if youâre free.â
You stopped beside her.
Jiwoo looked at you properly this time, not over her shoulder, not in passing.
Waiting.
There was nothing complicated about the invitation.
Just a casual suggestion.
But something about it made your chest feel tight again.
Because tomorrow sheâd be in her world.
Daylight.
Customers.
A space where you didnât exist as the guy she shared an apartment with or the person she talked to in the quiet kitchen at midnight.
Just another face in a chair.
Just someone passing through.
You rubbed the back of your neck.
ââŠYeah,â you said finally. âIâll stop by.â
Her smile came a little easier at that.
âGood.â
She grabbed a bottle of iced tea and placed it in the cart.
Then she started walking again.
And for some reason, the few steps between you felt just as long as before.
-
You reached the end of the aisle together.
Jiwoo glanced back at the basket.
âWe got a lot more than I planned.â
âThatâs because you bought enough for a small village.â
âBecause you eat for five people.â
âAnd who says you donât?â
You huffed a quiet laugh.
Then she looked up at you again.
âAre you sure youâre okay?â she asked.
You blinked.
âYeah.â
âYou got quiet again.â
You looked down at the basket resting against your arm.
At the strawberries.
The dumplings.
The tea.
All these small pieces of a life that felt strangely shared for the moment.
Then you looked back at her.
Jiwoo stood under the fluorescent lights, hair falling loosely around her face, expression soft but curious.
Waiting.
You forced a smile.
âJust tired,â you said.
She studied you for a second longer.
Then she nodded.
ââŠOkay.â
She turned toward the checkout lanes.
âCome on. Letâs pay before I remember something else to buy.â
You followed her.
Basket still hanging from your arm.
And for the rest of the walk to the register, a quiet thought sat heavy in your chest.
One day, someone else would be the one standing beside her in grocery store aisles.
Someone else would carry the basket.
Someone else would hear her argue about pasta shapes.
And the worst part was knowing she wouldnât even notice the difference at first.
Because to her, this was just grocery shopping.
But to you,Â
It already felt like something you were going to miss.
-
When tomorrow afternoon came, you made it a quiet rule for yourself not to be late.
It wasnât a big thing. Not officially.
Just something that settled into your chest sometime between waking up and staring too long at the closet.
You dressed casually, like you werenât heading into a shift later. A clean shirt instead of the one you usually threw on before work. Shoes that didnât smell faintly like spilled beer and citrus cleaner. You even fixed your hair a little before leaving, catching your reflection in the mirror longer than usual.
Then you scoffed at yourself and grabbed your jacket.
But today the sky hung pale and bright overhead, and the sidewalks buzzed with afternoon energy. People holding iced drinks, students drifting in groups, someone walking a golden retriever that looked like it had a better social life than you.
The windows were wide and bright, sunlight spilling through them like someone had poured honey across the floor inside. A small chalkboard sign stood outside the door.
Coffee Tasting Event
Free samples today!
You paused a second before going in.
Not out of nervousness exactly.
Just awareness.
Then you pushed the door open.
The bell chimed softly above your head.
Warm air wrapped around you immediately. Coffee, sugar, butter from fresh pastries. The quiet hum of conversation layered with the soft hiss of an espresso machine.
It was busier than you expected.
Small groups sat at tables with little sample cups. Someone near the counter laughed at something the barista said. A couple stood by the display case debating between croissants and muffins like it was a life-altering decision.
Your eyes scanned the room without meaning to.
And there she was.
Jiwoo stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair tied back loosely. She was pouring coffee into small cups while speaking to a pair of customers.
ââŠthis oneâs lighter,â she was saying, voice calm and patient. âA little fruity, I guess? Thatâs what they tell me Iâm supposed to say.â
The customers laughed.
She smiled, a little sheepish.
You leaned against the wall near the entrance for a moment, watching.
She moved easily behind the counter. Passing cups, wiping the surface, answering questions. Every now and then someone thanked her and she gave that small nod youâd seen a hundred times in the apartment when she said goodnight or handed you a cup of tea.
But here it looked different.
Brighter.
People noticed her.
A guy sitting near the counter leaned forward while she spoke, clearly more interested in the conversation than the coffee in front of him.
A woman thanked her again as she walked away.
Jiwooâs laugh drifted across the room.
And something in your chest shifted.
Not jealousy exactly.
Just a strange, quiet realization.
This was her world.
Light pouring through windows instead of neon bar signs. People lingering in chairs instead of staggering out the door at two in the morning. Conversations that didnât smell like whiskey and regret.
Youâd only ever seen her in the quiet hours. Late nights in the kitchen. Early mornings before either of you collapsed into sleep.
But here she looked alive.
Like this place belonged to her.
You rubbed the back of your neck and stepped closer to the counter.
It took a few seconds before she noticed you.
Jiwoo looked up while handing a sample cup to someone.
Then she froze.
Just for a second.
Her eyes widened slightly before a smile spread across her face, brighter than any youâd seen in the apartment.
Jiwoo raised her hand up slightly in a small wave.
She watched you return the gesture before a hand tapped on your shoulder.
Jiwooâs eyes flicked from the counter to you, following your movements as you talked quietly with someone else.
She noticed the subtle lean in your posture, the way your hands moved to emphasize something, the faint smile that wasnât meant for her.
Her chest tightened in a way that made her inhale too quickly, catching herself before anyone could notice.
The girl who had stepped up beside you had a bright, easy presence,laughing at something you said, and Jiwoo felt the tiny, sharp stab of something she wasnât expecting.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter, the warmth of the cup she had just poured doing little to soothe the sudden unease blooming in her stomach.
She told herself it didnât mean anything.
You were just. . .talking. Right? Just talking.
But she couldnât stop her gaze from following every small motion, the way you shifted slightly closer to the girl, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. It wasnât jealousy, she reasoned. Not really. It was just awareness. A quiet, insistent awareness that this, this brightness, this laugh, this casual closeness, wasnât hers.
Jiwooâs lips pressed into a thin line. She looked down at the counter, focusing on the swirl of crema in the cup she had set aside. Her own hands, usually so steady, felt like they were betraying her, twitching slightly as she tried to focus on anything but you.
When she glanced back up, you had turned to hand the girl something, your attention fully elsewhere. Jiwoo realized, with a small, hollow ache, that even if she wanted to step forward, even if she wanted to be part of this moment, she didnât belong here. Not really.
She set the cup down a little too firmly. The faint clink echoed in the busy cafe, and she straightened, telling herself to move, to breathe, to return to work.
Jiwoo tried to go back to work, to talk to customers and to discuss the different flavors a coffee could have but she couldnât
Not when she could see you and this seemingly random woman talk at the back of the crowd while you talked in front.
Jiwoo tried.
She really did.
A customer stood in front of her asking about the difference between two roasts, holding both sample cups like they contained some grand philosophical answer. Jiwoo nodded, listened, even opened her mouth to explain.
ââthis oneâs a little more acidic,â she said automatically.
You were still standing near the back of the small crowd, one shoulder angled toward the girl. She said something animated, lifting her hands in the air like the story required gestures. You laughed again. Not loudly, but enough that Jiwoo could see it in the tilt of your head.
The customer in front of her said something else.
Jiwoo blinked.
âIâm sorry?â she asked.
They repeated the question.
âOh,â she said softly. âRight. That oneâs umâŠâ
Her mind stalled like a car stuck in the wrong gear.
The customer didnât seem to mind. They smiled politely, tasted the coffee, and moved along with a thank you.
Jiwoo nodded automatically.
Her fingers hovered over the counter.
The cafe buzzed around her, voices and cups and the constant quiet motion of people drifting through the event. Normally she liked this kind of energy. It made the hours pass quickly. It made her feel useful.
Today it felt like standing in the middle of a river while watching something important drift away downstream.
She glanced up again.
The girl beside you leaned a little closer this time, saying something near your shoulder.
Jiwoo felt the small twist in her chest again.
Not jealousy.
She told herself that immediately.
You had friends. People who knew you outside the apartment. Outside those sleepy late-night conversations where both of you were half-draped over the kitchen counter and sharing whatever snacks were left in the cabinet.
Of course you did.
And yet.
Seeing it was different.
Seeing the easy way you laughed, the way someone else occupied your attention so completely for a moment.
It made something quietly fragile inside her wobble.
Jiwoo picked up a cloth and wiped the counter again even though it was already spotless.
A coworker passed behind her with a tray of pastries.
âJiwoo, can you refill the light roast samples?â he asked.
âYeah,â she said quickly.
She reached for the coffee pot.
But as she poured, her eyes betrayed her again, flicking up toward the back of the room.
âJiwoo, remember to give those out.â
She nodded her head and as she held the two cups together to set aside on a tray, she exited around the counter and headed towards a specific table.
The tray was light in her hands. Two small cups, steam curling gently upward like quiet signals.
You looked up from the other girl before you and your eyes widened in recognition.
âLight roast refill?â she offered politely.
âYeah, sure. We could use some.â You answered.
She set the cups down but she continued to stand there, feet unknowingly inching towards you.
Her arms pressed the tray against her chest.
You glanced at her and the almost blank expression on her face.
âAh right,â you gestured towards her. âThis is Jiwoo, I share the apartment with her.âÂ
The girl turned toward her with immediate interest.
âYour roommate?â she repeated, smiling as if the idea amused her.
Jiwoo gave a small nod.
âYes. Weââ
Her voice caught slightly before she could finish the sentence.
You noticed it.
Of course you did.
Jiwooâs gaze dropped to the table instead of meeting either of your eyes. The small sample cups sat between you now, thin steam rising lazily into the air.
The other girl picked one up first.
âWell, thatâs convenient,â she said lightly before taking a sip. âLiving with someone who works in a cafe. Iâd never run out of coffee.â
Jiwoo managed a polite smile.
âAnd Jiwoo, this is Dohee. One of my friends back in college.â
Jiwoo nodded once.
âNice to meet you,â she said softly.
Dohee smiled easily, the kind of warmth that filled space without asking permission.
âYou too. He never mentioned his roommate worked here.â
Jiwooâs eyes flicked briefly toward you.
âProbably because I try to sleep when he gets home,â she said. âAnd he tries to sleep when I leave.â
Dohee laughed at that.
âOpposite schedules?â
âPretty much.â
You nodded, rubbing the back of your neck again.
âThe apartmentâs basically a relay race,â you said. âShe hands the kitchen over when I stumble in.â
Jiwoo felt the corner of her mouth lift slightly despite herself.
It was true.
Half the time the only proof that youâd been home was the empty mug in the sink or the bag of chips mysteriously appearing in the pantry.
Dohee took another sip of the coffee.
âOh this is good,â she said, lifting the cup. âYou made this?â
Jiwoo shook her head lightly.
âWeâre sampling beans today. I just poured it.â
âWell you poured it very professionally,â Dohee said with a playful nod.
Jiwoo gave a small, polite smile again.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the tray.
You leaned forward on your elbows.
âSo how long are you in town?â you asked Dohee.
âJust visiting for a couple days,â she said. âWork trip. I didnât expect to run into you here of all places.â
Jiwoo watched the conversation drift back toward you both.
The two of you slipping easily into old stories and shared references she didnât understand.
Professors.
Late study nights.
Someone named Minjae who apparently once tried to microwave ramen without water.
Dohee laughed loudly at that one.
Jiwoo smiled politely again even though she didnât know the story.
The tray in her hands suddenly felt heavier.
Like it became a reminder that she had a reason to stand here.
And also a reason to leave.
You glanced up at her again mid-conversation.
âDid you want to sit?â you asked.
Jiwoo blinked.
âOh.â
Her eyes flicked toward the counter where her coworkers were still moving quickly behind the espresso machine.
âI should probably get back.â
You nodded slowly.
âRight.â
There was a tiny pause.
Jiwoo adjusted her grip on the tray.
âEnjoy the coffee,â she said.
Dohee lifted her cup slightly in thanks.
Jiwoo turned again.
This time she made it all the way back to the counter without stopping.
Where your shoulders leaned toward someone elseâs story.
And Jiwoo realized something quietly uncomfortable.
She knew the version of you that existed at four in the morning.
Half-asleep.
Gentler.
Quieter.
But this version of you⊠the one laughing easily in the afternoon sunlightâŠ
Felt a little like someone she was only just meeting.
And somehow that made the space between you both feel a little wider than it had this morning.
-
Once the event was over and the crowd spilled out onto the street like a tide finally released, you waited outside.
The cafe door swung open and closed behind customers leaving with paper bags tucked under their arms, their voices fading into the afternoon traffic. Somewhere down the block a bus hissed to a stop. A bicycle rattled past. The city had started slipping into that inâbetween hour where the sun softened and everything moved a little slower.
Jiwoo had told you to go home.
âYou can leave,â she said from behind the counter while wiping the counter. âI still have to close up.â
You agreed, initially.
And then. . .you didnât.
You leaned against the brick wall beside the cafe window instead, hands buried in your pockets. Through the glass you could see her moving around inside, small and busy. She carried a stack of chairs to the back. Wiped one of the machines. Adjusted a crooked display of a painting that hung on a wall.
Every now and then she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in that distracted way she always did.
You looked away before she could accidentally catch you staring.
Ten minutes passed.
Maybe fifteen.
The sun dipped lower, painting the street in warm orange streaks that stretched across the pavement like spilled watercolor.
The door finally opened.
Jiwoo stepped out, bag swinging from her shoulder, the shop keys dangling from her fingers. She turned to lock the door, pushing it shut with her shoulder before sliding the key into place.
Only then did she turn around.
And immediately froze.
Her eyes landed on you like she had just discovered a statue someone secretly placed there.
âYouâre still here?â
Her eyebrows knit together in confusion.
You straightened slightly from the wall. âYeah.â
âI told you to go home.â
âYou did.â
She stared at you for a moment longer, clearly waiting for the explanation that wasnât coming.
âYou. . .forgot?â she guessed.
âNo.â
Jiwoo shifted in place, still looking unconvinced. A small crease appeared between her brows as she studied you, as if trying to solve a quiet puzzle.
âThen why are you still here?â
You shrugged lightly.
âThought we could walk together.â
Jiwoo blinked.
For a moment she simply stared at you, as if the sentence needed time to settle somewhere in her head.
â. . .Walk?â she repeated.
âYeah.â
Your answer came easily. Too easily, maybe.
Like waiting outside for fifteen minutes just to walk someone home was the most normal decision in the world.
Jiwoo shifted her weight slightly, the strap of her bag sliding further down her shoulder. Her fingers caught it automatically, pulling it back into place.
âYou didnât have to wait for that.â
âI know.â
The reply came without hesitation.
Which, somehow, only made the situation stranger.
Jiwoo looked at you again, longer this time. The late sunlight caught the edges of her hair, turning a few strands copper against the fading sky.
âYouâre weird,â she muttered.
But the words lacked any real bite.
A small silence slipped between you both.
Cars rolled past slowly. Someone across the street was unlocking a bike, the metal chain clinking softly.
Jiwoo let out a small breath. âFine.â
âFine?â You raised an eyebrow slightly.
âI mean,â she gestured vaguely down the street, âweâre going the same direction anyway.â
You didnât point out that she didnât actually know where you were headed. Instead, you simply pushed yourself off the wall.
âLead the way.â
Jiwoo turned and started down the sidewalk without another word.
You fell into step beside her.
For the first few minutes, neither of you said much.
The city hummed around you in that comfortable evening rhythm. Restaurants were starting to fill. Streetlights flickered on one by one. The sky overhead was slowly trading orange for a soft violet blue.
Jiwoo walked with her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, gaze forward.
After a while she spoke again.
âYou and Dohee seemed close.â
The sentence landed lightly. Casual on the surface.
But there was a small tightness beneath it.
You glanced sideways at her.
âShe talks a lot, she always had been like that.â
âThatâs not what I asked.â
A small pause.
âWe went to the same university,â you said. âSame department, same classes, everything.â
âAh.â Jiwoo nodded slowly, processing that.
She watched the sidewalk as she walked.
âYou seemed different.â
This time it was you who blinked.
âDifferent?â
âEarlier,â she said, still looking straight ahead. âAt the cafe.â
You waited.
She hesitated slightly before continuing.
âI only ever see you at four in the morning.â
That much was true.
The quiet version of you. The tired one who slept on the couch because you were too tired to walk to your bed.
âThe one that barely talks,â she added.
You huffed a small laugh.
âAnd this afternoon?â
Jiwoo shrugged.
âYou were laughing.â She said, like it was a strange discovery, like finding something new about something she already knew about.
You rubbed the back of your neck lightly.
âI do that sometimes.â
Jiwoo shot you a quick look.
âNot at four in the morning.â
âMost things arenât funny at four in the morning.â
That earned a small sound from her. Not quite a laugh, but close.
The corner of her mouth lifted faintly before she smoothed it away.
A few more steps passed in silence.
Then Jiwoo spoke again, softer this time.
âStill.â
You glanced at her.
She was watching the pavement, the faint glow of the streetlights stretching ahead of you both.
âI didnât know that version of you.â
You tilted your head slightly.
âAnd now?â
Jiwoo didnât answer right away.
Instead she slowed her steps just a little, like the thought itself needed time.
âNow I do,â she said.
And for some reason, that simple sentence made the evening air feel a little less distant between you both.
A/N: Welcome to the beginning of Bro Kazuha's second set! Expect the next one to be a bit further out this year, as I have a few other things in the queue.
Enjoy.
Okay, picture this.
Another one of Kazuhaâs friends is underneath you, legs up in the air, body pressed against yours, writhing under the pleasure of getting her cunt fucked until you fill her up with your load. Kazuha, the sweet, wholesome bro of a girlfriend that she is, lay panting right next to the both of you, watching you fuck like animals while her fingers play around with the cum dripping down her folds.
All because of a simple misunderstanding.
âSo how's the job hunt going?â you asked, trapping your phone in between your shoulder and your cheek. Hands preoccupied with cooking dinner for the both of you.
âSpent the entire day looking for openings. And this is the last one before I head home,â Kazuha answered, the faint noise of the background bleeding through. âIs this how hard it is to get a job nowadays?â
âHey, you did say that there aren't many bakeries around the area.â You turn the heat down, and with a free hand you place the phone down and put it on speaker. âWhy bakeries, by the way?â
âAsk Minju,â she sighed, the noise around her getting louder. âChae said that she used to be a pantler, and since I knew one of the owners that I buy pastries from they thought I could help her out.â The words started getting harder to understand, the noise around her getting louder. âI even took a day off for this.â
âLook at you, being a good samaritan,â you joked, making Kazuha let out a chuckle. âOh yeah, you think you could get some salt bread over there?â
âWhat?â she asked, and youâre not sure whether that was because she couldnât hear you over the increasingly loud crowd over where sheâs at or if she was offended at the thought of free food. And youâre pretty sure she would never turn down free food.
âI asked if you can get some salt bread,â you repeated, a little louder for good measure. âYou know, for us? And for Minju too, actually.â
A few seconds passed by before the call ends, which made you glance at the screen where a few pings from Kazuhaâs messages popped up on your notifs.
Zuzu:
Sorry had to drop
Way too loud here
But are you sure?
Didnât expect you that from you
Not that I mind
You wiped your hands of any leftover mess from your cooking and picked up the phone.
You:
yeah, y?
thought itd be a good snack after dinner
no worries if u cant we can make do with something else
You didn't hear back from her for a while after that. Probably too caught up with Minju or whatever the hell was happening over where she is (you find out that there was some celebrity passing by that caused a commotion). Only a few more talks scattered throughout the next half hour.
Zuzu:
Minju got the job!
Said she'll be starting next week
You really sure about earlier?
I can invite her for dinner
You:
yeah im sure
food almost ready
have enough for 3
and tell her I said congrats
Zuzu:
Thank u!!!!
That was Minju
We'll be there in thirty, hopefully
Traffic is starting to pick up
You:
cool
stay safe
Zuzu:
Will do
And you are assertive today
I like it
You had to wonder what was so assertive about asking her for bread of all things. You brushed it off instead, thought you were overthinking things and returned to your cooking.
Letting time run its course and have the moonlight take up the sunset's position in the sky, you busied yourself with the table and the food, getting a few more messages from Kazuha, until the doorknob rattled and swung open.
âWe're home!â Kazuha announced just as you closed the cupboard, a few glasses in hand.
âHey, hey,â you called out, walking back to the table, where Kazuha stopped by to give you a kiss on the cheek before she sprawled out on the couch while Minju's over by the hallway, taking her shoes off. âHow was the trip?â
âKiller,â Kazuha groaned, sitting up properly. âThat celeb got everyone buying at the bakery Minju got hired at. Almost thought that she'd have to start today.â
âGood thing they didn't,â Minju added in, waving shyly at you as she took a seat next to Kazuha. âI don't even know how to make the specials.â
âI'm sure you'll learn how to make it eventually.â You poured water into the cups and handed each to the both of them. âAgain, congrats on the job, Minju.â
âThank you,â Minju replied, taking a sip from the glass. âGood to know I have two customers already with you guys.â
âWith the way Zuha over here inhales salt bread, you'd get baker of the month quick,â you joked, while Kazuha almost hits you with a throw pillow in the face. You smacked it away, letting it hit the ground before picking it up and giving it a few hits to get rid of any dust. âSpeaking of, did you guys get salt bread?â
Kazuha furrowed her eyebrows. âYou never asked for salt bread.â
âUh-â You tilted your head. âPretty sure I did. You know, before you dropped the call?â
âI thought youââ Kazuha stoped, looked up in thought, to the side where Minju is staring at her, then back to you where stood up and pulled you to the kitchenâwhile you threw the throw pillow back to the couchâwhere Minju can't hear. âI thought you said you wanted someone bred?â
âWhat?â Your head recoiled the slightest bit back. âI was asking you to get us some salt bread.â
The staring contest was almost one for the history books. Neither side budging, unblinkingâyou almost thought that Minju took another sip of her glass to hide the smile that had started forming in her features.
Until Kazuha blinked, and groaned. âOh my god,â she muttered, a hand on her forehead. âI brought Minju here cause I thought you said you wanted to breed a girl.â
Your mouth opened, not a single sound coming out of your lips before they closed. You opened them again. âWas that why you said I was being assertive?â
âYes!â she hissed. âBecause you never ask for threesomes!â
âWhy would I ask for them?â Now you're the one confused. Where the hell was she going with this? âThose aren't exactly a make or break for me, dude. I'm happy with you.â
âI justââ Kazuha tried to stutter out a response. âI think itâs pretty hot, okay? When we mess around with my friends. Gets me wet as fuck just thinking about it.â
Oh.
âBut I thought you said you didn't want this to happen anymore.â You made finger quotes. ââThis is the last timeâ, remember?â
âI've said that way too many times for it to matter now.â She had a point with that one. With the amount of times she's gotten you roped into having sex with women not named Kazuha, you're still getting surprised that it keeps on happening.
âUnless you want to stop?â
Your hand rested on her hips, another coming to loop your fingers with hers. âHey, if you're happy, I'm happy.â
Kazuha rolled her eyes, leaning into your touch. âYou just wanna fuck girls other than me.â
âGirl, you just said you get turned on when we fuck other girls. I'm putting all the blame on you.â
âAsshole.â She scoffed, smiling up at you. Her eyes darted to Minju for a moment before she smirked. âYou still up to do it though?â
âIf we can get salt bread tomorrow, sure.â You received a punch in the arm. âOwââ
âBro, I swear you weren't asking for salt bread,â she insisted, and you heard Minju giggle at what must have looked like a couple's fight and makeup all in five minutes.
âYou probably need a better phone then,â you joked, which caused a playful laugh to emerge from Kazuha.
âI blame that fucking celeb,â she snapped back, rubbing the spot where her fist met your flesh and giving you a peck on the lips. âCome on, let's go eat before the food gets cold.â
Kazuha started walking to the table, taking a seat and gestured for Minju to take one herself, the food all prepped on the table.
âYou two okay?â Minju asked, sitting down on the chair.
âYeah, needed to clear something up with him,â Kazuha answered, knowing looks on both their faces as you poured yourself a glass of water.
Minju nodded. âAnd everything's fine?â
âMore than fine.â Kazuha glanced at you with that same look.
You smiled as you took a seat of your own. âTold her that I'll be getting some salt bread tomorrow.â
âOh, is that your favorite?â Minju brightened up at the topic. âI know how to make them, and if the bakery sells them I can get you guys some.â
âHer favorite,â you corrected. âBut Iâve grown to like it when she doesn't force feed it on me.â
âHeyââ Kazuha pointed a fork at you. âI donât force you to eat it.â
âMhmm.â You took a good swig of water as she continued to refute the claim.
Minju giggled at your antics, watching the both of you continue arguing, making comments here and there, optimistically telling you two that youâll be getting discounts at the bakery when she gets started and catching up with each other as you ate dinner.
By the end of it, Minju dropped a bombshell of a question just as you finish your glass of water and Kazuha takes her last bite.
âSo do I get the first load or do you?â
You almost choked on mineral water.Â
Kazuha snapped her head to look at Minju, dropping her fork and making it clang on her plate.
Minju only smiled innocently, like she didn't ask about who's getting your cum fucked into them like it was a regular old Tuesday.
Kazuha placed the utensil down slowly, lets out a chuckle at the situation you all have found yourselves in, and looks at you.
âWell, bro? Who gets it first?â
â
âOh, fuckââ Kazuha sighs as you pull out of her, a hand on her asscheek to spread her pussy folds. Letting your load slowly leak out, dripping down the sheets and staining her thighs. You indulge yourself in the sight, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass.Â
There's a humming sound next to you; an observant one, almost content in its cadence. Letting your satisfaction in filling Kazuha with your seed be known. âThat's a thick load,â Minju chimes, pressing up against your back, arms looping around you. Coming down to wrap around your cock, giving you gentle, slow tugs while her other is toying with your nipples. âI wonder if that's how much I'll get too.â
Her actions cause a groan to rip off your lips, your body tensing up with what Minju is trying to do. Not allowing you a moment's rest as she moves, sitting on the edge of the bed, right next to Kazuha, her mind still scattered in a haze of pleasure.Â
âMinjuââ Your hand lets go of Kazuha, and she collapses onto the bed, chest heaving, body turning, watching as Minju settles right next to her, spreading her legs wide. Fingers coming to play with her clit, pleading eyes staring up at you.
âWhat's wrong?â Minju asks demurely, tongue swiping her lips. âYou don't wanna?â She's playing you so well, eyeing your twitching cock so hungrily, looking so eager to take you.
Her body is all but inviting you in, and you're falling right into her, settling between her thighs. When you let your palms rest by the sides of her head, and her eyes start to widen, pupils dilating. You'd think she would start vibrating from the excitement that's oozing out of her.
âLet a guy rest for a sec, Minju,â you answer, and she starts pouting at you, fingers coming down to cup your length, smearing you with her juices.
âBut I want it,â Minju breathes out, that free hand she has looping around your neck to pull you closer. Her lips inches away from yours as she starts talking, begging you to start fucking her; along the lines of her uncaring of how rough you are, all she wants is your cum inside her cunt. Add a pretty please in the end to finish it off, and you're not sure when you had thrusted your dick in when she was coaxing you to fill her, to breed herâbut here you are.
Balls deep in Minju, feeling her clench at every pound of your hips. Already mewling at how fast a pace youâve set, airy broken gasps at each thrust. Itâs gibberish, what sheâs trying to say. Impossible to understand, and as much as you would love to get a proper syllable of whatâs leaving her lips, Kazuha reminds you that sheâs still here when she turns Minju towards her.
âYouâre too close to him,â Kazuha mutters, before claiming Minjuâs lips with hers. Slow and hesitant, so different from those that came before. Not battling for who gets to be on top or who chooses to get theirs first, only a soft lip lock that allows them to explore one another, tasting each other as you continue hammering down on Minju.Â
âYou jealous?â Minju grins into the kiss, leaning further into it. Letting Kazuha take the lead, her tongue slipping inside Minjuâs, and it melts her. Silences her gasps into pleasured hums for a moment before Kazuha pulls away, and her moans come back to fill the room.
Kazuha chuckles. âNot really,â she says, and all three of you know thatâs a lie. âFuck him all you want, but his lips are mine.â And she comes back in, hand tangling in Minjuâs hair as they sink back into each otherâs arms.
Leaves you with an amazing view, too. Gripping Minjuâs hips as you rut harder into her, her breasts bouncing each time you drive deep. Relishing in the fact that each time you do so her walls get tighter on your cock, her arms gripping tighter on Kazuhaâs own or on the sheets, those cute whimpers she lets out getting muffled by Kazuhaâs lips.
But envy spikes, seeing the uncertainty in their kisses leave as they get more familiar with each other. Getting more heated, hungrier at each press of their lips, each swipe of their tongues. It becomes your fuel, pounding her deeper, your hold on Minju getting rougher; youâre almost worried about leaving marks on her waist after this if not for the fact that she loves how you take her, use her for your own end.
Her hips moving to try and meet your thrusts, but her rhythm stutters along yours. Kazuha breaking the kiss and coming down to play with Minjuâs breasts. Looking straight at you as Kazuha takes a nipple into her mouth, fingers coming to play with the other. It makes Minju cry out, her back arching, offering her all to the both of you.
You let out a curse, thrusting unceasing, her pussy unwilling to let you go every time you bottom out. And youâre allowing yourself to lose all sense of reason, the longer this whole thing goes. Your earlier round with Kazuha has gotten your stamina shot, already so close to spilling everything inside her. So close to letting Minju get what she wants.
Kazuha knows it. Sees all your tell-tale signs; the erratic movements, heaving grunts. It makes her smile, mouth popping off of the nub sheâs enjoying, making Minju whine at the momentary loss of pleasure. âClose?â
âYeah,â you grunt out, a hand leaving its hold on Minjuâs waist to squeeze Kazuhaâs thighs, enjoying the thick flesh before your fingers come in between her legs, circling her clit and causing a gasp to come out of Kazuhaâs lips. Parted lips curl into a grin, and sheâs grabbing your hand and pulling it towards her, tongue twirling around your finger before guiding it to cup one of Minjuâs breasts, groping the soft flesh, the nub hard against your palm.
âIn me,â Minju gasps, whimpers, sobs as you chase your release. Starts blabbering about having it all inside her, her legs locking behind the small of your back. Wants it all in her cunt, and sheâs pleading with you; begging you to cum. Tears start to water her eyes, desperation painted across her face. The thought that youâre close, that youâre about to let your entire load flood her cunt, to paint her walls white with your seed, to fucking breed her like she oh so wants to beâit causes her to shake, spasms rocking her frame as the pleasure start to crash over her body. Clenching your cock like a vise, and you realize:
Sheâs cumming on your cock, and Kazuhaâs making sure it lasts as long as possible.
Her hand on Minjuâs clit, circling that spot eagerly, making Minju wail, Kazuhaâs name and yours spilling out of Minjuâs lips, please coming out in droves. Eyes damn near rolling back as she slumps back, intoxicated in the rapture youâre both providing. Kazuha smiles, giving Minju a kiss, anchoring her in reality while her eyes turn to you, a wink being thrown your way.
And thatâs all you needed to see to keep going. Fuck Minju past her climax, take in her moans that Kazuhaâs soft lips mute, feel her trembling walls take your shaft, trying to milk you.Â
Doesnât take too long for her to succeed, really. A few more thrusts, and you can only let out a groan as you fill her to the brim with your cum. Each pulse of your cock sending a fresh batch of spunk inside her. Kazuha, the sweet, diabolical bro of a girlfriend that she is, is kind enough to let Minju go. Closing her eyes as she moans at the spurts, her hands coming to caress her stomach, sighing as you spill the last of your loadâlarger than what you gave Kazuha almostâinto Minju.
âThatâs it,â Kazuha encourages, resting her head besides Minjuâs, licking her lips at the sight. Her words are more for Minju than it was for you, but it still manages to make you twitch inside her. âLove getting the cum fucked into you like that? Getting to be our little breeding bitch for the night?â She cups Minjuâs cheeks, thumb brushing aside the strands of hair sticking to her skin. âBet your thinking about how fucking potent that load he just dumped inside you, arenât you?â
That sends you straight back down to earth.
âWeâre not actually trying to get her pregnant, right?â you ask them both. While you know Kazuhaâs on birth control, youâre not entirely sure about Minju. Especially with how she was acting earlier.
Minju opens her eyes, letting out a chuckle at your question. âIâm on the pill.â That immediately causes you to sigh in relief.Â
âItâs all in good fun, dude,â Kazuha adds, pushing herself up and getting closer to you to leave a wet kiss on your cheek. âSafe sex is great sex and all that fancy shit.â
âRight,â you sigh, attempting to pull out of Minju. Key word, attempt, because both her and Kazuha are stopping you from doing so. âUh, guys?â
âDonât wanna keep going?â Kazuha asks, a smirk on her face as she pushes you back into Minju. It makes you hiss, the mixture of pleasure and pain from the stimulation fatiguing you. âWe need to make sure Minju gets properly bred, bro.â
âSeriously, I need a breakââ
âPlease?â Minju pleads, arms coming to grip your hips, pulling you in with the same rhythm as Kazuhaâs pushing. âJust one more?â
You canât help but think this night might not bode well for you.