Passing Notions

Secondary blog for girl group smuts. Masterlist

[passingnotions]

Introduction & Links

Masterlist

Latest Work - Balance ft. Winter

Welcome, feel free to call me Notions. The rundown for this? k-pop girl group smuts, male reader insert, asks always open. 

Might Will take my time with each piece. Currently more of a reader than writer. I encourage anyone that drops by to leave feedback.

Use this introduction post to go through my work. You can find fics from other writers reblogged below. 

Follow me on fanprose.

Oh, and thank you for reading.

[passingnotions]

Balance | Winter

smut, 2.9k words A/N: eyes & edits by @capslocked read it on fanprose

“Running’s the warmup,” she argues.

“So, you mean to tell me that everyone here is in on… all of it?” You look over at the group, incredulous.

“Absolutely fucking everyone.”

You’re not entirely incredulous; it’s just hard to grasp. There’s at least twenty people standing in front of you both, most of them couples. She, however, was standing alone.

You hum. Muse. “Do you—” how do you really want to word this? “Are you like—fuck.”

She’s tilting her head, waiting; raises a brow. “Am I a good fuck?”

“Yes, that, actually,” you intone not-so-sarcastically, accepting the opportunity. “But also, are you single?”

“Is this how you hit on women?”

“Everyone’s paired up,” you try. “Who are you swinging with, I guess is what I’m asking.”

“Oh, none of those people. No orgies for me, either.” She takes a swig of her water bottle and begins to stretch: long legs—as long as her small frame allows for—crew socks, and shoes that look like they have not touched pavement until today. Pink runners because she's got chasing a runner's aesthetic, a runner's physique; everyone here is advertising the stamina, apparently. 

“There’s orgies.” You echo.

“Like once a month.” Every other stretch, her large, branded tee raises enough to get a peek at the compression shorts halfway up her slender thighs.

“Sundays after church, or?”

“That’s when we do brunch,” she says. “There’s a mailing list.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

You both laugh and stare at the gathered crowd again. They’re stretching, talking, mingling. It’s a group bonding experience, at its most innocent—little to no subtlety, otherwise. Half of them sport rings, the kind that refer to legal status, yet they’re all a little too cordial with one another. You can spot abnormally comfortably touching and greetings and there’s this general familiarity with some groups of four that really does scream that they’re fucking each other’s spouse.

(Perhaps the brunette spilling all the details gave you a biased narrative, but yes, this is how you find out that the neighborhood running club is a front. When were they planning to outright tell you, exactly?)

“So,” you say, “you’re actually here for the running?”

“I told you, that’s the warmup.”

You realize she’s playing a game, that the answer to your previous question is no, and ask openly: “then, who’s going home with you?”

“Stray dogs like me.” The sunrise hits her face with a strong, orange glow. “Like you.”

~~

The coincidence of convenience isn’t lost on you. Her apartment’s on the way back from the jog and her name is Minjeong; she says it through hurried breaths and it has you realizing that it’s a preview for when she’s on your lap, under your figure—a preview for just about every position and preposition you’ll find yourselves trying later.

You take note of the perspiration on her brow, the light sheen, really. Minjeong doesn’t break a sweat all that much. She doesn’t try to. You remember what she kept insisting on earlier: that the whole running club is a front and that the workout’s just the fucking pregame. It’s not like she needs any extra cardio, either. There’s not forty-five kilos on the woman. You surmise that rather quickly as you carry her through the door. 

“Where?” You ask, coming off of her lips, out of breath.

“Living room's got a sofa," she says, like that works for her, a coffee table and an ottoman too. The rug will be as good a spot as any, comes the implication. 

She has her arms wrapped around you since before you unlocked the door, flipping stray, brown locks out of the way as you step in while looking over her shoulder. It’s a spacious place—makes you wonder about rent, because you always do in this economy, before finding yourself in front of her furniture. Kiss her a little longer before deciding: single seater or sectional? She’d look fucking great in either, wouldn’t she? Flipped over—bent over? Folded. Anything.

Minjeong’s thighs softly fill your palms with their pale and svelte figure; it all feels so tight, toned, yet so, so soft. So nice. You get a thought that she might need a warning label, a sticker of sorts, because it feels like you could break her if you drop her on the couch too suddenly. You’d place it just about anywhere, and it’d say handle with care, and you could see yourself pressing it with your thumb onto that smooth skin of hers to make sure it says there through all the fucking she’s about to go through—that it doesn’t flutter off when it gets fast, sweaty, and the thrusting gets a little unkind for a frame like hers.

You get so lost in the possibilities that she has to grip the back of your hair and rip you off of her lips.

"I know what I look like," she says into your mouth, hand at your nape and lips turning cherry-red. Lets the next kiss extend for a delightful too-long and her eyebrows do this really arch thing when she pulls away. “But I didn’t bring you all the way here just to, like, makeout.” 

Flip a figurative coin. Sectional it is.

~~

(You do have to get back to the group after your little detour, but that’s not the reason it’s all in record time. See: you slot in, and it’s heaven—but don’t take your word for it. 

Her eyes roll back like she hasn’t been stretched like that in months. Minjeong’s pretty vocal about it, too, which you’re certainly not getting over until at least next year. “Oh my fucking god,” she’s barely saying, mumbling, all winded. “Don’t stop.”

And you oblige, obey—can’t really tell in which direction authority’s being exercised. It’s tip-to-base. Lethal for both. She’s been placed on nearly every surface that’s remotely hip-height and convenient and you’ll both agree later that the kitchen island’s probably your favorite.)

~~

The club meets at least twice a week, barring any extracurricular activities, and you're already halfway through your first month. 

That’s four times—you’ve had sex with Kim Minjeong four times.

But you’ve met five, today being the latest. She reads an invite from the club’s mailing list and you’re telling her to not say it so damn loudly. You’re at a restaurant; you’re on a date. To be fair, the wording isn’t explicit, but you’re elbow to elbow with other parties—families, couples, the like—laughing at the event’s theme and all of the innuendos.

Over appetizers, she tells you of all the times other couples have attempted to bring her back to theirs, how hot of a commodity she is. The hotshot twenty-five year old in a sea of marriages averaging over a decade her age.

“You like the attention.” You accuse.

“I—ok.” She’s nonplussed. Sits back. “No?”

“It’s vain.”

Her elbow goes on the counter, chin on the heel of her palm. She puffs her right cheek during the internal debate and you figure it’s a habit; confirm it somewhere down the line after you see it enough times. A cute, pensive pout. “It is.”

“Look at me,” you intone, mocking. “Young, pretty, and so unattainable.” And, credit where credit’s due, she does dress gorgeous. It’s the first time you don’t see her in workout-chic. Has this layered button-down under a polo with the sleeves rolled neatly-not above her elbows. There’s not a single piece of jewelry on her and that’s actually quite lovely. The modish simplicity takes you by surprise. There’s no better way to say it: you’re down bad. The sole leather shoulder bag to accessorize makes it feel like you’re the one tied up on the tanning rack, bound—already dead.

“Mmm, no.” She takes a fry off your plate. “I’m very much attainable.”

“To a select few.”

“To a very lucky few.” She reminds you.

“Lucky me.”

“Glad you’re clued in.”

There’s an eventual turning point where the conversation turns mundane, normal. You’re talking about all the things you have tried before that didn’t quite stick: crossfit, pilates, spin—christ—yoga.

You don’t mention sex, for once: no jokes, no deflecting emotional vulnerability in favor of wry, sexual humor—you talk, and learn more about each other in fifteen minutes than you ever would have otherwise, because the routine of run, fuck, leave was admittedly somewhat impersonal. It’s strange, but it’s the good kind of strange—the usual linear trajectory of meet first, fuck later turned on its head. You’ll be back to fucking each other’s brains out soon enough, anyway. It’s not an unwelcome change of pace. 

“Feels like this is easier,” you’re eventually saying.

“Right,” she agrees. “Just show up and jog.”

“Just show up and jog.”

~~

So you made it back to her place, and you stayed over, and have been for a couple of days. She cleared a drawer for your things, your laptop has a permanent station at the dining table, and you have an inkling that the left side of her mattress already began molding to your shape. 

You’re in that indentation right now.

“Like the way that feels?” She asks.

An affirming nod is all you manage. You’re doing everything in your power—communing with god, with the devil—to not fucking cum.

Her cunt is warm, devastating, and she keeps your tip right at the entrance while her hips continue this slow, subtle motion, circling above ever so slightly.

Every now and then it slips out just enough and, yeah, it’s audible: her arousal, creaming, waiting, equally as needy as you, but still wholly in control. You’re letting her nails claw at your chest and her long, straight locks frame her devilish countenance when she arches forward to let the next few breaths land right on your face. “I’m going to go deeper, yeah?”

You exhale, desperate.

Sinking, enveloping, her hips dip lower, vice-tight and going straight for the kill after way too long of just her hands and mouth and all that damn spit. “I want every last inch.”

~~

“Theoretically, if we were to go to one,” you start.

“So you’re interested.”

You hum tentatively. “No, not like that.”

“Also, we?” Minjeong asks

“Well—”

“I’m your plus one to an orgy?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Cool.” She nods. “Better be.”

“We wouldn’t really join, anyway. The group.” You pick your argument back up. “Think I’d stay on the sidelines.” 

“Voyeur. Kinky.”

“And an exhibitionist,” you add. “By extension.”

“Have you thought about this beforehand or did you just begin to list your kinks when you joined the depravity club?”

“Bit of both. Have to have my reasons now, you know, in case they asked.”

“And you’d be speaking for the both of us?” She starts to air quote. “Yeah, just the two of us. Yep, whoever wants to watch, I’ll be getting bounced on to death over in that corner.”

You think. Add on. “Would you rather show them your ass? While on top.” You’re speaking with your hands, pretend-holding her body towards an imagined crowd. “Or would you rather it be reverse, as in, spread towards them?”

Minjeong stays silent for a while longer than you would have expected; bursts into laughter. “I really don’t know.”

(She’s at the foot of the bed laying horizontal to you, who’s resting on the bed frame. Playfully, she hops over and on you, leg spread right over your crotch and leaning back with her hands by your legs.)

“What do you think will steal the spotlight more? This?” She takes a second, then flips over, putting her butt right on your cock. That underwear is tiny. “Or this?”

~~

Consider the follow-up scene and all of its details: you once heard how a picky eater should try something x amount of times in order to truly discern if they enjoy it or not. The variable tends to differ every time you hear the phrase, and the same concept probably doesn’t wholly apply to the current circumstance, but it's a tangential relation worth noting, nonetheless.

To start, her curtains are drawn wide open, hooked at either end. The glass goes floor-to-ceiling and you can’t deny that view—of the city, sure, but also of Minjeong, on her knees and laser-focused, hand pretty and veined and going blissfully fast over your throbbing length—this squelching fist that drips spit straight onto carpet. 

Okay, the x count goes to one.

(Exhibitionism, apparently. It’s in front of the whole city, so it counts, no? There’s other buildings that are perhaps in line with how high up her place is, and the afternoon sun is shining into the apartment.)

Right. There she goes with that little moan of encouragement. Minjeong looks up, expectant, and her tongue’s out for the sake of performance. Ok honey, ouch.

You cum, all over that.

A sunbeam goes straight into your eyeball and, simultaneously, another rope shuts her eyelash to a close. It’s not really pretty, objectively. Sexually, it’s very fucking hot. Read: context-appropriate kind of filthy. She’s getting deservedly hosed.

(The rest goes everywhere, by the way: on her hair, her left cheek; runs liquid down to her chin. It’s tough to make it out in the heat of the moment. Maybe you’re going blind. She spits shallow when the concluding sprays make their way onto her tongue because you keep going far beyond your usual volume.)

“That’s—” Minjeong is covered, glazed, and entirely dumbfounded. She spits again, and cups her palm under her messed-up face to minimize the damage on her rug. “Are you good right now? What the fuck.”

You crack up. Breathing’s still catching up and you could lose your footing from a light breeze. “Oh my god.”

Spot her index swiping whatever it can off her sealed eyelid. “You are ridiculous.”

“Sorry,” you respond, sarcastic. “Didn’t want to drop the ball with your little experiment.”

“This is literally the most,” she says while standing up. “You have ever cummed.”

Her face glistens; you feel like laughing some more. It truly is incomprehensible. 

“Gets turned on by showing off,” she sorta says to herself. “Cross that one off the list.”

Your rebuttal’s a quick and punctuated jab. “Sorry, honey.” You hand her a stray shirt for, you know, all that. “Will you be able to cum for a second time or do I have to finger you against the glass for it again?”

Yeah, that’s how it went, three fingers in and knuckle-deep. Her cunt stretched oh-so divine. 

Spot the eye roll Minjeong gives you once enough white is swiped off her gaze. Ah, there—it’s not faux annoyance or ridicule that she’s looking to counter you with. She ponders on it for, like, a second too long, and her lips purse to subdue that pretty little naughty smile but the fucking way her body rolls into you starting from the womb when she inhales has you considering just how long your cock can stay hard to give her pussy another go, another orgasm, another round of her cheek—this time, cum-stained—against a window pane that points at two p.m. traffic.

“Gotcha.” You place a hand on her cocked hip and half-spin her frame towards the city. She doesn’t meet your eyes or dare to acknowledge it. How coy. “Open.” You instruct, and her legs follow suit, spread wide and keep straight. 

It goes without saying but you cum for a second time in under two minutes and Minjeong catches up to you in even less than that.

~~

“I have rooftop access, pool and all,” she says some sleepless night later. 

There’s a blanket in the middle of her living room and too much takeaway for two. All you do is nod, mouth full, and offer a hand to help her stand.

It’s open twenty-four seven, which further clues you in to her elusive net worth—leisure of the wealthy and carefree.

“I’m never up here,” Minjeong remarks, windswept.

Below, a metropolis draped dark and neon all the same. It’s well past bedtime for the working class—the streets are just that much calmer, nicer. You’re able to see a decent chunk of your biweekly circuit from where you stand. 

Oh, important note: it’s not like you’ve been attending, as of late.

The small fee goes to waste when you pitch in for the usual group snacks and drinks and whatever else they decide to charge you for. You’ve been running the route with Minjeong, alone, enfolding further into that routine, or haphazardly falling for it: the scent in her sheets, of her shampoo; and, yeah, it’s been cute, but, it’s good to remember that you’ve also been keen on putting on a pseudo-anonymous show in front of her neighborhood and delighting yourselves in that newfound chemistry, however debased, demented. 

You speak before a gust of wind whisks the thought away: “I think I really fucking like you.”

Realize the sentiment lands warm because even her eyes are smiling out at the view. She then laughs, mostly inwards. “I called you a stray dog.”

“You can call me—” take hold of her hands and have them meet and wrap around your neck. “Whatever the fuck you want.”

And, yeah, you’ll continue finding that balance along the way: the cute-hot, love-lust. You’ll oscillate, sink into the whirlpool of fucked-out adoration and heartstring-wringing devotion. Her gaze is fucking devastating and your fingers get lost in their favorite part of her back. 

Minjeong steps close; allows herself to be pulled in. “I guess,” she starts, lips awfully close. It’s the first time you’ll ever kiss her like this. “I’ll call you mine.”

[writerpeach]

So, hi. I'm gonna yap a bit.

Let's talk about Tumblr.

Tumblr was great. The eight or so years or however the fuck long I've been on here. Going from literally nothing (I sure as hell didn't have two dozen known people reblogging my debut fics, not that I'm angry about it), to over 16k followers is a crazy number. It's actually unfathomable.

Building a following, getting that first ask, getting a second, a third, and then years later having an inbox stuffed with 50+ asks is wild. It's a weird feeling to be "popular", even if that popularity is just for writing smut.

It's great having a fanbase, having dedicated readers send you love, wonderful messages, praising your latest work, whatever it is. Even if you get the occasional weirdo or some smelly entitled fuckhead.

Until it isn't.

Until 16k stops feeling like 16k. Until all your hard work stops feeling rewarding, because you no longer get the modicum of feedback you wish for. Because your fics go literal days without a single person saying "hey, peach, I really liked this. Thanks for writing it."

Nothing. When the pendulum swings the other way, it makes you think. If you've put out bad content, if you're just washed up, if what you put out isn't enjoyable anymore.

Now you could say, hey peach, shut the fuck up, all of your fics get 1k notes. Stop whining.

Sure, most of them do. That wasn't always the case, either. But what exactly does that number even mean? That a small portion of those 16k people click a button (which is always appreciated), but besides that, not a whole lot. Watching the number go up is fun, but it doesn't do much.

A big number doesn't mean that a large portion enjoyed it. It doesn't even mean that a large portion even read it. The asks don't come in, even before. The comments don't either,

So once the frustrations start to boil up, we have the need to move elsewhere. But where? Wattpad? Hell no. AO3? Doesn't quite have the community. Asianfanfics is outdated, ugly, barely has a tag system, and suffers from many of the same problems. Where else?

That's where Fanprose comes in. Some of you are rolling your eyes already, and that's fine. I'm not here to shill because I feel like that's been done enough. But it offers a vastly superior experience. For both writers and readers. I can see in real time what people think of something I've posted. I get hundreds of comments on a single fic, whereas I'd be lucky to break double digits here.

It's hard to feel like its worth posting here anymore. Not that I write just to farm comments, but It's hard to feel any real motivation when it's the same thing over and over. Spend hundreds of hours writing, rewriting, editing, only to release something into the void. Where it felt like seemingly nobody gave a shit anymore.

Writing should always be for yourself first, but if you're posting for an audience of thousands, and nobody else has anything to say about it, what's the point?

So if the options are stay on tumblr, hate yourself, hate your writing, potentially hate your audience, give up on your hobby—and then the alternative is the exact opposite in every single way, why wouldn't you want to go there? And stay there. Not stay on a platform that isn't safe, that deletes accounts based off egregious false reports, and awful, awful UI changes, one that gets threatened by weirdos who try to gatekeep smut of all things. Along with a myriad of other problems that will never, ever be fixed, because this site is lucky it survives another year.

Fanprose has reignited that spark to write in a way I thought would never happen. The same way I felt during my rookie year, where I was putting out multiple fics a week, not one every few months. And I'll be eternally grateful for that.

If you've been here from the beginning, if you followed last year, last month, last Saturday—thank you. I'm sure most of this isn't news to anyone given my lack of anything, but I've made the decision to detach myself fully from this platform. Ningning will be my last posted fic, and I'm not even sure if enough people are left to read this post judging by the post count (not just me, on everyone.)

I appreciate and love you all, from the bottom of my heart, especially those that have been with me on this journey from day one. I hope to see you all on Fanprose if you aren't there already, and I'd strongly suggest giving it a shot if you haven't. I have a newly released annyeongz fic that I'm very proud of that I'd love for you to check out.

So goodbye tumblr. I'll miss you.

and to steal from one of the greats

--smooches.

[capslocked]

You know I think people would really understand if you guys just come out and say we are getting monetize/paid or getting some kind of monetary benefit from promoting on Fanprose ( im on fp btw so I'm not one of those haters) i suggest you guys need to be more transparent about it because this cold war about that site is stupid.

I enjoy the ui on fanprose more than tumblr but that's no reason to just post exclusively on that site.

Tumblr isn't like wattpad where u can get banned on random for smut regardless of genre on random (atleast for now).

Tumblr is where most people found you and where most people expect you to post. You posting exclusively on fanprose is basically like turning your back on them just cause the site is better for writers and readers ( i feel the same way btw even tho im on fp😂).

I apologize if I'm being too melodramatic about this. I enjoy both sites but you guys mass promoting and going exclusive on that site seems really cagey for me and I feel like you guys are doing back room deals or some shit. Now I plan on deleting my fp account and making a junk email acc just for fp because at this point I think that site might be collecting and selling my data

I wouldn't be surprised if some of the haters for that site go there just to start a fight since they have less impulse control than normal people from gooning if you guys keep doing this.

Just figure it's worth addressing some of these things: 1. we are getting monetize/paid or getting some kind of monetary benefit from promoting on Fanprose nope! Many of the authors who have made the switch have done so because they worked closely with the dev(s) as a community project over the last 6 months to make the website grow. We've been hanging out in a discord for years now, mostly all bitching about tumblr. People who think it's too polished or w.e truly don't know what claude code is capable of churning out, especially for frontend applications. 2. I enjoy the ui on fanprose more than tumblr but that's no reason to just post exclusively on that site. anyone's free to do what they want! I have no desire to maintain masterlists or deal with tumblr's post system. 3. Tumblr isn't like wattpad where u can get banned on random for smut regardless of genre on random (atleast for now). I think the content guidelines are a little strict, but it doesn't affect the content that I or many authors originally helped build the tumblr smut community with in the first place. 4. Tumblr is where most people found you and where most people expect you to post. You posting exclusively on fanprose is basically like turning your back on them true! I also unfortunately don't get paid for this shit, so i'm gonna do what i like.

5. ... you guys mass promoting and going exclusive ... again, this is a community project that we've all been able to help move forward/move along. We're excited to use the site that we've all pitched in to help build and meet the specific needs of our community. 6. I think that site might be collecting and selling my data I can't answer this definitively, but just baseline experience: tumblr is 100% selling your data. 7. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the haters for that site Most of the people hating it are mad they can't post questionable content. It's not like we're missing out on literature from the affected writer circles exactly. I've been pretty okay without seeing the 'YOU ARE A 44 YEAR OLD MAN AND EUNCHAE IS YOUR 18 YEAR OLD DAUGHTER' thinly veiled pedophilia fics. The community of writers that have established a large, productive readership are supportive of this. No one has to use to any platform. No one is required to do anything. This community of writers has been in discussion about this for a long time, but it's absolutely nothing nefarious.

[prael]

Phonecalls

Kinktember Day 24: Vicarphilia

IVE Gaeul x male or female reader smut

words: 3,757 Kinktember Masterlist

Happy Gaeul day!

Gaeul is the personification of the phrase ‘Don't judge a book by its cover.’

A big personality inside a small stature, Gaeul's appearance belies her true self. She's enigmatic, she's witty, she's charismatic, she's funny, and most importantly, she's honest. Honest, almost, to a fault.

She's your best friend, and she has always had your back. When you were down, she would always pull you back up. When you were lost, she would always find you. Gaeul has always been there for you no matter what, and you always knew you could rely on her. You trust Gaeul implicitly, and she does you.

There's this other side to Gaeul too, see, she looks ever so innocent. The way her voice always carries with excitement, it's always so full of life and wonder. Innocence is always an assumption people have of Gaeul. It's completely, and utterly incorrect, but people tend to assume it nonetheless.

Gaeul called you up as she usually does, and yes, you were busy, but not even an hour later you found yourself at a cafe sitting across from her. It was important, or so she said.

"Look at this message. He definitely wants to bone me, right?" Just like that, you had your regular reminder that all those assumptions about Gaeul are wrong.

"I don't know, he just said he wants to get drinks," you answered, albeit in the least convincing tone in your arsenal. Of course, he wanted to bone her.

"Exactly, drinking leads to being drunk and being drunk leads to boning."

"I've gotten drunk around you loads of times and we never ended up in bed together."

Gaeul squinted at you disapprovingly. "Well, we almost—"

"We don't talk about that, remember. Anyway, what's the problem, isn't this basically your dream Friday night? Boy meets girl, boy and girl get drunk, boy takes girl home, boy and girl fuck until they fall asleep," you told her, tilting your iced coffee in her direction as a gesture of encouragement.

"So you do think he's gonna bone me?" Gaeul asked, leaning back on her seat as she chewed on her bottom lip, no longer sure what to think of this text.

"Okay, maybe, but what's the problem?"

"He seems a bit clingy. He's all 'It would be cool if we could get dinner before' or 'I'd love it if we could go watch that new film that's out'," she groaned. "What am I, his girlfriend?"

Some psychiatrists would probably diagnose this as something born out of attachment issues or maybe some insecurity. Whatever, why bother with the analysis? She just hates relationships. 

She's young and having fun—a lot of fun. Sex, and plenty of it. Men and women in equal supply. Either way, relationships aren't on her agenda.

That's not what this story is, anyway. This story is not about Gaeul, not really. Her raunchy nights with strangers are important, but for you, it's more about the morning after.

"So cut it off with him, then. Give him some fake excuse and ghost him before you have another person falling for you."

She slammed her head onto the wooden table of the cafe. "Easier said than done. I mean he's funny. And he's pretty cute." She peered at you, an evil grin now curling her lips, "And I still want to bang him."

"Gaeul, we both know how this ends, you're going to see him tonight and you're ending the night on your back."

"Counter argument: maybe I'm on top."

"Alright, sure, but why am I here? You're only going to call me right after anyway."

"Well..." Gaeul said, leaning closer. "He has this friend and—"

"No, I'm good," you told her and she reeled back from your instant rejection, her eyes wide as if you'd shot her dead.

"Ugh, you're no fun." She shrugged, unfazed, as her hands flew across her phone's screen.

"You know where I get my fun."

"I'll call you after, don't worry," Gaeul said with a slight curve in the corner of her mouth, and that was the promise you held her to.

The promise she was right now upholding. Your phone is ringing with a call from Gaeul and it's the perfect way to start your morning. You smile, content that your best friend has kept to her promise.

"So? How'd it go, was he as big as you hoped?" You ask as you roll over onto your side and prop yourself on one elbow, the smooth fabric of your silken sheets beneath you.

"Big enough," she says followed by a satisfied hum, and you can just imagine that Gaeul must have the kind of stupid, satisfied smile that reaches her ears right now, "The things I let people do to me."

You shake your head and roll your eyes at that last part. "Come on, Gaeul, are you going to keep talking vague? The suspense is killing me." Your lips spread into a teasing grin that you're pretty sure Gaeul can hear through the call. You do very much appreciate her elaborate storytelling.

"Alright fine," she sighs, and the satisfaction is still there, if the subtle laugh she gives is any indication. "The drinks were good and went down easy. There was the small talk and the questions. So, I told him, he could ask any question as long as I got to ask any question I wanted afterwards. We were curious enough about each other and eager enough. We agreed.

"He started with these boring ones, 'What made you dye your hair black', 'Do you prefer salty or sweet foods', and all that other shit. But then I asked him a question that made his eyes pop."

"What was it?" You ask. Gaeul pauses, but the anticipation is a welcome feeling. Her playful silence lets the anticipation rise in you.

"I asked him, 'My face or my ass'?" You both laugh. That was so typical of Gaeul. Typical, but ever so effective.

"And what did he pick?"

"My face, though I don't think he understood I was asking him where he would prefer to cum. His face was so innocent when he said it. I wanted to give him a pat on the head for such a good answer," she explains in an exaggerated cutesy voice.

"He was all the usual, 'Oh you're so pretty' and 'Oh you're so adorable'. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I'm not saying he wasn't right because I do look really pretty," Gaeul quipped, to which you smiled, and she continued, "It went on for a while, he started asking some... hotter things. About how and when I touch myself."

"Usual guy stuff, sure," you joke, and you take delight in how she snorts a little giggle.

"Sure, well, next came his inevitable, 'Want to head back to mine?' Of course, I said 'Yes'. Then he said he would call us a cab, which, thank god, because it's much harder to do hand stuff on a bus compared to a cab."

"But not impossible," you interjected, remembering how she once described being felt up by someone in a packed train car. The way she grinned as she recounted it made her quite the bad girl.

"Anyway, we get in the cab and he just can't keep his hands off me. All over my tits and shit," she lets out a dark chuckle before her voice falls deeper, lower, sensual, and with the emphasis of a dangerous edge, "Don't know if the driver appreciated it but I sure as fuck did."

"Tell me more," you say, putting Gaeul on loudspeaker and placing the phone on the pillow by your head. You lay flat on your back and stretch your muscles. The joints of your toes curl into the sheets and push them down into the mattress as you arc your spine, and the deep inhale you take through your open mouth is soon followed by a relaxed exhale.

"He just slipped his hand up my shirt while she kissed my neck," Gaeul continues, bringing the memory to life with her words. She recounts in precise and deliberate detail how her nipples went hard the instant she was touched, the electricity sparking inside of her as he pinched at them with thumb and forefinger.

There's a rustling from the other side of the call before she continues her story, "We get in his place, he gets the door locked behind him, and the first thing I feel is his hot breath against my ear. It was warm and it tickled just a little bit. Then he whispered in a low voice that I can tell he thought was seductive."

"What did he say?" You ask, eagerly.

"'Fuck, I've never been this horny with someone so quick before'," Gaeul says and pauses. You both share a small laugh before she goes on, "Honestly, I did think it was kinda sexy at the moment, you know? Then he pulls off my shirt. Doesn't even unbutton it, just over my head with all the buttons. Guess the horniness was getting to him."

"Can't blame him." you run your hand up your own torso, fingertips barely brushing over the smooth, warm skin.

"And fuck, I was horny too. I was hungry. I turned and pinned him to his door, you should have seen the shock on his face, and I planted a kiss right on his lips. He wasn't that great. Wasn't really my type of kisser, actually. Too stiff, his lips were too dry, but still a kiss. I guess," Gaeul gives every little detail about him; from how his height stood a whole head taller than her, to how his eyes shone in the dark with a hint of anticipation. "I wasn't there for the kissing, so it was fine, and that's when his hands grabbed my ass. He was so rough, you should have heard the smack his palm made as it landed."

You hum in approval and bring a hand between your legs. In your mind's eye, you see her ass being spanked and groped, and you feel yourself growing more aroused. "Go on."

"Rough hands," Gaeul breathes into the phone. "I fucking love it."

"Yeah..." You sigh grab hold of your thighs and stretch out the tension.

"I could feel it, how hard he was, poking through his trousers and into my stomach."

"You loved feeling how hard you got him, didn't you?"

"Fuck yeah," her voice, dripping in lust and sex, was deep and steady like it always was when she gets like this. "So I dropped to my knees, practically ripped open his belt buckle and pulled down his zipper. And those pants fell to his ankles just like that, and then came the thing I was actually there for."

"Let's hear it," you urged.

"Like I said, good size, that's for sure, I've seen way worse. No way near the biggest dick that I've taken though. Anyway, I start stroking him with one hand," Gaeul lets out a gasp. You're not quite sure if it's for the benefit of her storytelling, but her sounds have always driven you crazy. "And then with my other, I've got his balls cupped and he's fucking loving it.

"I could tell, his cock was getting so big and so hot. It throbbed so much in my hands, so much so I could feel the blood pumping through him. And my hands were moving faster, my lips, teasing his tip, kissing, nibbling, even licking. I loved every fucking second because his dick tasted so good. After all, I could feel how worked up he was. So, I took him whole, you should have heard him moan, it was the cutest groan,"

Gaeul then breathes out heavily into the microphone, and her breath hitches in her throat and comes out short and sharp. You close your eyes and try and imagine the scene, and Gaeul must be reliving it too as you listen to her soft, sharp, wet breathing over the line. You tease yourself and plead with her, "Don't stop."

"And I'm looking up at him, through my lashes, and his eyes are almost pleading like he was trying so hard to hold his cum. Like he's trying to impress me, prove to me how much stamina he has. He's letting little moans and grunts out from his cute little lips, he's gripping the door handle so tight his fingers were white, and his knees are trembling. He's about to cum in my mouth, and my pussy is aching for him," she continues and lets her sentence trail off into a whining moan as she imagines his dick twitching inside her mouth.

"So quickly?" You ask, pushing your underwear down to your knees.

"I'm just that good, babe. The second my mouth met the shaft of his cock he was practically ready to burst. My tongue was dancing over the head, and I could taste the precum," Gaeul recalls. Her voice sizzles in your ears, and it is more like a deep purr, and it sends thrills down your body. A soft exhale escapes your mouth, and you're imagining her tongue caressing a hard dick. "And I'm only sucking harder now, stroking him faster. My left hand gripping onto him tight and tugging away. My right cradling those balls of his."

"All to make him cum," you utter in an aroused voice that you tried to hide but couldn't.

"Shit babe, it worked. I didn't even have time to prepare for him," she recounts. "He bucks his hips into my mouth. Barely has a chance to grab my head, he just blows so soon. All his cum was hot, and he was flooding my mouth."

"Shit..." You moan softly as you visualise a young man bucking his hips and releasing into Gaeul's mouth.

"Did I just go over to his to swallow his cum?" She asks and gives a laugh.

"I hope not."

"You wanna know what's funny?"

"Tell me," you plead to her.

"He came so quick that he went bright red, embarrassed, stuttering like a schoolboy that got caught smoking by the principal. All the courage he built up earlier in the taxi ride was completely gone. I couldn't help but laugh, mouth full of his cum, laughing at him. But I'm not going to lie. As he deflated so fast after he blew, all that bravado disappeared."

You let out a soft, something, barely a laugh, hesitating to touch as Gaeul grinds the story to a halt.

"Not funny?" she asks.

"Just, wish you'd continue, kinda in the middle of something here."

"Sorry, okay, where was I," Gaeul trails her words. "So I swallowed every drop, wiped at my chin where I've spilt a little and the guy still looks like he's going to die. I wanted him to suffer in the embarrassment a little, I wasn't going to tell him 'It's okay', so I got up and pulled him across his apartment. The guy nearly fell over his trousers since they were still on his ankles until he kicked them off.

"So the guy is a bit of a clean freak, by the way, the apartment was spotless. Somehow, I'm leading him to his own bed, don't know where the fuck I'm going but I find it and push him onto it. At this point, the guy's half-naked, sprawled, with his hand over his dick."

"All shy after your pretty lips have gotten him off, huh?"

"Right." Gaeul laughs, "So I stand at the edge of his bed, kick off my sneakers then pull down my jeans and drop them beside him. Then, he's staring at me and I ask him, 'Like the view?'"

"Stupid question, you're smoking," you interject with a smirk on your lips.

"The guy says, and I quote, 'Holy cow.' Who the fuck says 'holy cow'? Holy cow, babe, just holy cow," Gaeul starts laughing something manic, a cackle which is matched with a soft sigh, "Then, I just kinda laughed, like really, really laughed. It's all absurd, you get what I mean?"

"Oh god no he didn't?" You asked though the amusement was already creeping through.

"Right? What an idiot. Well, he was turning redder and redder as I was dying of laughter. It's about this time I realised I was so horny I had seduced pretty much the biggest loser in the city. Anyway, I had to shut him up, so I climbed onto the bed, and then onto his face. Dropped myself onto his stupid mouth. And then..."

"Then?" you prod her on.

"His lips and his tongue..." She makes a small moan, pleased, deep and sexy, and the sound is so hot. "Hungry boy. He starts lapping at my pussy like he was starved. He's all groaning and humming, and the vibration. That feels fucking great."

"Oh fuck..." You let a tiny sigh, one that you meant to keep to yourself, escape your lips. Gaeul keeps talking and in your mind, you're there with her—her voice fills your mind and draws an image. She tells you how she fucks his mouth, your imagination takes over.

"His tongue dances on me, licking over my lips, my clit, his lips were smacking and sucking on my most sensitive parts. He was so... energetic," Gaeul tells you. Your eyes closed, you can only imagine, in full detail, every stroke and flicker of his tongue as she described it. "Worshiping my pussy like it's the best thing in the world. So when his hands are grabbing hold of my ass and bringing my cunt to him even harder... Shit," Gaeul breaks from the story and swears.

You can't hold back anymore, touching yourself to the thought.

"He wanted this so bad. His hands were clamping hard onto me. His mouth sucking on me like a fucking vacuum. His tongue was all over the place. Everywhere it touches is like a jolt of electricity going through me. It's sending such great signals up my spine, right to my brain." Gaeul lets out a full, deep moan. One that is as tantalising as her words. It's followed by the sound of rustling. "I start just grinding down into his stupid fucking face."

You'd love nothing else in the world right now than to have Gaeul ride your face. "I can't get over how fucking delicious you would look like," you tease, "With that dumb guy, pinned under you,"

"I was moaning like crazy. If the neighbours were asleep, well, not anymore," Gaeul describes.

"Fuck," you respond as you find rhythm. You lose track of everything else, picturing Gaeul riding his stupid face until she cums.

Gaeul moans again, louder now, and with a husky, raspiness to her tone that you have memorised.

"There is no shame left in me, my hips moving into him with a need, a need for release," Gaeul chokes, then resumes with a pace of her own, "I can feel his fingers digging deeper and deeper into my flesh, and he was rocking my cunt even harder into his hungry mouth. His tongue, working so good. So, good...

"Just remembering how it felt... I'm gonna..." Gaeul moans again, throaty and harsh, and you picture it all in your head. She is sitting up in bed, legs wide apart, and fingers buried deep inside of her pussy. Moaning into her phone, moaning to you.

It's an amazing fucking image.

"I can feel my entire body starting to go warm, my thighs clamping onto the poor guy's skull. Oh my fucking god, his tongue, I love it, his tongue," Gaeul makes a long, low and whimpering moan, like the air was squeezed out of her lungs. "It feels like I've lost myself in time, completely. I'm going faster, my hips rolling into him faster and faster, desperate for relief. Then all of a sudden, it's all hitting at once, the spark just lights and I am exploding like a supernova, my core just bursting, and my pussy flooding his fucking stupid mouth."

You're chasing her high. "Shit," you find yourself whispering, softly at first and getting louder as you feel yourself nearing that beautiful feeling of sweet relief.

"I'm cumming so hard, his tongue is still going, still drawing out every last bit of my climax as he keeps feeding on me. The sheer fucking madness of the sensation... fuck, imagine that."

"Yeah..." You groan. "I am."

"You're so filthy," her words drip of sultry sex and that tease in her voice sends a tremor down to the base of your spine, setting your insides ablaze as the blood in your veins rises, the throbbing inside you reaching an incomparable peak. "Are you getting off to my story? I fucking dare you."

You close your eyes and breathe in the thought of her. Every inch of her lustful body, "I am."

"Fucking perv," she growls, her breathing sharp and shaky, erratic. A sound that resonates within your bones, and shakes you to the core. "Bet you want your lips wrapped around my clit. Let you suck the sweet nectar from my tight, hot pussy," she breathes through her teeth in a hissing sound as she falls over that edge. You can feel her shiver and quake. You hear every little shuddering whimper, every moan that escapes her soft, pretty little lips, and they ignite every sense in your body as if you can feel the electricity coursing through every nerve in her body, just as it is inside you.

You cum for her. You always cum for her, just like this. Your toes curl and your back arches. You twist, writhing under the feeling, your skin blazing as sweat rolls over it, your whole world coming to a beautiful standstill. You can't help but cry out her name in your bed.

"Nothing else makes me cum like this," you mumble, breathless and ragged as you finish, then add "You slut."

"How does it make you feel, hearing my dirty sex stories first thing in the morning?" Gaeul purrs. There is a sinister satisfaction in her tone, and that coy smile curling the corner of her mouth is definitely there in her voice. You can imagine it clear as day because it has been etched into your brain, that stupid, irresistible grin of hers.

"More," you beg, the aftermath of your orgasm, leaving the inside of your body searing hot, a sensation that you want desperately more of.

"Not now. Later," she sneers, knowing how it kills you inside.

[prael]

Reality

Kinktember Day 20: Sex Tape

Stayc Isa x Jo Yuri x male reader smut

words: 5,378 Kinktember Masterlist

"No, no, no. Not good enough."

"Don't be so harsh on yourself," Yuri gives comfort with a sympathetic smile. "I like what you've done."

"It probably should be in a higher register," you comment blandly. "It feels out of place."

"Hey!" Yuri is shooting you daggers. "She did well enough. Her falsetto is amazing." She gives you a mock stern look then and waggles a finger. "We can re-record this part, Isa, we have all the time in the world."

Isa looks stressed, yet she's trying very hard to keep that same sweet, saccharine persona, even though her quivering lip gives away her annoyance. "Could I maybe try—"

"Coffee break!" Yuri interrupts in exclamation, jumping off her stool. Yuri points a finger at both you and Isa. "Let's go! You and you."

She skips out of the booth, leaving you and the disgruntled Isa following suit. Your walk to the coffee shop next door is an awkward one. Yuri skips ahead in her positively excited manner as if she had not a care in the world. While Isa, a girl you've spoken to a handful of times, walks silently by your side. She has her arms wrapped protectively around herself, and her bobbed hair bounces a little with each step, it's rather adorable.

Yuri stops you at the door.

"You have my card right? Three of my usual, okay?"

"Sure thing, boss," you say with a wry smile, she hates when you call her that.

The two girls sit in a booth and by the time you have queued, ordered, paid and collected, they're embroiled in conversation. You take a seat at Yuri's side after putting the drinks in the middle of the table.

"So your company isn't paying for any of this?" Isa asks.

"Nope, they're doing the marketing and stuff, but the production is self-funded. I can do it better myself." Yuri pauses to look at you expectantly. You place a coffee in front of her, which she sips before continuing. "Oh, Isa, I ordered my favourite for us all, a salted caramel mocha!"

"One of my favourites." Isa smiles for the first time in almost an hour. It suits her, making her eyes glimmer like emeralds.

"I knew it! We have similar tastes in everything, me and you." Yuri lays a hand on Isa's arm in such an overfamiliar way that you worry about the consequences, though Isa doesn't seem too concerned about your boss's usual forward manner, rather she appears charmed by it.

"So how do you afford it all? Does the solo stuff pay that well?"

"Um, not really." Yuri gives you a quick side-eye. "I actually use my... other income to fund my music."

"Oh?" Isa quirks her head to the side adorably.

Careful Yuri. This probably isn't the time, the place or the person for this. Though you have to blindly trust Yuri here, interrupting could just cause more questions. The only real option you have is to just wait and see where she takes this.

"Yep," Yuri states plainly and clearly. "My assistant here actually runs it all, he knows more about it than me." Yuri smiles the sweetest of smiles at you, hiding that mischievous feeling inside.

"Oh really? What do you do?" Isa asks.

You raise a brow at her, wordlessly letting Yuri know that you're not on board with the direction she has taken. Yuri, in turn, throws you those wide eyes of hers that tell you in no uncertain terms 'Just roll with it!' and you're powerless to do anything else.

Isa prods at the silence with a renewed question, "Isn't it some kind of social media thing?"

Yuri laughs quietly into her hand.

"Uh, well, kinda," you hesitate. "The money comes from donations, monthly subscriptions, that kind of thing. And we make most of it through creating and posting content."

"Ohh..." A gentle hmmm fills the booth as Isa looks from you to Yuri and then back to you again. "Okay..."

"Show her," Yuri prods you.

"Should we really—"

"What if I sign up?" Isa offers.

"You want to sign up?" Yuri laughs in surprise.

"Mm... You think I should or not?" Isa asks.

"Depends what you're into," Yuri teases. All the while you have been reluctantly pulling up Yuri's page on your phone, you shoot a cautious glance to your boss but she pays no heed and just motions with a hand for you to slide your phone to Isa. You do, hesitantly. Isa studies it, her eyes roving about the page while she drinks from her drink. Yuri's tongue runs along her lower lip, waiting for any response, or just the right moment to continue pushing, you can't quite tell.

"Are those your...?"

"Legs."

"And is that your...?

"Ass."

It's just the homepage, with the completely anonymous name that in no way ties back to the girl at your side, and the banner, a picture from the waist down of a naked Yuri posing by a window. The lighting was warm and the shadows alluring. A filter casts a rosy shade on the entire thing.

"How long have you been doing this? Do many people subscribe?" Isa hands the phone back over to you.

"A year and a half now, and yes," Yuri preens and continues to add a note of superiority, "Plenty of people do, Isa."

"Wait. So this is anonymous, right? Who knows about this?"

"No one outside of this booth," you tell her, with a hint of authority, to warn her of sharing it beyond this circle of trust that Yuri has created.

"The fans don't know it's me," Yuri adds, "they think that I'm just some girl. So, Isa, still want to subscribe?" Yuri jokes, now that the other girl knows what she inadvertently agreed to.

"Well, I would like to see what's on there." A sudden panic sets on her face. "Not to be weird or anything! Just... curiosity."

"That's cute," Yuri giggles. "We should really go back to the studio now."

"One last thing," Isa halts Yuri. "Is it fun? Why do you do it?"

Yuri thinks a little about her answer, she clearly understands the gravity of what she's saying to the unsuspecting idol here, she doesn't want to get carried away or come off the wrong way.

"It is fun. It's empowering, it's exciting, it's an amazing feeling to be desired by thousands of people. Some might call it narcissism, and honestly, I see why, and maybe it's that, I don't know. I don't believe so, anyway. It makes me feel sexy and a lot of people like it," Yuri smiles, "Besides, it's not a million miles away from being an idol."

"What?" Isa chokes on her drink.

"Come on. Half the reason we idols exist is for people's romantic or sexual fantasies. That's the reality of it all. And if men and women are going to touch themselves to your fancams Isa, you might as well start making them pay for it. Right?"

Yuri says her piece and then nudges you to let her out of the booth, while Isa sits in some cold contemplation. Nothing Yuri said is news to her, but it's not something she likes to think about. When fans adore you, you never consider all the implications. All Isa can think of now is herself on the internet, in magazines, and being undressed in fans' heads.

"Are you coming Isa?" Yuri asks, snapping her out of her trance.

"Oh, um, of course."

***

Somehow, returning to the studio went even worse than before the drinks, it soon became clear that Isa's head just wasn't in it and the producers grew frustrated. Yuri pulled you aside, saying it was probably time to call it quits for the day and try again next time Isa is free—a message you passed to the recording staff and then the day soon wound down.

"Hey. It happens, she'll come through on the next recording. It's fine," Yuri assured you.

"But wasn't this just a one-day recording?" you reminded her.

"Well, now it's a two-day. You can schedule it, right? Talk to Isa's manager. We have time."

So that's exactly what you've been doing all afternoon, sitting in the corner of an otherwise empty conference room, exchanging e-mails back and forth with Isa's managers. Finally, it became a done deal, she could record the following afternoon. The session went well, much better than before, Isa seemed refreshed and put a lot into the recording. After that it was Yuri's idea to celebrate by eating out, something you wouldn't usually be expected to attend, but when Yuri makes up her mind to things, nothing changes it, so the three of you were booked at an upscale sushi restaurant, tucked away in the more expensive end of the city.

For a while, conversation remained outside of your concern, the two girls shared and compared interests as much as they discussed music and told fun stories of their times in their respective groups. Eventually, it led to Yuri doing what Yuri does best with her guests and put her foot on a figurative pedal and sped straight in the direction of 'confession-ville' by way of 'being forward-town'.

"It was a compliment, Isa. Really, it was."

"Mm. Sure." Isa mumbled.

Yuri sighed, rolling her head from side to side in playful annoyance as she poked the sashimi with her chopsticks. In hindsight, Isa made the right move by rejecting Yuri's praise about her beautiful, 'really, seriously, juicy' ass. Her refusal to accept it or flirt back only led Yuri to be even more blunt.

"People would spend a pretty penny to see that ass. I promise you."

She points a pair of chopsticks and the young star's backside, currently concealed beneath her jeans, you give Yuri a scathing, sideways glance. Isa, for her part, carries a rose tint to her cheeks and tries to hide by sipping water from her wine glass.

"Look Isa, let's call a spade a spade. The entire music industry, at the end of the day, no matter the genre, or who is producing, is based on your pretty face or your cute body, plain and simple. So what's the difference? Eh? What's the difference between wearing next to nothing up on stage while everyone ogles, and doing it for some faceless subscriber paying you money?"

Maybe it wasn't apparent before, but by this point you had it figured out, Yuri has been attempting to sway Isa into joining Yuri's personal brand of fanservice all evening. There was some back and forth, the two girls hammering out details, and then you sensed a shift. Isa has started to believe in what Yuri is selling and is starting to give Yuri a look that says; 'maybe, but I'm still a bit unsure.' Which in Yuri's terms means, 'one good point away from a yes.'

"The question I ask myself, as an idol, is who's really winning there?" Yuri sipped her glass of water while Isa stared on silently. "Because it sure ain't you."

Isa chewed the end of her straw. "So what, I just get naked, do what you do?"

"Yes." Yuri looked on excitedly. "Exactly! Just you, in a private space of your choosing, being exactly what you are. That's the beauty of it, Isa. You're in the driver's seat."

"I wouldn't know where to start," Isa mumbled.

"That's where we come in. Me and him." She hooked an arm around your own, squeezing it tightly. "All the prep, the setup, and little things he does. And I can walk you through the how and when for everything else."

"And how do I know people will even watch?"

"Well, I had an idea about that," Yuri lowered her tone slightly and looked at you from the corner of her eye as she revealed her plan. "We feature you in a few of my videos, then all my fans will want more of you."

Yuri made her move, and Isa's tiny little nods screamed 'yes' as clear as the day. Her face was a picture in thought until she drew her lip in her teeth and you and Yuri awaited her final word on the subject. Silence shrouded the table for what felt like an age when in reality, it must've only been a minute before the soft whispery voice finally said something.

"Okay. Let's say I'm interested. When do we start?"

***

It's three hours later and you're holding a camera with an affixed light and an adjustable tripod at Yuri's apartment, standing by the foot of the bed. As with any great shoot, Yuri spent an incredible amount of time playing dress-up with Isa, the two of them flirting and dancing and gushing at one another before finally you were allowed in the room to set up the shot. Isa's clothes have been swapped out for the shortest of short grey skirts, a white tank top and god-only-knows-what underneath. Isa has been instructed to sit on the bed, those long legs fully outstretched and crossed over, showing an incredible amount of thigh.

Yuri. The skirt is equally short. Bare legs, bare feet, bare stomach. Topless by the door in a little black bra. Leaning on the doorframe with a knowing and cocky smirk.

"Okay, let's roll, I'm going to do some poses, then we get a walking shot, and then I join Isa. You have a great eye for my angles, so I'm sure you'll do the same for Isa." Yuri explains it all, exactly how it's going to go down and all the scenes they're going to shoot. From this teaser all the way to the VIP stuff. Explicit in every detail while Isa's face goes through all manner of pink hues and bright flushes.

"You okay?" you ask her, and she gives a single, certain nod in return, but there's just a hint of nervousness there. You turn to Yuri and start the camera low. "Three, two, one."

Yuri pushes herself against the door frame and flaunts her legs, arching her back and rolling her hips a bit in a teasing little show. You frame everything below the waist as she continues to pose. She kicks out a foot for one of them and hooks a finger under the edge of her skirt for another, but never revealing it all. A few minutes of this and then you back up, for a shot of her strutting across the room. Her skirt bounces a little with each step.

Then once she makes it to the edge of the bed, you focus close on Yuri's hand, and track it to Isa's leg, fingertips gliding in little circles upon her knee before moving further and further up Isa's thigh, disappearing under her skirt. And cut. An introduction is done and then it's right into the next scene.

Yuri climbs onto the bed. Kissing, lots and lots of kissing. Yuri mounted over Isa, that's where you continue to frame them, waist down, leaving viewers wondering about the true act going on as their legs begin to tangle and the occasional hand reaches down to grab a handful of thigh.

Yuri calls a close to that shot and encourages Isa, "You're doing great. Let's go higher now, and keep our hands on each other's bodies. But don't take my bra off yet. Not for a while. Keep teasing." Then there are more kisses, giggling and muffled words, little laughs interspersed within their deep and wanting kisses, Yuri rolls Isa over her and you follow them down to the sheets. Yuri's hands slide up Isa's back, lifting her little white shirt.

Isa sits over Yuri, both of her hands above her head and showing off all of her curves. You stand beside the bed, recording everything from shoulder down, where the two bodies are in motion together and rolling against the bed. Hips grinding and seeking to gain friction, then moving in the opposite direction. Yuri is already panting and squealing in delight as she reaches up to feel Isa's tits.

It makes for one hell of a shot, that's for sure; one of those that drives you a bit crazy too. This girl is going to be a hit. There's no doubt about it.

Cut and onto the next scene. You place the camera by Yuri's head, giving a POV shot of Isa straddling the viewer. Those perky tits pushing against the shirt and those thick thighs crushing over Yuri's hips. Yuri reaches forward and slowly pulls up her white top. Inch by inch and the first sight of smooth flesh coming into view.

Up it goes, exposing the lines of her ribs, the soft mound of her belly, a cute dip between her waist, then as the shirt comes clear of her tits, they fall free. Two delicate little things looking so ready to be grabbed and sucked. The only thing obscuring a perfect shot is Yuri's two hands still playfully pushing and pulling on the small mounds. Isa joins her in caressing her own body for the camera.

She's a fucking natural.

Isa throws her shirt away and then there's the next shot. Off comes Yuri's bra too and they switch positions. Yuri presses herself against Isa and kisses her on the mouth as those hands continue to roam and touch and rub all over, seeking to bring a moan and a sigh. Hands keep roaming as you pan around the girls on the bed. It doesn't take Yuri long to shift her hands lower, groping for Isa's skirt and sliding it up her ass, her fingers grabbing at the bare cheek and gripping it, pulling her hips closer. That's the final show any standard subscriber will see.

"Okay, now we go for the premium stuff girls. Skirts off, lie side-by-side and hold each other. Underwear on for the time being."

"Hey, uh, it's good right?" Isa asks you for approval while she slips her little skirt down her long legs. "I don't look weird?"

"You look great, Isa." It's the truth and nothing but the truth. "Couldn't be hotter. Just enjoy it and follow Yuri's lead."

You take a minute to set up, while the girls get comfortable, taking the extended tripod and fitting it at the end of the bed and angling the camera down at them as they embrace. They rest in each other's arms, touching, and Yuri's leg is hooked over and between Isa's thighs. This shot is a voyeur's dream.

"Okay, Isa, Yuri is going to step it up a notch now, you okay with this? Or we can take a break if—"

"It's okay, I'm ready," Isa interrupts, much to the delight of Yuri.

"Can I be honest with you, Isa?" Yuri whispers low. "I'm like really turned on right now. Your skin feels amazing, your lips... god, your body..." She lets out a groan of approval. "This is actually getting me off."

"Don't..." Isa protests, laughing softly.

"It's true," Yuri breathes, you hear the gasp. "Even without the camera, I would love to do this."

"Why? What would you do to me?"

Yuri starts slow, hands feeling Isa's arms, her shoulders and neck, before sliding over her chest and down the shape of her waist. Your quick response is to hit the record button. Yuri grabs Isa's ass and pulls her roughly against her leg.

"I'd squeeze it like this," Yuri replies, smirking. "Make you feel me against you and do it even harder when I see that beautiful smile. Those gasps and little moans, yeah, they make me a bit crazy, and a whole lot wet."

"Do that again, please," Isa asks.

So Yuri does it. Dragging Isa against her thigh as Isa presses back, rocking their bodies, gasping softly as she does. There's no mistaking it, Isa's just as into this as Yuri is. Her expression is a gorgeous and sexy mixture of surprise and desire. Her lips slightly parted as she grinds herself down on Yuri. The tips of Isa's ears are blushing furiously and you imagine the fire is burning down the rest of her body.

"Feel that?" Yuri whispers. "Just a tiny little scrap of cloth between you and my thigh, I wish it wasn't there." She leans closer, a hair's breadth from pressing her lips to Isa's. "Just me, just you, just... naked flesh on naked flesh, mm?"

"And fingers," Isa mumbles. She closes the space, kissing Yuri with an unexpected ferocity. Tongues are tasted. Bodies are pulled tighter still and they press, skin and breasts, Yuri's leg lifts and Isa presses hard down onto it.

The more the girls entwine their limbs and rub their bodies together, the more intense their expressions become and their breathing grows louder, though they try and hide it, kissing and stealing their moans into each other's mouths. They move faster, Yuri taking control and forcing the motion of Isa's hips.

Yuri throws herself over Isa. Gripping Isa by the wrists and pinning them above her. Isa gives out an uncontrolled moan as her thighs wrap around Yuri's hips and pull her against her own, and she bucks herself against Yuri's lower half. Yuri holds both of her wrists in one hand and then pushes her other hand down between their bodies.

You're quick to set up another angle, to the side, in such a way as to watch as Yuri's hand disappears beneath the fabric of Isa's panties. Isa is loud, oh god is she loud. Her gasping, mewling, groaning cries echo out. This is all so foreign to you. Usually, you're the one over Yuri, digging your fingers into her cunt, whispering for her to cum as she moans in pleasure. But not this time, and boy are you enjoying this.

"Yes, like that." Isa throws her head back, her hair spilling about the pillow. "Deeper, make me... yes!"

And Yuri does, deeper and deeper, that little rhythmic pattern Isa makes with her body, those wild and shuddering movements and gasps—all the things Yuri delights in causing in another—quickens and heightens in power. It doesn't take much longer before you know Isa's there. You've seen something so similar so many times on Yuri's face.

And the sweet release, it comes suddenly, violently even. Isa's wailing, high pitched and whimpering at the end of her screams. You capture everything from the neck down, Yuri's hand buried between Isa's quivering legs, her thighs still quaking and squeezing, her breasts pressed against Yuri as they kiss again, passionate, loving, lustful, full of a million words of satisfaction. Yuri runs her hand up Isa's trembling stomach, pulls a palm over her breast and squeezes.

Yuri and Isa separate at last, lying on the bed and breathing heavily. Yuri licks the cum off her fingers, a rare treat.

"Fuck, Yuri!" Isa pants, but then gives way to a fit of laughter, uncontrollable, adorable laughter.

Yuri props herself on an elbow and looks at her newly found muse with a sense of accomplishment, "Fun, right? And I've been getting messages for so long asking for me to record with another girl. This is perfect."

"That's going to be a hit, you know. That's real fan service," you admit and Yuri shoots you a smouldering glance of lust, or something else equally hungry. She's positively giddy with ideas and creativity for all the future videos these two could shoot.

"If you're going to do this though, Isa, there's one more test. You need to be able to take cock." Yuri is so blunt and Isa's head turns and her eyes lock onto yours, it seems so natural. That little smirk, and that quick flash of her eyes telling you to join her on the bed.

"His?" she asks Yuri, jerking her chin in your direction.

"Of course, who else? He fucks great," Yuri confirms, stretching her foot and lightly stroking the tent forming in your trousers with her toes.

Isa is just ready for anything, without so much as another word, she's slipping her thong down her legs, kicking it off and rolling over to present that great ass. This is Isa's true nature. Yuri sensed it early on, Isa just didn't believe in her ability to show it, not until Yuri put the words in her ear and stroked her inhibitions to reveal the beautiful creature hiding just below the surface.

Yuri has watched you undress many times over the past year, there's not an inch of your body, clothed or bared, that she does not know well and intimately. But she hasn't looked this excited while you do so since this all first began, her lips curve into a subtle, sexy smirk and she looks to Isa, still lying prone on her belly.

Yuri pulls and pokes at Isa's flesh. "Just look at this thing. Can't wait to get it on camera with his hips slapping it, watching it ripple. Your ass is made for being driven into the bed and fucked. Don't you agree?"

"So I'm told," Isa says with a sultry drawl. Yuri gives a nod and with her blessing, you touch the back of Isa's thigh, slip a knee to the mattress, and climb over her. Yuri takes hold of the camera, smiling mischievously as she adjusts it and points it at your groin, hard and aching to drive into Isa's waiting pussy.

You part her thighs just a little, enough to allow yourself entrance, just enough for Yuri to get the most incredible shot. One hand grips your dick at the base. You rub the tip over and between her, feeling the damp warmth as Isa shudders under your touch, and a quiet, pleading whimper escapes her lips.

"Okay. Nice and slow, yeah. She's so wet, trust me, you'll go right in." Yuri instructs.

You follow her lead, guiding the tip and pushing just a little. All of Isa's tension disappears when you slip inside. Warm, wet, wonderful and so satisfying.

Isa drops her head, eyes closed and moaning into the pillow. Her ass presses upwards to meet you in your first, tentative thrust.

"Fuck she's tight," you remark, biting your lip.

"Deeper. All the way. You want to bury it inside her."

In, filling her, your thighs pushing toward the plump and supple flesh of her cheeks. Her wetness tightens around your shaft and she shifts her body, settling down, pushing back until the pair of you meet in one exquisite motion and your crotch rests firmly on her ass.

"Fuck that's good..." You encourage her with a slew of compliments and each one makes her wetter, moans louder, and then a rhythm finds you and it's a beautiful, carnal beat that Yuri captures. Your hips churn, as they bump and push. A fast and strong stroke in a gentle rhythm with the clap of your body following suit.

Isa doesn't say a single word as your bodies connect in the sweetest way, speaking only through the sound of the impact upon the fleshy peach and how Isa's hands grab the pillows and she accepts your every thrust. But the steady flow of her moans fills the room, with cries and deep, low grunts.

"Are you getting this Yuri?"

"It's perfect, but I'm craving a little something too. No. Maybe a lot." Yuri looks on enviously.

"Set the tripod. Get in here." You pat the bed.

"Don't have to ask me twice," Yuri laughs while pulling down her panties and hurling them away.

Now it's just you and two incredibly sexy idols. It's Isa on the bottom, flipped onto her back and it's Yuri kneeling beside Isa's head and drawing a hand over the back of her head, fingers threading the hair, and coaxing Isa to the crux of her body. This will never make the cut, not with Isa's head in the frame, but Yuri's pleasure, her sounds, you will relish seeing later on a screen and storing in memory.

"Is that—?" Isa doesn't manage much beyond that before Yuri's skin meets her mouth and all of a sudden she's down there, lips, tongue, and fingers, taking Yuri to heaven and back.

"That's it! Like that!" Yuri mewls and arches her back, free hand seeking the wall behind her headboard as her entire body locks into position. The thing you can always guarantee about Yuri is how vocal she will be during sex. You've rarely known her to be silent through an orgasm and she chases each one like it's the last. "I need to be fucked. Like right now," Yuri gasps. "You, I need you," she demands, looking directly at you, and that's really not a problem.

"On your back," you command, withdrawing from Isa with a sigh. Yuri pulls from Isa's mouth, leaving her sweet desire on her lips.

Yuri drops to the sheets by Isa's side and spreads her legs. Yuri beckons with her fingers for you to move closer and once you're above her, she guides you right in. Raw. Wet. Tight. You sink into Yuri's velvet cunt like it's home. Familiar and erotic, as if this pussy was tailor-made to please your cock.

It doesn't take much, Isa has barely climbed from the comfort of her submission to look at the two of you, and Yuri is cumming. Eyes tight shut and she locks her heels behind your ass, and she shouts, "Oh shit! Yeah, right there!"

And from then on it's scene after scene, you fuck Yuri in every way you've fucked her before and do the same a second time over with Isa. Three bodies tangled and moving. Yuri cums another six times that evening. Isa reaches four. A standout is when it's her turn to drive her hips down on top of you, her arms thrown behind her head as she rises and falls, her tits jiggling and your fingers driving her. She fell forward, pinning you to the sheets, riding your cock and gasping into your ear with each roll of her ass.

"So close," Isa managed to rasp. You locked your hands on her hips to fuck up into her and Yuri lost her shit.

"Her ass is so fucking hot!" Yuri yells, "Fuck her harder, make her cum!"

And, finally, Isa buried her teeth in your shoulder, a powerful and silent moan rattling from her lips. She shook wildly and her entire body, from her head, right down to her toes, twitched and shuddered uncontrollably as her orgasm crashed into her.

Then she slid away from you with a content sigh, lying breathless at your side, stroking the warm skin of your chest as Yuri replaced Isa.

"We're fucking crazy, you know that, right?" Yuri said with a laugh as you entered her once more. It was a repeat, a complete mirroring of how Isa rode you. Except that as she came you really got to slam Yuri, she loved the fast strokes, and you held her suspended over you, hips snapping into her while she moaned and shouted about how much she loved it.

And then there was the finish, Yuri got it all so perfectly on camera. She clung onto the back of you, holding the camera by your shoulder and placing her head on the other. And she enjoyed it all as much as you did. Isa on all fours, her ass waiting for a load as Yuri and thousands of others watched on. It was, without doubt, the best of all scenes. You hammered her from behind. Sweat dripping. Moans soaring. The crack of her firm flesh over and over.

And then when you couldn't take it anymore, you pulled out and jerked yourself until streams of your cum painted her cheeks and ass. "Wear it proud, honey," Yuri encouraged with her satisfied tone.

Isa does. Smiling, even giggling as it trickles down her flawless cheek. You'll come to enjoy this scene many times over, she's naturally expressive, and so very seductive without ever knowing.

"How was I?" Isa whispers, looking you in the eye.

"Perfect, if this doesn't make you a star then nothing will."

"He's not wrong, you know," Yuri adds, and a look of bliss falls upon the newcomer. "I would pay to see it myself."

[fillinforlater]

Pink Sheets of the Gangbang Queen

Male Reader x Kim Gaeul

Length: 1759 words

Tags: post-gangbang-unclarity, a fuckton of cum, the biggest creampies you can imagine, sluttiest_woman_ever!Gaeul, riding, reverse cowgirl, mating press, cumming again, surprisingly sweet

TW: nasty, a lot of cum by different people

Credit: @friskyriskywhisky had the idea and wrote most of it, I just expanded it as far as I could. Maybe there will be more Gangbang Queen stuff, but this was basically just a double BFH lol

(A/N: Have fun with this crazy, short piece!)

“I want one more…”

Gaeul lies on her nasty bed, which is not only the size of a New York apartment room but also a lot more comfortable. The fresh evidence of sin is all over the once royal pink bedsheet befitting of a princess, a queen to be more accurate. Her comically large pillow is full of wet fingerprints, there are even hints of Gaeul bending over it because she loves it when men penetrate her from behind and fuck her into the soft thing. The headboard and the walls nearby are all smeared with her own slick and the cum from the dozen of guys who unloaded a week's worth and then some for her, on her, because of her. Who knows how much genetic coding is now dripping down those walls, or the side of her bed or along her thighs.

Either way, Gaeul knows that the pungent creampie of hers only feels this good because at least ten horny men put their spunk deep into her cunt. Be it fat cocks, long ones, small, smelly, oddly shaped—Gaeul takes them all and her insides shape to each accordingly. For the horde of cocks it’s an incredible feeling with a surprising snugness, while Gaeul yearns and shouts (as long as there is no shaft testing her gag reflex) for them to finish quickly and deep. Though a marvelous feeling, she is never satisfied. She needs one more, she doesn’t even care if it’s the tiniest rest or a gigantic, creamy load—all that matters is that he cums inside her.

Gaeul’s once-animated and sex-crazed sexual partners have either left or completely passed out on the floor next to her bed—except lucky you, the only one lying naked next to her. Lucky you, who she now eyes, admiring your features while you're half asleep. She crawls over and gently flips you onto your back, stirring you awake in the process.

In your state of extreme grogginess, you aren't able to tell at first if you're being eaten alive or attacked by a savage animal. Just when your fight or flight response springs into action, a pair of lips press against yours. They instantly calm you down like a mothers embrace after a lucid nightmare. You can't help but smile unconsciously at how gentle it feels. Gaeul’s floral-scented shampoo reassures you who's currently kissing you, her touchy, wet and tender fingers reminding you of the first time she checked out your body…

It was a rainy night in one of the many underground bars in Seoul—the type of bar that makes you raise an eyebrow at first, someone with connections has recommended it, looks suspicious; then you fell into the trap of fun conversations and nice liquor that ultimately led to a selection ceremony. This was the moment you realized why this was not a commonly visited place.

Everyone went silent at her entry. Gaeul, the well-known (at least for most people that regularly visit these exclusive bars) gangbang queen was craving men tonight, many men. She was not picky, in fact, there was only one condition you had to fulfill:

“Three days worth of cum. If you had sex or jerked off during the last three days, you’re out for tonight.”

No one dared to defy her or lie to her. She diligently checked everyone’s balls and was extremely thorough, especially with you, who she gently pushed against a bar stool, hand past your waistband. Your breath hitched, hers too when her slender fingers caressed your balls.

“Tall, horny—and at least ten days of cum.

“I’d love for you to join the after party in my pink bed.”

That’s how Gaeul found you, touched you, lured you in and turned you on, like she does at this moment…

It's been minutes now, with no signs of stopping or letting go from Gaeul, her lips still fully attached to yours just to occasionally back off and peck at it again. The last remnants of a dream that could never match this disappear. They are replaced by memories that slowly creep back and your heart drops. You remember what happened not long ago, right on these pink sheets—don’t lie to yourself, you know it happens every other night.

Those soft lips of hers were satisfying other men not too long ago, fully enveloped around shafts of different shapes and sizes. That tongue of hers glided across the cockhead of multiple partners and made sure that no spot on their balls was left out. She would fill her mouth with as much manly musk and precum as she could before her throat was getting assaulted by who knows how many cocks, endlessly coating the back of it with thick cum and forcing her to gag and cry, which everyone knows is a huge turn on for the gangbang queen.

It’s those lips that form a seal around yours and it’s that mouth you attack lazily with your tongue.

Who are you to complain though? Gaeul is the greatest kisser your lips have ever met. Your obsession with her took control of your life even though you had no chance with her. You're just a nobody when Gaeul is the well-beloved queen. The gangbang queen - for those close enough to be her little circle filled with lust and desire. Yet somehow you saw a chance and took it, even if it means taking sloppy seconds (or thirds? Fifths? Wait, how many guys are here again?).

Your mind snaps back to the present when you feel your cock poking at her entrance. Hang on, did she even—fuck! You shiver in both pleasure and disgust. You're plunged into her sloppy cunt, extremely tight, even after being abused by multiple men (some girthier than the ridiculous sex toys she has in her collection). 

Gaeul’s walls hug your tip first, then slowly adjust to your size, like they have become your personal sexy toy. The pleasure really kicks in when the gangbang queen puts your hands on her hips and adds your name into the mixture of huffs and moans. Her incredibly damp cavern and how slippery her whole crotch is against your own, it displays a reality you don't want to admit: You're fucking Gaeul through the creampie of other men. Using the foreign substance as a sticky wannabe lube as you slowly ramp up your pace, you're thinking with your other head only; that’s not an uncommon occurrence with the gangbang queen around. 

Sex with her has you drunk, dazed, carelessly chasing your own high. You want to be the only one to have your load inside of her cunt. Gaeul yearns for breeding, and the sperm of all the other disgusting men, still unconscious in this room is deemed not enough. At this moment you decide to fuck the creampie out of her and replace it with your own.

You're frantically thrusting in and out of her, she replicates your passion as she rides you. Heaps of old cum get forced out with the assistance of gravity but mainly due to the pump that is your cock and the endless pumping into her cunt. Gaeul switches to a reverse cowgirl position and it's only now that you notice that her ass got absolutely filled as well. 

This should not be a surprise, she is the gangbang queen after all, yet you want to look away. This is exclusively other men's cum leaking out of Gaeul and onto your abs. It feels extremely wrong, fucking filthy and somewhat gross. The eagerness of the girl on your dick makes you forget that though. For a short while, you just admire her back, her small, shapely ass and the way her moans are in perfect harmony with the sound of flesh hitting flesh and cum being squeezed out. 

With your whole cock still buried inside her, bottoming her out, you two clumsily get into a mating press position. Gaeul is the most flexible girl you know, her small frame easily capable of folding and bending into every position you want. This position quickly becomes your favorite, because you don’t have to see her leaking asshole anymore, but you know that she is gaping and the worthless spunk steadily leaves her anal cavity. 

Every time you thrust into her, you see and feel her whole ass and thighs ripple. Shock waves across the smooth, stretched, spotless skin gets sent in all kinds of directions because you dig your hands into it. There's still a disgusting amount of cum defying gravity, defying your forceful pounding into Gaeul, but you are sure that if you just keep on fucking her, and press her whole body into the mattress, the petite gangbang queen will leak out all the rest. Through the lewdest of sounds and a clear lack of stamina, the thought of Gaeul filled with nothing but you pushes you through.

You feel the knot inside you loosen, strings and little last spurts of cum hitting her cervix as your tip is right up against it. Gaeul has her feet right up against your back, her heels pulling you deeper inside her. She's still rutting against you, her clit drawing circles against your crotch enjoying the friction and satisfaction it brings. The art of the orgasm, Gaeul has mastered it. In her scream, you find an infinite sea of bliss. It draws out your orgasm a few more seconds; perfect seconds.

Post-nut clarity kicks in and you try to block out the other people who are regaining consciousness in the room. Witness how ethereal her beauty is under the ceiling light. You want to kiss her. You want to tell her how much you love her. However, the harsh reality kicks in harder than the post-nut clarity as she shifts her gaze away from you and looks at the time. You close your eyes, take a deep breath to cherish just how fucking good her cock-warming cavern is. 

You pull away, unfazed at the mess in front of you at this point. Party time is over and you’re victorious but defeated, a bit deflated even. Why is the girl you’re falling for the wrong type of queen? 

"Hey..." Gaeul reaches out and grabs your forearm and pulls you a little closer to give you one last peck on your cheek. "Drive safely, okay?” Her fingers tiptoe towards your hand until it reaches the back of your it, her thumb gently rubs circles on it. A new level of intimacy that makes your heart stutter. “Message me when you’re back home."

[barnacles34]

ONTOLOGY

gawon x male reader smut

part one of two

13k words

TW: grieving death (gawon doesn't die though!)

---

One must admire your monkish habits: your devotion to a closed loop of domestic stations that lead nowhere and end at the beginning. Your legs still carry you because your body remembers what the soul has abandoned; and the body, unlike the soul, does not require reasons.

The lacquer smudged into the wood floor beside the bed in an accident you no longer remembered the circumstances of but you had once, in the early months, tried to scrape away with a butter knife before stopping midway through in a kind of dismal un-moving horror, a revulsion at your own hands, at the efficiency of how a body can remove totems she left behind.

The remaining smudge was half-removed and half-preserved and, like an argument, interrupted and never resolved - which in this case was better than resolving: you can remember, everyday, that lacquer, her favorite lacquer. 

The closet was the next totem. You opened it and stood inside the frame of it - because it wasn’t luxuriant enough to be walk-in, just frame-in - and breathed. It was lavender and coffee, still. Still! It was fading, but you did the load-bearing mechanics of making sure the air outside and the air inside don’t mingle. Of course, these load-bearing mechanics were keep-sake insurances of making sure you don’t give way in the closet and weep with her fabric stippled to your face. [1]

[1] Which had happened, more than once.

She’d sold most of her clothes in secret to pay for the treatments. The remaining few hung like survivors at a reunion where most are gone. [2]

[2] Like the year-ends of AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) meetings, the remaining few with hair barely attached to their scalps. Of women and men alike - all red-eyed - sobriety takes a toll as any other substance.

In the kitchen remains her broken plates. She had broken them on the infirm day of “realizing”, “dawning”, that this wasn’t ordinary - her arms just gave way. You kept them the way you kept everything she left: totally indiscriminate. Everything in the same place as she left them; if you begin forgetting, let there be totems.

The tupperware she left in the fridge. Her last meal, the one she couldn’t finish, still inside, and you opened the fridge and looked at it every morning. No mold and no smell. You did not believe in signs but you didn’t throw it out either, and in it lies the difference: a territory of half-belief half-not so all-consuming that entire religions were founded, and you, a man who read the entire discouraging bibliography of Western Thought™ on the subject of death and its aftermath, could not place yourself with any confidence. The tupperware was simply there and that was that - to adjudicate.

Beyond totems, a coworker had recommended Vietnamese coffee on account of your comments on low energy (his recommendation goes: ‘This will fuck you up. Seriously, for cardiac events only.’ And that’s all you needed, really.) 

Of course: it did nothing. You drank the bitter of it at the counter, standing and not sitting at the table for two. The whole emotional calculus of sitting on the table for two was exhausting and destructive so you opted to just stand. It would’ve made her laugh, this blunt solution. She had a laugh that involved her whole body, a laugh that bent her forward at the waist and put her hand on whatever was nearest - your knee, your stomach, your shoulder, your forearm. And because the laugh was like that, it conscripted you - you joined her to laugh at whatever. Her laugh was the last thing you heard in your head at night. It remained itself, unlike the perfect song which eventually dis-morphs and degrades. And this was either a mercy or a cruelty that you couldn’t decide on. Her whisker-touched smile still lives in your mind endlessly. 

You drove across town to see her. It was muscle memory, this track. Like it were on rails or those toy trains that you had to pull off the track just to keep them from moving in that particular way. Past the elementary school where someone had misspelled CONGRATULASHIONS on a banner that no one had removed.

And this was a fact that you and her talked extensively about. Like the ‘wicked bible’, in which the word 'not' was omitted from the seventh commandment: ‘Thou shalt commit adultery.’ The printers were fined and most copies were destroyed. She laughed about this extensively, her hand was on your belly so you laughed about it too.

Past the Presbyterian church whose sign read GOD'S LOVE IS UNCONDITIONAL but whose parking lot was gated and locked on weekdays, a contradiction you had pointed out to her once in the passenger seat and she had laughed, that laugh, bending forward, her hand on your knee, and you would give anything, anything, your hands, your degrees, the entire corpus and every footnote you'd ever written about it, for that laugh, for the fact of her diaphragm contracting, for the air that came out of her and hit the dashboard and fogged it for a half-second in January, proof of breath, proof of life.

The cemetery was simple. It had none of the Baroque funerary elements, the weeping angels and obelisks and mausoleums built on the scale of modern-age buildings, that the Europeans enjoy as architectural entitlement. Someone with a worn-down clipboard sketching his children had designated it (it was a simple flat land) for the storage of the dead, and the dead, being dead, had not objected.

In all honesty, it was a fairyland. The grass moved in a single direction, always shimmering. Just the light, the grass and the quiet.

You brushed the night dust off the stone with your palm. You rearranged some flowers the strong wind had shifted.

‘Hinton,’ you said.

The bird - a handsome blue jay - on the branch above you tweeted. It was probably experiencing zero spiritual continuity with your dead wife. It wanted seeds or it wanted a different branch.

‘He got drunk at his own birthday. Classic. John and I set up this surprise for him, collector’s editions of the board games he plays - you know Hinton, the way he is about board games, the obsessive joy - you would’ve said we spoiled him.’

You pulled up a blade of grass. Split it down the center with your thumbnail.

‘I drove him home and he went into one of his drunk rambles - he was like: “you’re the best friend ever, and I’m sorry for being such an unreliable junior. Please forgive me.” It was a whole thing…’ you showed a grin, ‘I’ll talk to him today. He’ll probably hide from me in the breakroom like last time.’

'Anyway.' You brushed the grass off your palms. 'I'm trying. You told me to move on so I'm - I don't know. I'm moving somewhere. Not sure it's somewhere good, probably more like moving around… but I'm moving.'

You touched the top of the gravestone. 'I'll come back Thursday. Same time.'

You stood, took one look at the grassland - the blades still synchronized, leaning east - and walked back to the car.

-

Work.[1]

[1] Where, among other things, you are technically required to sit in a chair that a facilities team selected from a catalog in that has never been comfortable for anyone, and where the same three people microwave the same fish every Thursday, where your manager sends emails at midnight with the subject line 'Quick thought' that are never quick and never just one thought and are torture-like-borrowed-from-Hubei-province. You survive this, and you survive managers.

After work you made the familiar turn away from home opposite your home. Toward a bar with no legible sign, or a sign so rain-damaged it had become a Rorschach test. You saw Reilly's. Hinton swore it was Kelly's. The barkeep, when asked, said:

It didn't matter. 

You parked a short distance away. There was parking closer, by the trees, but you liked to walk. Taste the town air. Let the breeze move through your hair, down your back.

The bell above the door rung, the barkeep nodded, and a few regulars glanced your way, grinning, throttled by their own worries.

You ordered some beer. Grabbed a napkin to fold into disarray and disfigure.

An unfamiliar face on the stool next to you. A girl. Beautiful, but that's not what you noticed first. What you noticed was that she sat down like someone who'd been walking a long time - this tired huff of a person without energy.

'Vodka with Coke Zero,' she said to the barkeep.

Coke Zero?

Not even a real Coke with vodka? She's cutting sugar on a vodka coke. She wants to get drunk but she doesn't want the calories. Or she wants to get drunk and wants to taste nothing while she does it. Or, and this thought arrived without permission: somebody had trained her, at some point, to read everything that entered her body at the molecular level. Just a hunch.

'It's something I developed early on,' she said. Not to you exactly, to the irreverent watchers in the void.

'People give a side eye - or cant help it - when I order it.' She turned now. 'I just like to explain myself.'

'Right.' You took a sip. 'So what brings you here. This is a mid-career panicked people's gathering zone.' You offer the appeal of a bar in layman's terms.

'My career is over.' She picked up her glass when it arrived. Held it but didn't drink, more like staring into it, just a hint off the color of cola. 'I'm arguably deeper into it than you are.' A slight grin from her.

You offered one back. A smaller, more defiant one.

The ambience filled the space between you: it was quiet for a while, someone fed the jukebox, someone else laughed too loud at nothing.

'I like hearing stories,' she said.

'Hm?'

'Tell me a story. I came to this bar for a reason.'

'For stories.' You reply, unmoved.

'Yeah. You 'mid-career panicked people' (air-quotes) have the best ones.'

'What, you want me to tell you about my office life? My daily wars with the printer?'

'Come on.' She took a sip now. Finally. 'You know what I'm talking about. Drink more beer and talk to me.' She set her glass down. 'You people and your privacy. Hmph.'

You took a longer sip this time. Set the glass down. Looked at the counter, at the grain of the wood.

-

A decade ago and then some, when you were around 17, you were an intern at the local konbini, working the register. It was an old town and you needed cash to see your friends. The town was what it was: old people getting older. The days of today no different from the days of then.

You helped old people, mostly. They couldn't see a meter ahead. They moved as slow as weather.

Your manager worked the back. Drank, smoked, handled storage. He stayed out of everyone's way and everyone stayed out of his. Another clerk worked beside you, a much older man who was, from the outset, cruel. Someone who had hardened into meanness the way a bone sets wrong after a bad fracture.

Once, a boy came into the store. Clothes dirty. Hair past his ears, tangled. He went to the middle aisle, the half-priced day-old section, and picked up some food. His sleight of hand was poor. You could see his wrist dip toward his pocket.

He was stealing.

But it was out of the clerk's line of sight. And you didn't say anything. [1]

[1] You must add that this was a period of great ideological upheaval in your life. You were exposed to a greater array of people, cultures, ideas. And the idea of a small boy fending for himself by stealing out of the day-old section was the just the idea that seemed to be your way of "fighting the system".

He paid for the items outside his pocket and left (a common way of pretending you were there for those specific - barely a dollar in total - items).

This became routine, he showed up regularly, but the cash he carried seemed to thin each time. The bills more run-down. The coins fewer.

By then you'd been dating your wife for about a month. When she heard the story, her heart broke at the possibilities. A world that excluded children in need. And without needing to think much about it, she intervened.

She followed him. Found where he lived: a run-down apartment complex. Other children running in and out through a side entrance. That was all the information she could gather that day.

Then one day, one horrible day, you couldn't block the clerk's view. The boy pocketed something and the clerk saw it happen. He jumped the counter and tackled the boy. Yelling, furious, but not punching - for what it was worth.

The clerk had his arms wrenched behind his back. You don't remember the order of things. Adrenaline had eaten the sequence. Somehow you got the clerk off and took the boy.

And then the boy told you everything.

He was living with his brother and sisters in an apartment with no lighting, no heating, no anything - they weren't old enough to actually pay the utilities. Their mother had been a sex worker who got pregnant one too many times; but had changed her life, yet the reputational damage in patriarchal Japan was too deep. No employer would take the chance, she moved across the country to find work. Labor, service, anything.

For a while she sent money; envelopes, sometimes just bills folded into notebook paper. The boy used it to take care of his family. He told you he'd bought a small piano for his older sister. She'd been saving for one. A really small one.

Then the envelopes stopped coming in and the worst case scenario came to fruition: disappearance.

You thought about jail. Too many things had gone wrong in sequence. Day after day, one thing after another.

You offered help - money, groceries… even adoption - he refused.

The only thing he accepted: you'd leave food at the back door of the konbini. So that's what you did. Every shift, you told the manager you were clearing old inventory. It was almost always perfectly fine food, just a day past its label. You collected a bag and brought it to the back door. He'd be there. You set the bag down. He picked it up. Neither of you said much.

She hadn't interrupted once. Her glass was half-empty. She hadn't touched it since you'd started.

One day their entire family came into the store. You saw them through the automatic doors. A small procession, close together. The boy, his brother, his sisters. And next to him a girl, slightly older, slightly more composed. She didn't look like she lived with the rest. She had jewelry on, a heavy bag that etched its weight on to the shoulders of her clothes.

Only the boy and the girl went into the aisles. A minute later he came to the register carrying at least a dozen boxes of strawberry Pocky. The chocolate-covered kind. He set them on the counter one at a time carefully.

The girl paid. She had the money folded in her palm. She'd been holding it the whole time. You didn't understand yet.

Weeks later you pieced it together. From fragments. From neighbors in the complex. From absence: 

The smallest sister had died. You never learned how. After that it was no longer possible for them to go on as they were. They would all dissolve into the orphanage system they once escaped from. An abandoned family whose only structure was proximity, whose only comfort was staying together, had been broken from the inside.

The Pocky was their final meal together. A dozen boxes of strawberry Pocky, paid for by the older girl who wasn't even in their family. [2]

[2] An artificially produced box of chocolate-covered biscuits that is a snack for most was an unfathomable luxury to them.

And that was the humble goodbye.

The apartment was empty, the nearby vicinity that you and your girlfriend spent hours carefully observing was also empty.

But he left you something. Because he couldn't read, he couldn't write a letter. What he left was a note card. Their family tree, not larger than a few lines. It traced back only to their great-grandfather. It was provided by the government. You could tell by the creases, he'd been carrying it a long time.

-

You looked at her. She hadn't moved, two thin lines ran from her eyes past her jaw, dried partway from not wiping, leaving faint salt tracks on her skin.

'That's… heartbreaking.'

You reached into your coat pocket and fished out your wallet. Some maneuvering later you slid the note card onto the bar, his family lineage in ink, names he couldn't read of people who were permanent. You had laminated it years ago but the edges had gone to that opaque whiteness that laminated things get when the plastic starts to give. Then you pulled out a small box of chocolate-almond Pocky.

'Since you extracted my best material,' you said, tapping the box, 'I'm making you eat this.'

She let out a breathless laugh with closed eyes and more water pushed to her eyelashes. She grabbed a cocktail napkin and dipped the corner to her eyes, makeup still fine, and hitched her stool a little closer and pulled a stick from the foil.

'Not the strawberry?'

'They were out today, I made do.'

You tipped a biscuit into your mouth, she ate hers in two quick bites.

'And no signs?' she asked after a while, looking at the ceiling, blinking too much. 'Nothing from them since?'

'Nothing. They vanished into the system, the place they spent their entire time running from.'

You took another sip from the beer. The chocolate and the almonds mixed with the hops - terrible combination but it grounds you.

You traced the handle of the mug. 'So, your turn, give me something.'

She sat up and started tearing the napkin into strips. 'You know what's embarrassing? You'd think I'd have a vault. I aggressively interrogate every stranger I sit next to. I'm a parasite. But my own life?' She shook her head. 'Barren.'

'I don't believe you.'

'It's true! My little sister can't stand me because I spent my sensitive years scolding her instead of being a human being. And I've been trying to fix it by buying her favorite salt bread every time I see her and she still treats me like I'm collecting a debt, which, okay, fair. I have a degree in media and communications from NYU. I buy hand creams that cost too much. That's it, that's the whole person, fully accounted for.'

'I wholly reject that.'

'Reject away. I'm twenty seven years old and my biography fits on the back of a receipt.' She sighed. 'My life hasn't happened yet.' She tilted her head and squinted at you. 'Yours clearly has. You've already gone grey.'

'I have not gone grey.'

'You have. There.' She pointed at a spot above your ear.

'That is the lighting in this bar, which, as we've established, is terrible.'

'It's not the lighting.' She pulled out her phone and flipped the camera and held it up to your face with the prosecutorial confidence of someone presenting exhibit A. 'Look at that - right there - look at it.'

You looked. There it was.

'Forensic evidence.' She said.

'You're dismantling me.'

'How old are you?'

'Thirty.'

'Thirty… huh.'

'What does huh mean.'

'It's paradoxical. You have grey hair but you're -' She put the phone away and looked at you properly. 'You're conventionally… attractive - which I realize is a weird qualifier.'

'It's a hell of a qualifier. Conventionally attractive. I haven't heard anything like that in years.'

You turned forward and leaned into the bar and took a long sip.

'Don't let that be the case,' she said.

-

'So,' Gawon said.

'So.'

'What about your wife?'

The jukebox switched tracks and the bassline rattled up through the wood of the bar into your forearms.

'She's not around.'

She stopped tracing her glass. 'I pry too much. I'm sorry.'

'She died,' you said. 'Two years ago. She was sick for a long time before that, years, and then the doctors gave her two years and she died in two years. No miraculous survival. A cruel linear fate, if you will.'

She didn't say anything. She picked up one of the napkin strips she'd been tearing and folded it in half, then in half again, pressing the crease with her thumbnail.

'People always want to know about the end,' you said. 'Like if they know how it ended they can file it and move on. But the part that stays with you is the middle. The eighteen months where she was still walking around and eating cereal and making fun of me for how I loaded the dishwasher, except now there was this calendar behind everything.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean she did the same things but they had dates on them now. She'd hold a mug of coffee and I'd think: she's holding a mug of coffee and she has fourteen months left. She'd fall asleep on the couch with the TV on and I'd carry her to bed and I'd think the number; every time, the number was always in the room.'

Gawon had stopped folding, the strip of napkin was between her thumb and finger, half-creased.

'What was her name?' A flash went across her eyes, realizing some etiquette she'd crossed, 'Sorry, it's instinct.'

'Jiwoo. And she was sick.'

'You're very precise about it.'

'I've had practice. People ask, and you develop a version that has the most information density.'

'Is this the optimized version?'

'The long one takes two years. This one, maybe twenty words or so. True distillation.'

She laughed, then didn't, and the not-laughing was louder than the laughing. She set the napkin strips parallel to each other on the bar, a small row of them, evenly spaced.

'I had a tape recorder when I was nine. I walked around recording everything. I thought if I collected enough of the world it'd make sense to me.'

'And it never made sense,' you finish her sentence.

'I'm twenty-seven and I'm still…'

'At least you upgraded to interrogating strangers in person.'

'Lateral move at best.' She bunched up the strips and balled them together neatly.

'You're not a parasite,' you said. Because you could see her thinking it.

She blinked, 'What?'

'The self-loathing. I can smell it in the air. You sit down next to a stranger and call yourself a story vampire and probably a myriad of things less-vocalized. But you're a good listener, among other things.'

'That's -' she started.

'And you're disgustingly educated.' You pause, 'Meant to be a good thing.'

'I know.' She was turning the balled napkin around in her fingers, this tight little sphere.

Then she set the napkin ball on the bar and pushed it a few inches toward you, this little offering, and left her hand there.

You looked at the napkin ball, and then at her hand resting next to it on the wood, and then you put your hand next to hers. Close enough that the sides of your pinkies were almost touching, this near-miss of contact, and neither of you closed the gap. Her fingers were cold from holding her dead vodka for the last hour and yours were warm from the glass and you could feel the difference in temperature without touching.

She closed it - her fingers on the knuckles of your hand.

You looked at her hand on your hand and then up at her face. She had been turning toward you in degrees all evening, a few degrees after the konbini story, a few more after the Pocky, and now the rotation was complete, the full face, and the full face was the one that should've garnered millions of fans, should've been plastered across billboards and the like: the strong jaw and the enormous eyes and the honey skin and it couldn't be undone by a coat collar any more than it could be undone by an ocean.

You looked at her and she looked at you, and whatever was happening in that look went on for a period of time that you would not be able to report accurately to anyone afterward, and you thought about leaning forward, and you could see that she was thinking about the same thing.

She jerked her hand back. Some uncomfortable ring in the air, suddenly exposed.

'I'm -' she cleared her throat, suddenly hyper-aware, the men arguing behind you, the clinks of pints, blush-full. She grabbed her phone on the counter, the screen lighting up in that unforgiving white, her eyes crumpling just a tad. 'It's late. I should go. I have a… thing.'

'Right.' The cold rushed back to fill the space. You slipped your hand back into your coat pocket. 'A thing.'

'It was nice meeting you.' She was already standing, shrugging her bag onto her shoulder, tossing a crumpled twenty-dollar bill onto the bar. She didn't look you in the eye. Couldn't.

You paid the tab and tipped the barkeep with the $20 she left. You drove back home, never did your steering wheel feel so damn cold.

-

A few days pass in anticlimactic routine: the smudges and scraps left behind by your wife; the boring morning routine, without fail: scrambled eggs more rubbery than anything else, tie that pulls your collar a smudge too tight, a burgeoning rash that becomes the bane of your day; the boring drive there and fro; but there lived a single thought: her. Just her in your mind. A human mind suffering nothing tastes something and it's in a death spiral: her and her and her smudged all over your mind.

By lunch, you catch yourself rewinding a moment: the way her thin fingers held your beer mug, how it slanted just a bit due to the weight of it in her enclosed fist. You shake it off. By dinner, it's back: her big eyes staring right into you, her praline lips slightly coloring the edge of the mug. By the end of the day you're not thinking about her so much as you're failing to think about literally anything else.

A distinction that drives you delirious in-place.

But as things go, she'll become as boring as the rest of your routine - her lip smears, her eyes, her jaws, they'll all be as old as yesteryear's yesterday!

Three weeks pass like this, in this paradoxical anticipatory cluster-fuck that your life's turned into. Your eyes flit towards nooks she may reside in, crannies where she could be wandering. No luck.

The bar's on the radar now, standard Friday protocol, your life's out of balance and yet your routine never flails. You park by the tree, cram your keys in your pockets (this you never used to do, cram everything in anything and find yourself a minute or two earlier than routine.)

The bell rings and the familiar air surrounds you. You pass into the sunken floor, and sit on the cushioned seat that you adjust a few levels lower (even lowering your seat reminds you of her, how she sat a few levels higher on the chair. You sipped beer and looked at the chair for a good half-hour after she left.)

The barkeep set a beer in front of you without asking. You held it and looked at the toothpick cylinder that seemed to never finish (or be used), the steady lines ingrained into the table -

'Hey. Where's the lass?' You look up and the barkeep's looking at you, towel in hand cleaning the inside of a large mug.

'Sorry?'

Where's the lass? He repeated again - a bar's a deceivingly loud place, not a sensory deprivation tank but a sensory deprivation furnace.

'She's gone. I mean - I don't really know.'

'Pity,' he held the mug to the light, squinted, resumed wiping. 'She was a good tipper; we don't get good tippers 'round here.' He looked pointedly at your coat. 'I take a peek of your pockets and it's as if there's nothing there at all.'

You offered a laugh, 'That actually begs the question: have you seen her around here?'

'Sure did -'

'When?' The words come out rushed.

'Two weeks ago. Around that timeframe.' He set the mug down, inverted it on the rubber mat. 'I see too many faces to pin it exactly. She was here -' He pointed at the stool she'd sat on, the one next to yours, and for a second the gesture made the empty seat worse. 'Drank some beer. Left it half-full.' He put his hand on his chest. 'Now that really broke my heart, I'll tell you.'

'She left it half-full?'

'Half a perfectly good pint. Just sitting there. I nearly held a funeral.' He picked up another glass. 'And she left fifty as tip.'

'Fifty?'

'Fifty.' He said it with the quiet satisfaction of a man recounting a religious experience.

'It's what I deserve serving you tight-pocketed bastards.' He belly laughs this time.

You grin back. Then: 'how was she?'

'Looked great. Bloody supermodel, everyone's taking a look at her. Respectfully, of course.' He paused. 'Respectfully-adjacent. This is still a bar.'

'Right.'

'Funny thing.' He leaned on the counter, thick forearms plodding on the table, 'she asked about you.'

Your eyebrows jump, mouth turning into a line. 'She asked about me.'

The barkeep continued, 'I told her your routine, when you come and all the details - probably what you wanted anyway.'

'Yet you haven't seen her since?'

'Nope.' He picked up the towel, folded it - halved, halved again. 'Gone.'

He moved down the bar toward a regular whose glass had been empty long enough to warrant a grievance. You stayed on your stool, traced the mug, let the seat beside you, the one raised a few levels higher, stay in your vision.

It drives you beyond crazy.

--

Saturday. You woke up into the natural circuit: lacquer, closet, plates, then the fridge.

You opened the closet this time. The lavender was almost gone.

Reading. You leaned into the soft leather couch, just worn in enough. You held the spine of a large book, slightly giving way, crusty from the glue that didn't set properly, a certain charm you enjoyed. You flipped pages, the smell of the library through each one.

Laundry. You had a lot of dark clothing that had to be washed. Most of your wardrobe was dark; in hindsight buying clothes that you thought to be mellow has turned into an eye-sore: black on top of black.

Outside, grass, birds. It's all routine, until you heard this pressured howl from the bathroom. The pipe under the sink, the joint where copper met the shut-off valve corroded into a hairline fracture. It was weeping, hissing water. You hadn't bothered to check because the light had given off the same mellow hiss. But it was un-ignorable now, the fracture expanded, the wood of the cabinet floor that received the drippings dark and swollen, a faint mildew marking its presence.

You twisted the rusty valve at the joint until the beading and the hissing stopped. You stood up, the cuffs of your shirt now falling slowly down the length of your arm, beads of water that gave off the scent of rotten wood dripping down your fingers.

You cleaned yourself up and drove to the hardware store. Near the same lot, close to a familiar light and tree that held that nearby lot. You told an employee you recognized, who has this misfortune of prescribing flex tape to any and all complications because the store hadn't bothered to train him. He disappeared into the back to presumably grab flex tape.

You waited in plumbing. An aisle full of copper joints, PVC elbows, rubber gaskets. Another employee came through pushing a tall ladder cart stacked with inventory boxes, the kind that fills an aisle like a wall.

You stepped to give space. You let out a sudden breath before your lips clasped shut.

She was on the other side. She wasn't looking at you, opposite in fact. She was already holding a door knob and tape. She was wearing the same coat, her hair pulled back this time.

The ladder cart passed and took the wall with it and now there was nothing between you and her except eight feet of linoleum and a shelf of reduced-price caulking guns.

The PA system was listing a sale on exterior paint, a child was screaming about something two aisles over, and a rattle of the ventilation unit that been especially worse in these microseconds.

She turned to reach for something in the shelf behind her and her swept across the aisle the way eyes do in a hardware store. [1]

[1] Beyond fathers, the hardware store is a place of mystique and mystery. A place of banality and stale nothingness. You must swipe your eyes across every shelf because some item was misplaced by some bored child that carried the drill to the caulk section.

And in this banality, she met your eyes. The door knob was in her hands, tape in the other.

How to describe the moment a face you've been assembling from fragments, disassembling them all over again - lip-smudge on a glass, knuckles on a counter, the pitch of that deep laugh - suddenly coheres into an actual person. There's no word.

'Hi,' you said. Which wasn't exactly the best thing to say, but what else? You met somebody you thought about 24/7 and she's just there. She was even prettier than before, maybe because everything else was getting fried under 7,000 lumens of commercial lighting and she was just resistant.

'What are you doing here.'

'Pipe broke under the sink, the valve area corroded into some - ' Out of words, you imitate a burst of water with your hands.

She blinked, twice, rapidly. 'Plumbing supplies?'

'I'm waiting for an employee who went into the back fifteen minutes ago and may have died there.'

The ends of her lips tipped upward. She held up the door knob. 'Mine fell off.'

'It just fell off?'

'The whole knob. It's been loose since September. I've been meaning to fix it but one day… well today… it just fell off.'

'Which door.' You ask.

'Bathroom, I've been closing it with a towel wedged under the gap. It works, but I decided that I wanted to be a person who fixes things. The evidence is not compelling, I know.' She said, with tape and a door knob in her hands.

And thus: blissful awareness, you were standing in a hardware store in the clothes you'd been doing laundry in, cuffs damp from the pipe, holding nothing, caught in the wild by the person your mind had been coring itself around for three weeks.

And the setting was PVC elbows and caulk and under square-ceiling'd bright lights that did no good for complexions.

'You - ' her eyes traced over you again, your messy clothes. 'You look like you were in the middle of something.'

'I was in the middle of a Saturday.'

And here is where a different man - a man less soldered into routine, a man whose every gesture hadn't been load-tested against the possibility of feeling something - would have said: have dinner with me, come back to the bar, sit next to me, don't leave this time. [2]

[2]A different man would've at least had dry clothes on, no matter the instance.

Instead you looked at the door knob in her hand, 'That's the wrong size.'

'What?'

'For an interior door. That's exterior hardware. The bore's too wide - it won't seat right.'

She turned it over, 'are you sure?'

'I know a lot of useless things. Knobs happen to be one of them. Well, it depends if the whole thing fell off or just the knob.'

'Just the knob.'

You stepped closer and pointed at the shelf lower than the one she was looking at. 'This one - ' You ended on a note that was higher than how you intended for it to end. Because of the simple fact that you were closer to her. Close enough to smell the citrus in her perfume, the shampoo that smelled just like honey.

She grabbed a knob that was the same color and compared them, and put back the one that was bigger. 'This one.'

And you wanted to say seventeen things and answer in a thousand ways.

She turned to face you fully. Like at the bar (when her salt-tracked eyes stared at you fully - brilliant, brilliant, brilliant…)

'Thank you,' she said. 'For the knob consultation.'

'Any time.'

'I should - '

'Yeah.' [3]

[3] What's different here: there's no alcohol. Let it be clear: the anonymity that you had at the bar was no more. You are two people who shared a beautiful evening, and have been building private mythologies around each other for three weeks… and there you are, both, in-the-flesh. Dry, physically, sure. Internally? Hell no. All of this intensity is funneled into the knob consultation. You teach her about passage sets because you cannot say what you really want to say. She listens with too much seriousness because…

She retreated to the end of the aisle. She left just like the way she did at the bar. But there wasn't a bell above the door this time, no crumpled twenty on the counter.

'Sorry about the wait.' You turned towards the voice, it was the employee. 'We had to dig through overstock.'

Strangely, he got the right item: the valve kit. You went back home and fitted the new valve, tightened it until the beading and hissing stopped. You washed your hands, you ate something you wouldn't remember eating, laid back into the couch to read a book whose spine was giving way.

You read until you were drowsy and headed to bed. But you were woken up by a late message:

-

[number redacted] 1:09 AM:

I keep starting this wrong. I wrote four versions and deleted them, and I'm now writing about deleting them - which is 100% worse. This sort of meta-writing has always been a chore for me - I watch, I am invisible, it's hard to write about myself. But just because I'm invisible doesn't mean I don't exist, but still, there is no valid way to test it. Is there?

Because my life goes like so: I fall asleep on the train home from "work" but I get home anyway. I close my eyes and nothing happens. I close my eyes every now and then, just to test the waters, and find I'm still moving, being moved, walking through the turnstile with my eyes closed, held up and carried along by the routine. Am I invisible? 

The lights flicker and the wheels clack. No one on the train can tell who's driving, so I let go of the imaginary wheel. I lean back in my plastic seat and let my shoulders drop. In the seat across from me, a man is reading something on his phone. His hands look familiar. And the woman standing by the automatic doors - her jaw, the set of her jaw strikes something deep inside me. Look at the grey at the temples of the guy in the coat two seats over! I know that grey! I've seen that grey on somebody else's head! All these parts trying to assemble themselves in front of me, as if to say let me in, I'm still here, hello hello, you know me, you know - I spent my life without making a mark - and then you sat next to me and looked at me, and now i can't ride a train without seeing you everywhere, which means I was seen, which means I exist in someone else's story, which means I'm not invisible anymore.

So here's the deal: I'm not invisible. You are proof of it.

Here I am in my apartment with the blue tape on every wall and nothing painted, waiting for you to find me. I could pretend I'm writing to everyone - assume a middle distance and transcend myself - but I'm writing to you and you know it.

There was one time, we were at the bar then, and you had just gone somewhere inside your head - I could see it happen, the departure, mid-sentence - and I almost said where did you just go? but I didn't because I was already somewhere too. It doesn't always matter where we are but here I am and I say hello, sitting next to you this time, just pretend I'm sitting next to you this time, please. You would like it here. Maybe you would like it here. I think that maybe you would like it here. There's painter's tape on the light switch and the spackle's the wrong grade and… and all these books have been slant-wise because I had been meaning to give you that one book that held the structural stability of an entire shelves worth of books… but you would like it here.

I work my jobs, I take my trains. Button the coat and go to work, unbutton the coat and go to sleep. I sleep. I dream. I wake. I collect. I get out the napkin and start writing down the things that affix the meaning to the evening, the inner life to the barstool, the names to the faces. I float too much to settle in the actual world. I envy your routine but that's the deal - you're a Friday and I'm a bar and when I try to guess your trajectory I end up telling my own story - 

my own story… isn't that crazy?

But you are my stranger and I think about you sideways daily. Sideways because I have to cast it out in all directions, hoping it bounces off something and eventually finds you. You and your stool and your lager and your coat pockets that apparently contain nothing, if the bartender is to be believed.

I asked him for your number. I told him not to tell you, which is childish, and I'm sure he hasn't told you. It's been in my phone for eleven days, unsaved, filed under cowardice. (You alone can make eleven days feel like a year or two. I used to sleep eleven days! [1]) I've been rereading the evening. I think it's about me in a way that might not be flattering, but that's okay. We dream and dream of being known and then finally someone sits next to us and listens and we bolt. We leave a twenty on the bar and bolt. Anyway: story received, story kept. You looked at me long enough to see something underneath the prying. Thanks. Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.

[1] subject to hyperbole. i dont sleep that much. im sure you know it's sarcastic but just in case, just in case.

So here we are: me being here and you being off the map and me sending this across the wires and hoping to be received. You're making me work for this and that's okay too. I was pushing too hard, asking too much, and you let me anyway, and yes, this has been the shape of it all along: a place for the story to land, the airport of someone else's listening.

The question I keep asking myself is do you have a real reason to send this and can you prove it? And of course there is no definitive answer. A sensible person would do the math. A sensible person would weigh the facts and arrive at a conclusion. People, they make it up as they go along. They find connections between things where there aren't any. They get strange about it, they refuse to call, they take it deep inside themselves and fold it into something unrecognizable and then they set it down on the table. Or they send it as a text to an unsaved number at one in the morning.

I had a tape recorder when I was nine. I walked around recording everything - the kettle, my sister fighting with the remote, traffic from the window. I thought if I collected enough of the world I could play it back and it would make sense. It never made sense.

That's what I do. I sit next to strangers and I press record and I leave. The leaving is the easy part. The part after the leaving - where the tape keeps playing even though you've pressed stop - I have no practice in.

Of course, I wonder if you think about it too, which is, really, beside the point. I don't do this to be thought about, I do it because the evening keeps getting bigger in my memory - really, unmovable - and that's just what happens.

So here we are again, words on a screen, the voice that wants to be a hand, the bridge with no opposite side. You're the only one. Sure, we invent each other. We agreed to that somewhere between the Pocky and the lager. Stranger and bartender's regular, Friday and the rest of the week. We do what we do and what I do is put the words on the screen and stare at them.

So here you are, reading this, expecting something. A reason perhaps, or an apology for bolting. You're ready and I'm ready too. Have you been waiting long? I've put it together for you, bundled it all up, because it's nice to put yourself inside someone's phone at one in the morning, like origami cranes and family trees and fifty-dollar tips. Here is a place for it to happen. A place where I can say it:

I'm not invisible. You are proof of it.

If you want, we could sit somewhere again. I'm good at sitting somewhere. You seem to be too. [2]

PS: the bartender gave me the exact times you come into the bar. I waited on a Friday where you were supposedly there. I sat in the car for about 20 minutes before bolting back home. Then I did it again. Your routines are rubbing off on me.

-

[2] I really had to add a Richard Siken reference into this fic. I bundled it up and made it specific to this story but I highly recommend reading the original. Here it is[https://web.archive.org/web/20211127225334/http://sporkpress.com/2_1/Pieces/Siken.htm]. Tears and more tears.

-

How many read-throughs did it take? Gawon sent you a thousand-word-and-then-some letter that held everything she ever held in these meek eleven days which held years for her. Years!

You can already imagine Gawon in the kitchen - or her voice ringing from the kitchen, spreading jam on that slighty burnt toast (because of course your charmful toaster is a little old-fashioned and selective with its burning) - and you're in your boxers and a t-shirt that has her perfume all over it. It's a living thing at this hour.

Utterly enthralled. A way to put it.

Then:

[number redacted] 1:21 AM: apt 4F at hannam residences

She sent her address.

You put on pants that were on the couch, your renovation pants. Paint-struck and everything else on it. Who gives a fuck. She's in the kitchen and you're in your boxers.

You picked up your keys and forgot your jacket. The November air hit like feathers. You drove fourteen minutes or a few seconds. You brain had read the letter, processed it and resigned then and there - what remained was a man in a car following the GPS voice. 

It was a gated community. A slight drive up a hill. The gate opened anyway and there was nowhere to scrutinize where you were going with renovation clothes. There was no signage: only sleek limestone and tall windows that somehow had obscured the inside fo the apartments. 

You parked your car in some discrete corner and moved across the units. The inside emanated that same sleek-style. Single orchid on a table that looked more expensive than it should've. You walked past the unmanned concierge desk, into the elevator that moved without a sound. Onto the fourth floor.

The hallway carpet ate your footsteps, must've been deeper than the sole of your shoes. 4A, 4B, 4C, all between large expanses of abstract art - what looked like Egon Schiele dupes but very well might've been the real pieces. You stopped at 4F. The door had a brass knob, just something you noticed. 

You knocked.

There was airtight silence, nothing. It took longer - 

the lock turned and the door swung inward and she was standing there in a t-shirt that ended just above the top of her thighs, barefoot on dark hardwood, hair down, holding her phone in one hand with the screen still lit - your conversation still open, that selection to delete the message still there.

She looked at you. At the jeans with the drywall dust and pain. The absence of a jacket. At the fact of you, standing in her hallway - routine man, never missed an hour out of routine - twenty-two minutes after she'd pressed send, hours after when you usually sleep.

'Hi,' you said. 

'No'

'No?'

'No, you're not - you can't be here. That's not - I just sent that.'

'I know. I read it.'

'You read it and you drove here?'

'You put the address in the text.'

'The address was a - that was decorative! That was for ambiance! You were supposed to save it and think about it for several days and then maybe - we go our separate ways.'

'Your theory of mind needs work,' you joke, 'you sent the message and then the address. How can I not come?'

'Because one in the morning is when coward send things! That's the whole point of one in the morning! You send the thing and you go to sleep and you build your defenses in the daylight like a normal person!'

You looked at her, then to yourself. Pointing with your whole hand at what you're wearing - what pants were available, painted, maybe ripped, everything in between.

She stared at you, bit the inside of her cheek, looked at the ceiling as if there was a teleprompter there.

'Those are…' She stepped into the door, one hand on the frame; pulling your wrist, 'come in before one of my neighbors calls someone.'

You stepped inside. She was right in front of you - undone at one in the morning - and behind her was lengths of painter's tape that had their edges peel off from not being used. And on the bathroom door, the correct knob lay seated - almost flush - a degree or two off, someone watched a tutorial and gotten close enough.

'You installed it,' you said.

She followed your eyes to the bathroom door. 'It took me forty minutes and a youtube video. The man kept referring to the screwdriver with its government name - phillips something something.'

She continued, 'it's crooked but it closes. I don't need it to be level, I need it to not fall off again while I'm in the shower, which is the bare minimum I'm asking of the objects in my life right now.' She walked past you to the kitchen - an open thing, marble island, fridge with its own weather system - and she picked up a glass that had been sitting there, which meant she'd been standing in this kitchen holding water before you knocked.

'Do you want something? I have water. I have some lager - the same lager.'

'The same lager?'

'I believe I made it clear, very clear, in a thousand-word-and-then-some letter at one in the morning, that I collected everything from our evening.' She opened the fridge, reached in. The inside was clean, organized. A whole pack of lager, unopened was the outlier. She'd bought it and never touched it.

She slipped you a bottle and a bottle for herself.

You sipped. It had, somehow, tasted better. Everything tasted better, the air, the beer, the residual citrus. Something more lucid to it, maybe it was the night, maybe it was Gawon.

'Verdict?'

'Better than the bar's.'

She grinned at that.

You looked at the taped wall. 'I was thinking about that door knob. But it seems you resolved that on your own. When did you do all this?' You point.

'July.'

'July.'

'Yes. The manifestation of procrastination. In my defence, though, I bought the tape. I bought the primer, I bought a roller and one of those little trays and I even bought the weird angled brush for the corners, because the woman at the store said corners are where amateurs fail, and I thought, right, I am not going to fail at corners. I was very precise with how I taped and then looked at all the tape and never touched the primer.'

She said this all in one breath.

'Your letter,' you said.

'We could also not.'

'The train part.'

'I described you as a composite corpse assembled from the body parts of subway passengers. I remember. Like organ harvesting. But I think there's relevant context before I -'

'You're not insane. Far from it. It made sense.'

'Made sense how?'

'I'd rather not say.'

'You fragment me into a composite corpse as well?'

'That's one way of putting it.'

'Which parts?' A grin appeared on her. Relieved, perhaps.

'Your fingers on the beer. The glass tilted because your hand's too weak for the mug.'

'That mug could house a family of four. It's a war crime.' Her hair fell forward over one shoulder, this dark curtain.'

'You should know,' she said, 'that I almost didn't send it. I wrote it in the Notes app. Which is where things go to die. I have forty-seven notes in that app and not a single one has become anything; grocery lists that I forget to consult the moment I enter the supermarket; ideas for prose; a pros-and-cons list about cutting my hair that I consulted for three months before making a decision I immediately regretted.'

She picked up the water glass. 'The point is, the app is a graveyard. The letter should've stayed there.'

'It didn't.'

'Because at twelve-fifty in the morning I moved it from the Notes app into the text field and the text field had this energy to it, I felt compelled to press it, it was like a jump pad. Once I pressed it, I tried my damned-est to delete it instantly. I caught my breath by reading it over and over and then you showed up before I went through with it.'

She continued, 'you coming was not part of the decision tree. The branches are: you text back something kind in the morning and we have a polite exchange and then slowly, tastefully, never speak again. And one where you don't reply and I delete everything and learn a valuable lesson about the Notes app being the correct final destination for my feelings.' She paused. 'There was no branch where you show up.'

'And yet.'

'You came.'

'You know why.'

'I want to hear a reason that isn't the letter. The letter is a thousand words of me being -' she waved her hand, 'unwell. Give me a reason that has nothing to do with the letter.'

You looked at the tape on her walls. The edges curling where the adhesive had given way a few months ago.

'The door knob,' you said.

'What?'

'At the hardware store. You were holding the wrong knob and I told you it was exterior hardware and you grabbed the right one and left. And I stood there in an empty aisle holding nothing and I thought: she's going to go home and install that by herself. She's going to watch a tutorial and get it a degree or two off and it's going to close but not perfectly and she's going to decide that's good enough.' You looked at the bathroom door, the knob seated almost flush. 'And I wanted to be there for that. Which is a stupid thing to want.'

She stared at you.

'That's your reason.'

'That's a reason.'

'That's -' she pressed her lips together. Looked at the ceiling. Blinked more than once. 'That's a really good answer and I need a second.'

'Take your time.'

'I'm going to stand here and be furious that you out-answered me in my own apartment after I wrote you the most embarrassing letter in the history of digital communication and you show up and say "door knob" and it's better than everything I wrote. That's -' She came around the island. Stood on your side now. 'That's not fair.'

She was close enough to see the goosebumps on your forearms where the cuffs were rolled. The strand of hair had fallen across her face again, the same one that had been refusing to stay put, and you reached across and pushed it off her face, finally, this stupid strand, and tucked it behind her ear and your thumb stayed on her cheekbone and she closed her eyes.

'You must've been cold,' she said.

'Yes.'

'It's November.'

'I know what month it is.'

She opened her eyes. She was looking at your arms, at the small hairs standing from the cold, and you were looking at her looking at your arms, and neither of you was looking at each other's face.

She kissed you first. The sequence is unreliable because what actually happened was she got closer to touch your arm to measure the frozen of your arm and then the glass of water got knocked by someone's elbow and when you tried to catch it your arm wrapped around her waist and the glass rolled off the counter and hit the floor and didn't break because of course she owned the kind of glasses that don't break, and the water spread across the hardwood.

She tasted like the beer, the faintest trace of toothpaste, that weird all-encompassing perfume that swallows you whole. Your hand went to her jaw - that jaw, the one you've been eyeing at the bar table - it was warm and sharp and -

She pulled back. Enough to speak.

'Your hands are freezing.' She smiled, 'is there anything you did bring?'

'Myself.'

'Insufficient.' She kissed you again. Her fingers in the collar of your t-shirt, grasp-tight, like she'd been thinking about this for years, she pulled back again. 'This is a terrible shirt.'

'Because you sent me a sincere letter that turned my brain into mush; I did not have the mind for a wardrobe. Can we stop reviewing my outfit?'

'It's just cute how you chase my lips.' She blows at your lips, a grin.

You kissed her to shut her up, which didn't work, because she laughed into it - this full sound that vibrated against your lips and accidentally filled both your cheeks with air so you had to let go just a bit.

Your hand went from her jaw to the back of her head, the split between hair and skin in the back.

'Couch,' she said.

'Where.' You make a breathy inquiry into her mouth.

'Behind you. The - just move back a little, just reverse straight.' The geometry of the maneuver was stupid and graceless and at one point your calf hit the coffee table and something on it - book, books, whatever - slid and toppled and then the backs of your knees hit the couch and she was above you, one knee on either side, the oversized shirt tenting around you both.

She looked down at you. You looked up at her. Her hair fell forward and curtained the sides of your face and the whole apartment disappeared. Her face in the frame of dark hair, her moles, her nose, her everything - god, she's just too beautiful. 

'Hi,' she said.

'Hi.'

You put your hands on her waist. The shirt was thin and through it you could feel the heat of her, the ribs, the expansion of her breathing. Just a little shaking.

'Okay,' she said. 'Now take off the pipe pants. They're ruining my couch.'

You did. Standing there, in her apartment, at one-something in the morning, stepping out of painted jeans in front of the woman you mythologized.

Gawon looked at your boxers, looked at them for a long time.

'Plaid boxers,' she said. 'You drove across town, in November, without a jacket, to see a woman who wrote you a love letter, and you're wearing plaid boxers.'

'They were on top of the pile.'

'The audacity.' But she was grinning. She pushed you gently back onto the couch. Knees on either side of your lap, her face level with yours. 'I believe you now - about the rushing.'

Her breathing had changed to a slower register.

'What else do you do,' she said. 'I sent you a thousand-word letter about trains and the interior of my psyche. You know everything about me. Well, except for the fact that I used to be an idol.' She paused, trying to gauge what you were thinking.

'It's a shame you've short-circuited me down to my last two brain cells, otherwise I'd be more interested in that idol story of yours.' Your face got closer, until your noses were touching and you leaned just part-way, this slotting way, to kiss her again. And again. And again.

'Did I tell you that I read?' You add between the kisses.

'What book?'

'It doesn't matter what book. It's a page issue. I'm stuck on a page. Was.'

'Mhm.'

'I'm past that book now.'

She nodded during one of the kisses, 'That's progress.' In this serious, adorable way.

'It was a long book.'

'You're a slow reader.' She put more emphasis into her grasp around your neck. 'I'll wait.'

You kissed her harder. She leaned into it, her weight shifting. You ran your hand along her spine, each vertebra viscerally real under your fingers.

'Bed,' she said.

'The couch.' You insisted back.

'The couch was fine before.' She extended her hand. 'Get up.'

You took her hand. She pulled you up, stronger than she looked, and led you down the hallway past the books and the blue tape.

Every door in her apartment was slightly open, every one. The front door had been open when you arrived. The bathroom a crack open. And the bedroom door at the end of the hallway, not enough to see inside but enough to say I didn't close this, I left it for you, I left every door tonight slightly open. She really put her all into this.

You pushed it open. The bedroom was enormous. More windows, floor-to-ceiling, more city. The bed was wide and low and white and half-unmade, as if she inhabited just a part of it and that was the only unmade part. The way light pooled across made it look like art.

She stood in the doorway behind you.

'I wasn't expecting you to come. By the way.'

'We've done this bit.'

'We'll keep doing it. It's a good bit, it's unbelievable, really.' She replied back with a grin.

She walked past you to the far side of the bed. Her side. Looked up at you across the white expanse of sheets. In the window-light from the city her skin held a blue tint, a coolness, and the shadows found the hollows of her collarbones and the ridges of her shoulders and the way she demurely held her forearm to barely - just barely - cover her nipples and the line where her underwear met her hip and you stood there in plaid boxers at the foot of a stranger's bed in a building you'd never been in, in a neighborhood you'd never visited, and the feeling was vertiginous, the feeling was standing at an altitude you hadn't expected.

You got on the bed. Crossed it on your knees. She just sat there on the edge, and when you reached her you put your hand on the side of her face, thumb on her cheekbone, fingers in her hair, and tilted her face up toward yours. 

You caught her lips gently. 

'I was invisible - ' you kissed her again. Seeing her lips unspooled, accelerating, each clause folding itself into each velvety note - it's unendurable.

She grabbed the back of your neck with both hands and pulled you down and you went. Onto the white sheets, into her side, her body warm and real and breathing hard against your mouth. Legs wrapped around and her heels pressed into the backs of your thighs and it was totality: every square inch that could touch was touching, and through the thin two fabrics that were quickly becoming redundant - touching, rubbing, all-wet. 

'You're a fast reader all of a sudden.'

'I found a good book.'

She laughed into the kiss. Her hands went to the waistband of your bxoers and yours went to her hips and the last of the fabric came off in this artless, graceless way where your boxers got stuck on your thighs and she had to stop kissing to stare down for a visual indicator of how 'off' your boxers were, and you did the same, less gracefully, maybe fully ripping her panties off, it didn't matter: two people are just trying to get to each other and cotton is in the way. That way. It's all-becoming.

It was all skin. On these white sheets, you pressed into the honey of her body, her neck, her wetness gathered the underside of your shaft. You pressed deeper and Gawon groaned with pleasure, she bit the skin of her index finger as you pressed deeper - not yet penetrating; shifting your hips into languid strokes that teetered on her wet folds; this perfect muffled sigh of wet flesh. And her pelvis began moving, just so, just so - her velvety folds molding on the underside of your shaft. 

'Condom.' You groan, you barely get out. Her pussy's choking you - choking every nerve of yours that even a bundle of syllables becomes harder than everything to get out…

' - don't have - ungh.'

And this is where the moral calculus begins: you're inside of her home, you didn't bring anything except yourself - she's partial to how you are you and that got you in her bed, rubbing your cock against her pussy - and now you haven't the grace to even have a condom on you. Shame, shame!

Gawon held the back of your neck again, and whispered, as low as her fucked-up nerves allowed: 'it doesnt matter, it doesnt matter, i dont even care if you come inside.'

And so this is the dilemma: what is the point of this moral calculus if she doesn't care about anything but you? You are you and you can fuck me like that. That you're gonna enter her with no barrier, that you might even come and paint her cervix and she'll allow that? 

The lips of her sex, plump now, parted and glid against the rigid length of you again. Smooth, soft, some silky resistance. with each grind the delicate hood of her clitoris would catch - just a bit - and tug against the base of you, drawing a sharp gasp from that was swallowed by your mouth. [1]

[1] To the unimaginative mind, she's saying every word in the dictionary to deal with her own orgasm on the precipice, you're bringing her over the edge, then pulling her off that cliff and then dropping her lower. Sadistic!

She was so wet, a slick dew that gathered and spread. Your own flesh pressed and straining upward - schlick schlick and some oh fucks - into the slick groove of her. The crown of your shaft, would catch the edge of her opening with each roll, nudging, spreading her apart, breaking her apart - that cliff she's barely an ankle above the falling line. And the only sound is this moist squelch of two sets meeting and parting, meeting and parting, the sticky-softness of condensation building between bodies making parting from skin harder - colder.

Her hands tightened on your shoulders, and she said. 'Fuck me. Please'

'But'

'I don't care, I'll carry your baby.'

You entered her. Her breath caught halfway, the arch of her back that was processing just the tip. You listened to the arch calm down. Pressed forward in increments. Felt her open around you in degrees, accompanied by these desperate mewls against your collarbone. You kissed her ears and entered deeper into her. 

She shook and vibrated and lost her voice when you were fully inside her. You held still, forehead to forehead, and her mouth was slightly open, breathing in - something that had nothing to do with lungs.

'Okay?' you said.

She opened her eyes, they were glassy and enormous and so close you could see yourself in them.

She pulled on your shoulders, and gave a wavering kiss that broke when you pulled out inch-by-inch. You moved and her hips, tilted just a little, meeting you part-way. Her hands slid from your shoulders down to your back, fingernails digging deeper - it was pain for another morning. 

You hit her deeper and faster, into her slick-strung insides that grasped and clung and slid. And she was speechless, she tried - opening her mouth to let out words that didn't form. You repeated these thrusts, her hands went back around her pillow, breasts jumping in-parallel your thrusts, her neck-line taut and catching the blue night.

She got louder, these girlish moans that grew more frequent, closer together, overlapping. But her hips moved faster - and at one point you had to catch up to her! - and the bed frame creaked luxuriously - aristocratically, this creak of expensive joinery under unexpected strain. And she said, of all things, 'the bed's recording this too' and you laughed into her mouth.

You felt her intensify in the particulars - the way her eyebrows strained and the muscle of her arm strained as she grasped the pillow tighter than before, you caught one nipple in your mouth between the thrusts - now obscenely automatic - you kissed the curve of her top breast, the upper-top of it, then even higher, and she giggled: 'you're gross'. So you bit down just a tad, another girlish yelp before you went straight back to her mouth. 

'Don't stop,' she said. Barely audible. 'Don't - '

'I'm - '

The orgasm ripped through her entire body. First at the hips: light spasms that halted the moment the orgasm travelled up her spine, then the reality of it: her mouth let out the syllables 'I'm cumming' as if wasn't the most obvious little thing. And she let out this fractured exhale, all-ragged, breaking, on something - could've been your name.

Her legs shook again. Her folds squeezed and you could feel it around your cock. Her thighs were tight around your waist. 

'Keep going.' She said.

'I should - ' Well you should stop. Anything more and you'll -

Her heels pressed deeper into the small of your back. 

You buried your mouth in hers, tonguing at her before you entered all the way to the hilt, kissing her cervix. Your bodies were damp now, hints of citrus, coffee by the bedside, the smell of sex and orgasms in the air. You moved faster and she was mouthing these fragments - yes and there and I've got you and stay. and that's what you did, thrusting into her, grasping at her breasts, fucking into her pussy, bruising her cervix, crushing her like she wanted you to. 

Then you felt it, the ultimate urge to let loose. You pulled out as quickly as you could, the slick of her pussy connected the head of your cock by a strand and you fisted your cock until you blasted all over her belly. Drops of your cum had landed on her folds, glazed, pink and white and honey. 

It was an emergency obviously, and yet, she pressed her fingers into her pussy, bringing her fingers up, testing the elasticity of the fluid and pressing it on her tongue - tasting it - before pushing the rest into her folds.

for fuck's sake this woman is gonna end you. You fell to her side, breathing hard as she was, ribcages expanding in and out in this atmosphere of heat and sex.

'Still there?' Her fingers traced the area where your heart was.

'Still there.'

'Good. I need you alive.'

'That's the bar? Alive?'

'For you, sure, that's the only requirement - everything else is a bonus.' Her finger traced a circle on your chest. 'Some bonuses are more generous than others.'

'Are you grading right now?'

'It's a… holistic evaluation.'

'And?'

'Above average.'

'Above average. I swear you were crying from pleasure.'

She slapped you lightly on the shoulder, 'Better than average. Statistically anomalous, even. I'd need a larger sample size to confirm but the preliminary data is -' she rolled over to your side, thigh on top of your thigh, a kiss on your shoulder, 'substantial.'

'You're making dick jokes in bed.'

'It was intended to be statistical. The phallic interpretation is entirely yours. I can't control where your mind goes.' She kissed your collarbone. 'But yes.'

You laughed and she turned it into a kiss on your lips. And she settled deeper, burrowing, pressing into you the way she pressed open books into damage.

'I'm not leaving, just so you know,' she said.

'I can tell.' You tried to move a leg and she tightened her grasp.

'I happen to want to be exactly here where I want, so I'm not moving. I'm a barnacle.'

'How romantic.'

'Really, I'm a romantic person. I write letters about imagining a cut-up version of you on trains; that's the Gawon experience, you signed up for this.'

You wrapped your arms around her, the whole ridiculous barnacle arrangement, her legs knotted in yours, her arms cinched around your ribs, her face buried in your chest.

'You're mine,' she said. 'I don't care that it's been an hour and a letter and two beers. You're mine. I'm keeping you.'

'Obviously.' She tightened her grip. A full-body squeeze, every limb. 'And now I'm fused to your chest in my own bed at two in the morning and you're inside me and I'm on earth. I'm on the ground. I'm so on the ground right now.'

'I'm floating. Just a little. Not too much.' You reply.

She held you, her heartbeat on your ribs. Your hand in her hair. Her breath on your skin in a rhythm that was calming. Gentle inhales and exhales.

'For the record,' she murmured, eyes closed now, words going soft, 'the preliminary data really is exceptional. The sample size issue stands. We'll need to replicate. Repeatedly. For scientific integrity.'

'How repeatedly.'

'Extensively.' A pause. Her voice almost gone. 'Longitudinally.'

'That's another -'

'Go to sleep.'

She fell asleep on top of you, on you; the full weight of her, which was not much, which was less than you expected, but which pressed you into the mattress with a force that had nothing to do with mass and everything to do with the fact that she was here and real and breathing gently into your chest. Her cold feet pressed against your shins. Still cold, even now, even after everything, as if her feet existed in a separate climate zone and no amount of anything could fix it.

A/N: So I'm back! I've actually been doing great. I know absence is a bit of a bad sign but honestly this year has been shaping up to be my best ever (my prime!!!). I have a lot of time in my hands and it turns out that the stress (from other factors) was actually fueling my output last year. So this year: low cortisol poasting... thanks to everyone that waited!!

About the work: this is part 1 of a 30k. I decided that the second part needed a lot of work. I might upload it a few weeks later or months later... we'll see.

Also apologies for the wonky formatting. Obsidian markdown does not translate well to a direct copy-and-paste it seems. I might edit it in the future but i wanna get this stinking mess out already!!!

[barnacles34]

DADAIST

sohyun x male reader

1.3k boner fueled haze with sideward philosophical considerations.

a/n: This might be the dirtiest thing I've ever wrote lmaoooo, randomly wanted to write today. Also, I decided the mechanics of typing quotation marks is just annoying... let me know if it's too hard to read. It's so much easier for me if I can write like this T-T

-

Daddy, she mewls.

Hands in your lap.

There's no sympathy for her. You're in this cramped bathroom with her, your groin pushed up to her face, and all she can say is: Daddy.

Open your mouth

Through the small opening in her mouth, you slot in a finger, trace the lower lip and upper lip - gather spit from the tip of her tongue to glaze her lips.

Wider. You say.

She's just sitting there, rubbing her thighs together - like she isn't so fucked and slippery in her underwear that just a small touch could make her cum - that you pressing a finger into her mouth - letting her throat close around that digit - wouldn't make her burst into decibels and let the whole town know that you - her dependable assistant - is fucking her dumb.

She's doing this to prove that she's listening - that she can be... good. Her own idea of being better for you - this twisted idea. She's staring at how you unbutton your pants. Button by button, all the way until your cock's out half-mast diagonal to her face and she's fucking drooling. Slowly moving forward and you pin her head to the wall of the bathroom stall.

How do you want this dick?

Like how you fucked her.

And this 'her' is the mystical idea - Sohyun thinks you fucked that other girl so much better than you fucked Sohyun. That in her twisted world, the way you fucked Sohyun wasn't the same as that girl.

And you keep telling her:

You think I'm not enjoying every moment with you? That day, we fucked like lovers. You cup her cheeks with one hand and her glazed lips point out duck-like. I'll show you what I like.

You bundle two fingers - index and ring - down her mouth, until her throat closes and she half-gags. Eyes fill with these tears and she tries to straighten herself. All the while, your fingers are still down there, and it makes it hard for her breathe but -

She's fucking climaxing, barely keeping her hands on her lap. A breathless moan escapes her and you take this opportunity to let your fingers in deeper. Her chest jerks, a tear goes down her left cheek as your knuckles bump her teeth.

Roughly: good girl.

White-knuckled against her spit-trickled dress shirt that won her millions in lawsuits. Just then, you pull your fingers out, and she finally gets to swallow down.

There's this unscrupulous contradiction you keep thinking about: you read about the dadaists and about how they contradict everything they see and you thought: what a bunch of fucking clowns. About how the world's at peace and the dadaists would actually want war rather than peace and all of it was so incorrigible - so unfathomable. Until you met Sohyun, this trailblazing lawyer in need of an assistant who would do her grunt work. The internship experience seemed great and all but the days were hell. An attitude that betrayed her beauty (or supported it). By the 3rd week you were telling your parents that you'd rather become a line cook than anything ambitious, anything that could take them out of suburban mortgage hell. Then the day after that you came inside her and everything crumpled.

Your spit-slick fingers wrapped around your cock and you fisted it gently, just inches away from her mouth. She couldn't help but move forward, but you pin her head again and she's completely mindless - obeying any mechanic of hers that'll grant her a feather of stimulus. You tap your cock against her tongue. You could see the way her lips twitched to close, but she seemed to contextualize enough context to know that anything that you didn't allow would be swiftly punished. And maybe now everything was dawning on her:

That you enjoyed sex with her rather than the opposite - that sex may not be just about desperation and grisly bounces and broken penises (oh the horror!) and hoarse-broken throats. That it's supposed to be as intimate as the day you came inside her.

Because this? This was heady, broken, and embarrassing - and all of it was happening in her own office bathroom that she shares with subordinates. One mistake and she's kicked off the ladder. And yet:

I want all of it. I want it. I want it.

You could see how her cloudy eyes mechanized - she was about to cum again - you let your tip on her tongue and she's already around the cycle again. You press the heft of your shaft into her mouth and push in gently. Push in gently because she already came, push in gently because you want to savor - for a few moments longer - how she crumples under you.

You're gentle with it, letting her set the pace, letting her get breaths between strokes. She anchors herself, and this control you give her makes her shiver - even the way her throat clenches when she goes too deep has that particular tremor.

She pulls back to breathe, a strand of saliva still connects your tip and her lower lip. And she's staring at the corded red-tipped shaft, speechless.

Stand up

She does, her skirt crumpled just a way's up. She's expectant, wanting something. But this wasn't a day for her wants.

You grab the waistbands of her panties and nylon, pull it down midway and her pussy's just glistening - all-pink, heady, musky, almost pulsing.

Hold your skirt up

And she does, further surrendering to your hand around her throat. And everything was a bit clearer:

You began fisting your spit-slick cock again, pointed down to her panties. Another embarrassing and heady position she can't seem to get enough of: Her eyes are full of will-you's and wants that she can't act on. You press a thumb over her pulse - grunting more hunch-backed trying to not spray your cum too early - and you tighten, tighten until she grips your forearms and loses her breath for just a second - then you release. There's this rush of inhales and exhales as she catches some air and you repeat it - until, just until, you press harder than you've done before and you cum all over her panties. Cloudy liquid dotting her skirt, the floor, the nylon , the front of her pussy, and all over the panties.

Fuck.

Is all she says, can say. You pin her jaw to the side so that she can't look at you, only the door, the cruel door that may open for a coworker - and you jolt closer, scooping a bit of your cum and letting two fingers enter her just then. And she's already climaxing, screaming in her own hand.

This is what happens when I do what I want.

Your nose is buried into her exposed throat and your fingers throttling her pussy. your callused hand scraping the hood of her clit, your hooked finger rubbing that spot that makes her legs splinter half-way. You take your fingers out and mash the front of her pussy with the heel of your palm before going into her again. She's rolling with how your cum-slicked fingers penetrate her.

Her body finally gives out and that's when you hug her, your fingers still slotted into her.

In truth, I can't fuck you the way I fucked her - whatever mystical conception of you have of her. Your fingers finally slow their rolls. I want to enjoy my time with you, not treat you like trash.

And her reply, as best as it could be presented: a wet kiss, hands wrapped around you, grasping the hair behind your head.

Her kiss fluttered gently as you finally let her have one final climax.

I love you.

a/n: let me know if yall want the au I came up with that sets the background of this story lmao.

[jmuns-kpop]

The Birds and the Bees

~Twice's Nayeon (x Male Reader), Smut, 2.1 k words, Oneshot

A/N 1: PLEASE DON'T JUDGE ME

A/N 2: Another one shot and PURE bfh. Written in like 2 hours. Please see author's note 1

My apologies, dear reader, but this is not a story about the birds and the bees. There will be no perverse penetration, no repulsive reproduction, not even a smidge of foul fetus making.

It will, however, be raucous enough to feature other such deplorable acts, the likes of which I shall keep you oblivious— for story purposes, thank you very much.

---

The lecture hall stood empty, projector humming as it shined rays of blue onto the empty screen. Even Professor Hark had left, rolling his eyes.

Save for two, of course. You, the undergrad student with certainly not enough time to be conversing about stupid things, and Nayeon, the TA who happily indulged in conversations less than intellectual.

You leaned back in one of the shitty plastic chairs the architect of this establishment deemed studious. “Oh, come on. You think it would be better to be a bee? What the fuck would you do as a bee,” you said in that tone you always took, the one that egged her on.

Nayeon crossed her bare legs on Professor Hark’s soft wheely chair, still a respectable distance away from the first row of desks you sat at. “Save the world? Bees pollinate a third of the world’s crops. What do birds do?” She asked, raising her eyebrows.

Always coming with facts. Arguing with your TA wasn’t always easy. Not that you’d ever let that stop you. “Birds umm— keep the seed population in check. Probably.”

“They eat worms and poop.”

“Better than what bees eat! Isn’t honey like, their own vomit?”

“You don’t like honey?” She asked.

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not what I said.”

“Then what are you saying?” She uncrossed her legs, skirt way too short for what a TA at a respectable university should’ve been wearing.

“That I’d rather be a bird than a bee,” you said shortly.

“That’s your premise. You haven’t given me any supporting arguments. Just like that paper you handed in last week. Didn’t I tell you? You need to show your work.” She said in that playful voice she always used.

You stuttered. She had a point. That big C on your last paper wasn’t an outlier for you, it was an average. “Well— just ask the tutorial next week. I’m sure they’d agree with me.”

“Still not arguing anything,” she rolled her eyes. “Just admit it, I won.”

You sat up straighter in your chair, unwilling to give in. “Well— you didn’t show your work either!”

“I gave you statistics showing why bees are important for the earth,” she smiled, challenging.

“That still doesn’t show why it would be better to be a bee. We’re arguing experience, not impact!”

“So, your argument then, is that eating worms is better than eating honey?” She eyed you with that look, challenging yes, but also something else. Something that signaled fire.

“I-It—,” you stuttered.

Nayeon stood up, long bare legs glowing in the fluorescent lights of the classroom, top 2 buttons of her shirt unbuttoned revealing her alluring cleavage. You tried to peel your eyes off of her, but her long flowing hair and even longer legs made that impossible. “Here’s my thesis: eating as a bird is worse,” she said slowly, grabbing the apple from the desk that always seemed to be there. She took slow, long strides towards you. “Now let me show my work,” she mocked, taking a bite from the fruit.

She chewed it long and slow, exaggerating every chomp of her teeth. The hypnotizing movement of her hips as she strutted towards you stopped whatever half assed argument you were coming up with.

She stopped at your desk, towering over you as you sat. She let the crunch of the apple talk for her. She was close— closer than she had ever been to you, closer than any TA should have been to their student.

She swallowed with exaggeration, letting out a soft gasp. Her large round eyes peered at you from above in excitement. “How about it?” She teased, raising the apple back to her mouth. She took a soft, slow bite. Slow enough you could see her lips enclose on it, see the bit she took swirl as her tongue moved it inside of her mouth.

You sat there shocked, mouth agape. You knew what she was insinuating, knew what came next, but god fucking dammit it was crazy. She was going to feed you like a bird? Here? Right after class?

Your remarks were snuffed as your mouth instinctively opened— not by much, maybe half a centimeter. She noticed. A light gleamed in her eye, mouth now closed, cheeks full. Like this, she kind of looked like a chipmunk. Or a bunny. Yeah, a bunny.

A hand on your shoulder, leaning down low so you could see her cleavage. Yup. You were fucked. Her eyes stayed locked on yours as her lips hovered over your own. This was all too much. Resolve now gone, you tilted your head back, mouth opening even wider.

Nayeon smiled through the apple still lodged in her mouth; then she released it, right into yours. Strings of saliva dropped, connecting the apple in your mouth to hers.

It tasted sweet and warm and unmistakably Nayeon. She stayed there, hovering too close, watching you.

All this over a fucking argument. All this to prove it would be better to be a bee. But right now, without a shadow of a doubt, you wouldn’t be anyone but yourself.

It was mushy, so much so you could’ve easily swallowed it. But you let it sit there. You held it in your mouth as Nayeon hovered over you.

“See? It’s gross,” she said, smiling like she’d won. Her hand was still on your shoulder, her body leaned over and trapping you.

You finally swallowed, letting out a relieved huff of air. Your breath shook, probably not from the lack of oxygen.

Nayeon’s breathing started to match your own, this unspoken tension between you two, between student and TA. All coalescing into an apple, a bird and a bee.

Your eyes flicked to her lips. “S— still better than a bee,” you stuttered, leaning your face closer to hers. Nayeon’s hand on your shoulder tightened and her lips parted slightly. “I wouldn’t mind eating like this— easier that way.”

Her chest rose and fell with her breathing. An amazing sight, seeing her cleavage bounce with every heave of her chest. Her cheeks were a light red, and when she grabbed the apple and took another bite, her movements were quick and efficient.

She chewed it, before aggressively taking your lips in hers, transferring the apple to you. You let it sit there once again. A hand left your shoulder, tracing down your chest through your shirt, down to your waistband.

“Are you… hard?” She whisper-laughed. But the mush in your mouth left your answer a jumble of sounds. She covered your mouth with a finger, shushing you. “Just chew,” she huffed, sliding your waistband down.

Your cock sprang free, throbbing already. You flexed it as you felt the cool air on your pelvis— and then a hand. Nayeon’s eyes never left yours, but her hand sent a jolt up your spine.

She sat in the seat next to you, shifting you so she was cradling you with one arm. It was humiliating, to be in this position with Nayeon, the TA you’d been bantering with for the whole term. So why you let it happen, with chewed up apple in your mouth no less was a mystery.

Her hand slowly worked up and down your shaft in teasing rhythms, sending shudders through your body. But Nayeon just held you, eyes locked on you, noting every reaction your body showed.

Her fingers felt like chains. She expertly released whenever you bucked your hips up, absolving you from the pleasure. And all the while she sat there, smiling.

“Swallow,” she said softly. You gasped as the mush pushed down your throat. “Ho— holy shit, Nayeon.” You huffed, body squirming under her touch.

Every throb of your cock was painful, but her hands kept working. Every nerve in your loins screamed at a thousand percent, pleasure unimaginable.

“See,” she mocked, but her breath too grew ragged. “Not a good experience.”

You tried to sit up, but the bliss on your penis proved too much. You could only lie there in her arms.

“Now that I showed my work, can you admit that I won?”

“W— we still haven’t proved the bee e— experience isn’t worse,” you managed, even through her strokes.

“Too bad we don’t have honey.”

“Nngh!” You groaned as her thumb brushed your tip. “N—no, but… maybe we can get some nectar?” You chanced.

She rose an eyebrow at you in recognition, a sly smile creeping on her face.

“Extracting nectar isn’t easy,” she breathed. “Especially when it’s flower blooming season.” But you felt her knees shift under you, unmistakably spreading her legs.

Her hand left your cock, and the absence of it felt like drowning. They fiddled between her legs, before she raised them in front of you. Her fingers were covered in moist slickness, strings of her own viscous liquid coating her fingers.

She shoved them into your mouth. With an ‘oomph’, your tongue lapped it all up. Thick and sticky, you let it coat your mouth as her hand went back, collecting more of her nectar. She shoved more into your mouth before returning to your cock.

You bucked your hips at the return of her hand, savouring her all the while. It had that taste— not exactly sweet, a bit metallic, but undoubtedly addicting. You swished it in your mouth as her hand picked up the pace.

Finally, you swallowed. You almost couldn’t believe how long you had lasted. You could feel your cock pulse in her hand, feel how wet her hand was with your precum.

“What’s the conclusion?” She asked through heavy breathes. “Did I argue my thesis well enough?” Her voice was hoarse and quick, despite the academic language she was employing.

Despite squirming at nearly every twitch of her hand, “I think— the argument is flawed,” you got out.

She raised her eyebrow playfully. “Oh?” She gave you a few playful stroked.

“Nng— yeah. I-it assumes I’d want to switch in the first place.” You groaned.

“It’s a would you rather,” she rolled her eyes.

“I know, but,” you breathed. “I just think humans have it down— the whole feeding thing.”

She let out a dry laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You mind if I show my work?” You eyed her cleavage, still so close to you.

She gave you a few brushes on your tip. “You’ve finally learned,” she smiled. Pushing her chest forward, she pushed her top down, revealing her chest. Perfectly pink nipples twinkled in front of your eyes. You’d tasted a modicum of things up until this point, but this was possibly the most alluring.

You latched onto her nipple. She groaned as your tongue flicked it, her hand moving faster on your cock.

Yeah, you were right. Human’s had it down. It didn’t matter that you were still in the lecture hall, or that she was your TA and you her student. These were your primal instincts, the things every creature, no matter how small, were blessed with. Feeding.

Who said it had to be animalistic?

She cradled your head, eyes closed, head rolled back in pleasure. You too were reaching your limit, the pleasure growing to a peak.

You felt her nipples harden in your mouth, could hear her moans. In contrast to the apple and even her nectar, the taste of her flesh was welcome. Such smooth and supple skin, it was nauseatingly beautiful.

Her hand worked faster and faster until your pelvis grew tense. She felt it, squeezing you harder, until your mouth left her tit as you groaned.

You spilled your jizz in a burst of pleasure, unsure of where it even landed, You just knew Nayeon’s hand was covered in it, still pumping.

You kept cumming, waves of pleasure slowly dissipating.

Your breathing steadied. Then you realized the situation as the post nut-clarity settled in.

You sat up quick, nearly jumping off Nayeon’s lap.

“What the fuck!” You screamed. “Y—you fed me like a bird!”

Nayeon looked around herself in shock, cheeks flaring red. “W—why did you let me do that!” She yelled.

“You were the one who talked about fucking— experience or whatever!”

Nayeon’s flushed breathing evened out as she took everything in. “That was you! But I—I mean I guess we settled it,” she reasoned. “Yeah, human. Humans have it better.”

Yeah, no arguing that.

---

A/N 3: Yeah i have no idea see author's note 1

Small picture.

[gangplanksorenji]

yearning, etc.

Pairing: LE SSERAFIM’s Eunchae x Male Reader

Word Count: 5,729

A/N: Another unexpected fic from the orange and GOD maybe y'all are seeing the pattern here but genuinely, these are all coincidences. tried to write this under a day and i hope y'all liked what i cooked even though it got sloppy. have a great ahead and enjoy reading!

--------------------------------------

--------------------------------------

Yearning. Definition: A noun, a feeling of an intense longing of something or someone.

That fits to the first words of the text message popping up in your notifications, reading the words of you’ve got to be here, im really waiting for you.

You can’t ignore that, not when it’s Eunchae that texted you that and it’s sincere.

The both of you have decency at least, and Eunchae knows that. You wouldn’t just pull into her hotel room and do the deed there before the show begins—no, you don’t want that and she doesn’t want it either. 

It’s been four hours—nearly five, if your math is right—since she sent that message and you don’t know how to answer it, and left it in read. You’re just hoping she’s not breaking her trust in you as it’s mutual, and waiting for everything to be over before fulfilling whatever Eunchae wants, what she really yearns for.

“Everything good, sir? You seem nervous.” The driver asks, as he carefully roams around the streets of Paris.

“Yeah, just, you know—Eunchae, she’s looking for me.” The anxiety in your tone is evident, as you just shrugged it off and made yourself confident enough to face Eunchae soon. 

The driver laughs as he reassures you a little, lighting the mood up a little. “I know she would be happy to meet you, just watch out on creating a damn controversy—the cameras can catch anything so you just need to be nonchalant as we leave the vicinity.”

You nod and smile, thanking the driver’s advice and possibly, the words of wisdom. “Thanks.”

It’s just a couple of turns before you fetch Eunchae as the driver says, so you compose yourself to be presentable and even hide your identity as much as you can, avoiding suspicion as a ding on your phone averts your attention, and it was Chaewon.

kim_ssamachi - 16:32 — “Better treat her right, dummy.”

Yeah, you should do just that or you’ll be a dead man to their leader.

You can see that familiar white frame in the distance, revealing such curves and that outfit accentuates her beauty, all throughout. You’ll say this now, the media didn’t do her justice with the way she looks incredibly gorgeous in person (as the other people online say, you’ll wholeheartedly agree with them).

As the car slowly decelerates to a complete stop, you see such a beautiful woman waving her fans goodbye, before somebody assists her to get on the car. Then, both of your eyes meet as you can feel your heart racing, exchanging smiles that will last until the end of the night. You’re allured with the sight of her, but in order to keep this secret, you compose yourself, a faux class under pressure.

“You look great, Eunchae.”

“So are you.” She replies, beaming a smile as the door closes, then the car moves swiftly in the right pace.

As the car traverses slowly down the narrow roads and onto the highway, the driver asks, “To your place, ma’am? Or to—”

Respectfully and eagerly, Eunchae replies, “To his place, rather. Thank you, driver-nim!”

Then, there she goes, ultimately whipped for you as she places her hands onto your thighs, then the other reaches to unbutton your top as you stop her because this isn’t the time, yet. “Slow down, Eunchae—don’t you even want to talk about how everything went?”

“Everything went great! But please~” The switch on her exposes your Achilles’ heel, not to mention the way she’s staring at you—those full, doe-eyes shining in need, an utter need to feel you. “Please, I need this.”

She does. She really fucking does and you should get yourself ready.

“Can’t contain it, Eunchae? That’s surprising of you.”

“How so?” Eunchae asks, slightly rhetorical in tone as she follows, “I need you right now and I know you need me too.”

She’s right and you can’t deny it even if you say you want to. You find yourself staring at a national treasure, a monumental sight as from head to toe, she’s defining what real beauty is and how every inch of her is admirable. Your hands find the side of her waist, as you make her tiny figure face you, then continue to stare at her beautiful eyes. “Well, I really can’t deny anything because you’re right.”

Her hands find the buttons of your top, undressing it as your lips finds hers, stirring down into a passionate exchange as her taste is like a drug, insatiable and unable to let go. She tastes as great as you remember—that favorite fruity matte lipstick she uses and herself, and that’s enough to deepen the kiss, her reciprocating as her nails dig deeper to your clothed back.

You just hope the driver isn’t too distracted with the hot scene happening on the backseat, but you trust him, knowing he’s professional and trustworthy enough to keep everything a secret.

“Need it now, please…” Eunchae pleads with you, as you find her neck, peppering it with pecks as her faint moans enables you to keep on going.

“Enlighten me, Eunchae.” Another kiss on the other side, your hands finding her flexing abdomen through the white clothing. “Speak up for me, darling.”

Her hands find your abdomen, teasing your pelvis as her actions are louder than her words, finding your clothed nether region yet your hands finds hers and directed it towards your shoulders. “Speak to me, baby.”

Your words just weaken her, and it’s evident with how her ragged breaths are heard as you mark her neck, and her hands shaking and roaming all over you in need.

“Want to feel you—want you to fuck me, please.” The wanton cry was the last string, and you need to fulfill it.

Finding the edge of her pants, you zip the troublesome clothing carefully as it’s too expensive to be ruined yet it’s a gamble you’re willing to play on. Mutually, you let her undress your bottom half too but not all the way, finding your boxers as her hands skate towards the band of it, eyeing your already hard cock. “God, it’s already hard.”

You chuckle as your hand finds her panties through her unbuckled pants, teasing her and earning such a sultry moan against your lips. You now kiss her soft lips passionately while your fingers sense a familiar spot, a wet one as she finds your hard shaft, her thumb circling around your sensitive tip which elicits that moan in you.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this, Eunchae—don’t worry, I’ll give you everything you want.”

“I’ll do my best—ahh, please keep doing that…” She’s whining, knees shuddering as your fingers dug deeper into her as her assurance enables you to let yourself out. She gives your head the familiar massage, her thumb continues circling it as the rest of the length experiences her leisure strokes, pleasurable albeit painful due to the lack of lubrication.

You didn’t just come to fetch her and just leave it as it is, because you know how things will end so you came prepared.

“Lather your hand with the lube in the glovebox there, that should make things easier.” It will sure aid for a ton, if she can even get herself to lean over and get the familiar bottle when you’re eagerly fingering her wet cunt. You can just feel the throbs of her pussy with each thrust you do, adding another finger to keep the chase going as her hands shiver due to the immense pleasure she’s currently experiencing.

“Oh lord—y-you’re really good at that, fuck—just keep on doing that!”

“You’re being behind, darling.” You tease her as she hastily lathers her hand with the lubrication, not giving a damn if it stains her outfit or all over the leather seat. “Come and do the same to me too.”

If she can even rival you, because it’s going to be a challenge as you increase the pace of your thrusts, her cunt clenching every time you hit a certain spot as the wet spot becomes apparent between her clothed thighs. She starts stroking you off and this time, she’s not letting herself be controlled over you as she fights with her own arsenal, steadily stroking your cock, from top to bottom which makes you grunt as your actions start to fade a little.

Your ego says no, so you see this as a challenge and fucks her cunt like you’re proving her who is really in control.

“Fuck you—god, please—” Eunchae chokes on her own spit right after, as she maintains jerking you off through the fabric, spewing such miniscule amounts of precum, indicating that she’s enabling you too and getting yourself closer to the edge. “I’m getting close!”

“Already, Eunchae? Gosh, you really are needy.” You tease her, a borderline degradation as she doesn't care what happens outside as her focus is averted towards her high and how great your fingers feel in her messy pussy.

“It’s just your fingers—just your fucking fingers!” This side of Eunchae is unseen by many, and that’s a side worth cherishing if you’re going to be asked, because as her carnal grunts and herself being so disheveled is something that enables you to do more, and give her that.

She maintains her strokes on you albeit challenging due to how she’s currently a different person with just your digits up in her filthy cunt, and with that beautiful face debauched, you need to bless her with something else at your disposal.

Your lips find hers and unlike before, it’s messy, sloppy and downright pornographic—her tongue finds yours, dancing in-tandem as her lips devours yours, even her teeth pulling yours as the pain stings yet the pleasure behind it is the blessing in disguise. Her spit coats your chin as her princess-esque facade minutes ago stirred down to a fucked-up beauty of Eunchae, half-disheveled as she longs with your taste for every second that counts, her moans vibrating against your lips as she nears her epic high.

“That’s it—” Eunchae pulls out of your snug embrace, hissing as her strokes become idle, now directing her arms towards your neck as you make her face you. “I’m gonna fucking cum.”

“No.” You retort, which earns a puzzled face from her, masking the disappointment as you elicit those words. “I’ll make you cum if I say so. Right now, we can’t afford to mess up this outfit of yours, we’re still going outside, remember?”

“But please—” Her eyes really test you, but you’re man of your word, as patience will be the greatest virtue here. “—I can’t hold it anymore.”

You can tell, because of how wet her cunt is and how each thrust produces that squelching sound synonymical of something filthy where the other party nears euphoria. 

“No, Eunchae. We’re nearing my place too. You’re going to be my good girl and if you really are one, then I will give you everything you need, understand?”

Eunchae nods as you find her those soft lips again, but this time, the kiss evokes something passionate that’s been burning inside your hearts. You smile with her obedience, as you signal the driver something, “Please, don’t tell anyone about this, alright?”

“You’ll have my word, sir.”

God. Eunchae made you do this, and you’re willing to take the bait because of her, and you’re now going to be digging deep into your own abysmal burrow.

---

Thank god no one suspected the both of you as the publicity dives into irrelevance, feeling free and feisty towards Eunchae because as soon as you step in your hotel room as your bodyguards leave the both of you alone, you wasted no time to show how much you’ve wanted Eunchae too.

“You’re such a great kisser—oh god, please keep doing that.” As so you did, marking your territory as the porcelain skin of her neck earns a bruise-like aftermath and it’s something to let the others know who she truly belongs to. 

“I’d say you’ve improved a lot too—maybe learning a thing or two with Chaewon, hm?”

“No, don’t, please.” You continue kissing her as she moans to your touch, her voice a little raspy due to how well everything is coursing in her veins. “Don’t mention anyone today, not even my unnies—just me, please.”

You assure her that, and nodded as her hand found your lips when you pulled away, just inches away from her as her well-manicured fingers tease your lower lips and your admiration wasn't verbal as you grasp her wrists and suck onto her fingers, her moaning just to enable you more.

“Even my fingers too? Wow, you really surprised me.”

“Every inch of you is perfect, Eunchae.” You pull out of her saliva-sheated fingers to commend her, then avert your eyes to meet hers. “So that’s why it needs to be worshipped.”

“You need it too…” Eunchae inches herself near you, cupping your cheeks as she whispers near your ear. “Need to worship your cock.”

Fuck. Her voice, rightfully deep, sultry and sexy and that alone enables you to execute every fantasy in your head with Eunchae.

“Come get your wish then, darling.” You start undressing your bottom-half and only leaving your boxers on, as she gets on her knees but you insist, because there’s something that needs to be done and you’re going to be vocal with it. “But first, strip—just want those panties and your heels on.”

She didn’t hesitate, in fact, even eager to do it as it’s evident on those big eyes of hers, her gleeful smile an indication to send you her invitation. Her clothing was an easy task to undress for her, her top merely considered as one to begin with was dismantled by ease, the two bits of it off and towards the chair near and god, those sizable tits are there for you to gawk over.

“Interesting outfit, ain’t it, Eunchae?”

“Yeah…” She continues undressing herself as she reaches for her pants now, still initiating the talk with you. “Stylist-nim was really great with this. A little revealing and I hope everybody liked this.”

You compliment her, genuinely. “Every outfit you carry becomes beautiful, Eunchae—you look gorgeous here.”

It is, and the mass media will concur with that statement. Eunchae blushes right after, chuckling a little as she finds herself in a smooth flow of movements, successful with the way she undresses everything and towards the chair, a piece of clothing worth a fortune now discarded somewhere like it’s just normal clothing. 

With everything almost off, it’s like seeing a perfectly-sculpted artwork chiseled by the gods above, and they had bestowed you the best there is as every curve of her is beyond perfection—generally, maybe it’s subjective but you don’t give a damn because Eunchae is perfect in every way.

She inches towards you as you admire her body, from head to toe but then, you know she needs to do what she’s intended to do. “God, you’re perfect, Eunchae.”

She just smiles as she sinks down, on her knees as she discarded your boxers on the way down to your ankles, and you can just see how the mood lights up as she sees her deserved prize right in front of her. She wastes no time as the foreplay would be gone, down the gutter as with just a few, livid strokes she dives right in and keeps herself attended, taking you in half-way. She does what she’s best at, bobbing her head up and down your shaft as her hand finds your thighs, hugging it gently as she devours your entire length right after, gagging then pulling out.

“You gotta chill, Eunchae—we’re going to be here all day so just—god, okay, nevermind.” She cuts you off with her heavenly mouth, those lips hugging every inch of where her limit is as her head dictates the pace, moderate with each stroke as her hand finds your balls and she knows what to do with it.

If you got her fucked up earlier, then she’ll give back what she received.

Eunchae’s suction in each three bobs or two is immaculate, albeit feeling a little off with the way the serrated culprit in her mouth provides that little pain. It didn’t even matter when her lips are such a perfect fit as an invitation for your cock to wring pleasure out on, and her mouth becoming a great outlet to let yourself feel in cloud nine. You find those dark-colored locks as an outlet to fight the pleasure and Eunchae sees this as a step closer to something great, and that alone made her up the ante.

“Keep that pace, Eunchae—shit, you’re doing really great, baby.” As she oscillates a little more, she pulls out as she directs her eyes towards yours and now worships the very thing she loves.

She pecks everything her lips can touch while maintaining that deadly eye contact to you as she averts her attention towards your shaft, continuing with the worshipping as her tongue licks what it can touch too, and earns a little shiver on your thighs.

“Do I feel good? Am I doing good for you?” 

Ultimately, she is doing a stupendous job at it albeit not perfect—it doesn’t help that your expectations are heightened due to Yunjin’s incredible expertise when it comes to blowjobs, but Eunchae isn’t falling off too much either. You reassure her that she’s indeed doing a great job at it as every grunt you elicit is a message to let her know how good she’s doing you. She alternates between her bobs and kisses, making sure every inch is lathered with her spit and blessed by her touch, tasting every inch as she slurps at it like it’s her favorite meal—for sure, it can be considered as one at this point with the way she slobbers over you and gawks over your length.

She never stops her oral assault up on your dick, as more seconds flow in the state of time, the more depraved the scenes get and it’s just getting started.

Eunchae looks more disheveled than ever before and it's a debauched sight you’re grateful to see seldomly—her drool a mess all over her chest and her neck, her makeup running down her cheeks, her hair an utter mess and a pool of juices onto the floor. Every filthy fantasy that has been running in your mind becomes true in a matter of minutes as once she pulls out to worship your throbbing cock again, you hold her head by her hair, enunciating your control as you slap your soaked length all over her face, blessing her. She takes every slap across her face as something worth to fulfill for, as every time it hits her pristine skin, she moans with the feeling of it and you’re bathing to your victory.

“Look at you, Eunchae—taking my cock so well. You really are a dirty cocksucker aren’t you?”

Her eyes meet yours again as she licks the base of your length, and towards the mushroom tip, earning that audible moan from you from how sensitive she’s making you feel. “I am—I am a dirty cocksucker—thank you for this, f-fuck, I can’t ask for anything more.”

Then, she dives in again yet this time, she’s testing her absolute limits as her head bobs in a pace unimaginable, fucking herself while taking almost whole of your length and with this action alone, this is crumbling your defenses down.

Even if she isn’t vocal with it, you can tell how grateful Eunchae is with the way she does the dirty work on your cock, doing everything to her power to show you how she deserves it and how she’s going to earn the reward. She keeps teasing your sensitive head, then alternates to blow you to the point of no-return as again, you find her locks and grasp a hefty amount of it, signaling how great her mouth truly feels.

At this point, it’s building to the point where you can’t take it anymore, and you hope she notices this because you have plans.

“Get off, Eunchae—I’m fucking close.” She does what she’s told you, pulling out with a loud pop, strings of saliva still connected from your tip and on her lips.

“Uhm—I—didn’t I do good?” Her tones say it all, feigning curiosity and anxiety with thoughts running in her head when everything eliciting was all a mere joke. 

Even if she thinks she did a bad job, at your end, she never did one. In fact, you’d even say she did an impressive attempt on such a pleasurable oral assault on your cock, but then you reassure her that you have your own plans, because what is an artwork without a medium, and the paint that made the beauty possible.

“I’m just gonna paint your pretty face, darling—take it all for me, Eunchae.” You wasted no time in doing that, and she’s just there, her eyes close, tongue sticking out and ready for the taking, and that almost-naked body of hers that’s begging to be fucked.

You stroke into your high as the familiar feeling in your loins succumbs to the finale, spurting thick shots of cum towards her nose, lips, cheeks, neck and some dollops even painting her chest. Her moans possibly extend your orgasm, pumping every ounce of your seed out and towards Eunchae’s face.

“Fucking hell, Eunchae.” You grunt as her besmirched countenance earns a core memory from you, those eyes of hers feigning innocence that rivals the filth that’s all over her. She’s a brilliant girl, not even wasting a second to clean your cock off, licking every inch where you cum still settles (mostly in the tip) and fondling your balls leisurely, making sure that everything should be deposited on her face.

Well, that’s what she thought.

“Really hungry for me, aren’t you?”

“Can’t help it.” Eunchae continues her expertise, cleaning every inch possible as she faces you again. “Not when a cock this good and a cum this delicious is all there for me to savor.”

You cup her jaw, scoop a generous amount of your seed that’s on her cheek and direct it towards her lips, and as enthusiastic as her, she intends to suck every sample out of your fingers. It’s sloppy, messy, and it’s fucked up but that’s the beauty of it in this moment and as you feel like she tasted enough, you helped her get up as the main event still needs to take in place, and you can’t just ignore it when you can see the wetness on her panties.

“That was thick—god, I hope you still have something for me.”

You face her, and admire that curvy body for the umpteenth time as your ferocious strength catches her off-guard, yelping as you turn her around and commanding her arms to lean against the porcelain wall. “Of course, darling—would always be something for you because you’ve been such a good girl to me.”

The invitation is there, and her wiggling her ass was just a tease for you as she knows where this will possibly go. 

“Please give it to me now—want it inside, please…” The way she pleads is just music to your ears and you can listen to it all day, but then, you don’t want Eunchae to really be pleading all day for that.

She’s too fucking insatiable to make yourself be disciplined, so you’re just going to be diving yourself deeper into depraved territory. “Don’t worry—it’s not going to be long before my cock lives inside you for the time being, darling.”

You caress her naked top-half, caressing her sizable tits which of course, earns a moan from her and pinching those nipples for good measure. It doesn’t become long before she bends over in such an obscene angle, and that alone invites you to push it in and have your way with her.

“Have your way with me, please—want it so bad.” 

You caress her ass, as you mouthed how you’re going to fulfill what she wants as you shove her panties aside, leaving your eyes to see that glistening cunt that’s ready for the taking.

“Tell me when you can’t take it, okay?” You reassure her as your cock teases her leaking slit, and she’s already whining from need which makes your question take a few seconds before it registers on her end. 

“Okay, okay—I can take it, don’t go easy on me.”

As she wishes—you’re the genie that will grant that.

You insert it and elicit a sound from her that you’ve never heard before, and it’s crumbling you down, her dulcet tone urging you to keep your sluggish as it is. The way she hugs you is incredible, walls clenching everything you hit the spot and her repeated lewd sounds that just enables you to keep on going. You hand supports her frame by her hips, while the other caresses her neglected breasts, making sure that she’s stimulated as possible and you can see how it is really being effective.

“Please fuck me harder—please do, I can take it.” Eunchae whines right after, as you dictate a pace that’s enough to consider as something that can truly send shockwaves out of her body. The hypnotic jiggles of her back-end is truly a sight to behold as she keeps herself busy, positioning herself to stand as sturdy as she can because every thrust your hips muster is now enough to really bring her into incoherence.

You keep your pace and she keeps her vocal cords trained well, moaning angelically as the walls contain her honeyed sounds, even containing the depriving sight from the both of you. Your hands are all occupied with each of their job fulfilling the utmost pleasure from Eunchae as much as possible and now with her constant pleas to go rougher, you now introduce something that she possibly wants to experience.

“Fuck! That—that’s so f-fucking good!”

“Did it hurt? Are you good, Eun—”

“Yes, it feels fucking good! Slap me again please—oh fuck!” You fulfill her wishes, now introducing another method in making her feel the utmost euphoria, by introducing pain into the mix. Her butt prints a familiar rosy hue due to the spanks you’re delivering, as every moan she elicits, grunt you let out, skin that slaps against each other, the wet squelch of her cunt and the reverberating smacks on her ass, orchestrates that very piece of symphony that should be counted in the history books.

Each piece does its job, and it’s wholeheartedly a masterpiece.

Each thrust you do spirals her towards the edge, her heels clacking in tandem with your thrusts as there are points where she even raises her legs, and just stomps down as she’s slowly losing control of herself. You just withdraw with the tip inside and plunge back in, filling her up to hilt as the series of events repeat, and slowly, you can even find yourself on the brink of losing it too.

“God, you really are tight, princess—fuck, tell me how great it feels, Eunchae.”

It barely registers in her as it takes seconds for her to respond, and this one, is not so eloquent as before. “F-feels fucking good—ahh, god—fuck, the way you’re f-fucking me is—ow, ahh, it’s just too good! T-thank you!”

Her brain is in a haywire due to you, and you can’t stop even if you want to because the both of you can’t simply do it, even if it needs to. She eagerly assures that she’s fine and that’s all that matters, even with her possibly crumbling down, her legs in a weaker state, wobbling due to the immense pleasure she’s experiencing. You elevate the pace, and now even setting your eyes to even stimulate her more as gone are the times where you pinch her nipples to earn the most eargasmic moans possible, but not averted your attention towards that inviting asshole, puckering and loosening on every thrust you do.

“Fuck! Oh god, I—god, that feels good!” You slot your finger up that asshole of hers, pushing in and out repeatedly in a leisure pace as she seems to be enjoying it, and that alone lets you discover her limits in taking you.

“Maybe this is the next hole I’ll fuck once I’m done with your pussy, would you like that, princess?” The name makes her submit to you even more, as you fuck her all and throughout each words she say, her coherence battling the messed-up circuits in her brain.

“I don’t care anymore—fuck, uhm, as long as y-you fuck me right and give me your l-load—gosh, please.” Her wanton cries are sounds you’ll never get tired of, and with the familiar constrictions of her pussywalls on your length, you know the inevitable is coming.

“We can possibly do it someday, Eunchae, but for now—” Your fingers exit her tight, snug hole and find her clit, rubbing it as it brings her closer to the edge, your pace enough to break her in half (figuratively, of course). “Cum on this cock, princess.”

She does, and it’s a beautiful mess.

Eunchae squirts all over your length, repeatedly ramming her tightness as you fuck her through such a groundbreaking orgasm, her moans over the roof and as beautiful as it gets. In all honesty, you’re commending by how she’s still standing straight and bending over without even breaking her position at least for a single moment, and this obscene sight is now imprinted in your brain—her rightfully tall figure bending over with her heels still on, and her panties just set aside is downright pornographic, a beauty in its raw art.

You eventually slow down and pull out which earns a whine from her, where her dying seconds of her orgasm commences and it’s so fucking hot that you might even blow it right there are there, all over her redenned ass.

Speaking of that, you think that’s how you should end this monstrosity.

So, now you're considering the final play.

You insert your shaft inside her again, grunting from the tightness that envelops you but now, you want something to do that will make the experience elevated from both ends.

The pace you dictate is the same as before but this time, her mouth is now occupied with something else, your fingers and she sucking on them like how she sucked you off earlier—wanton, sloppy and needy. The vibrations of her moans on your fingers silences the whole room a little, a piece off yet the suppression turns you on even more, noticing how each indistinguishable moan elicited is just enough to throw you off. You gag her a little but she doesn’t complain but rather slobber over it more as the seconds go by. The depraved scene from the both of you is just monumental that when somebody catches the both of you, they’ll be seated for a show, and probably the people outside are getting the gist on what’s happening in your room—that’s a mere fantasy, but you could never be so sure.

You continue thumbing her asshole as your fingers pull out of her slutty mouth, now directing it towards the curves of her now sweating back, tracing every perfect inch of it as the hypnotic trance sends you into overdrive. As much as you want to prolong this euphoric feeling, the inevitable will also soon come, and she can sense the way you’re moaning her name and how it’s repeatedly throbbing inside her pussy.

“You’re gonna c-cum? Oh god, please—d-do it inside, please—” That earns a spank, and it makes her hiss from the pain.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” You gradually slow down, then pull out of her, earning another whine from her and a plea that breaks you. Any sane man would never pull out on a heavenly cunt like Eunchae’s, but there’s something in you that ignites bright seeing your cum painted all over her skin.

You’ve made your decision, and there’s nothing that she can do but embrace it as her figure remains sturdy, reading for a round two, and this time, all over her perfectly-sized buttcheeks.

“You’ll earn it someday, princess—maybe it can be whenever Chaewon comes to watch or tomorrow, who knows?” You can see Eunchae looking back over her shoulder, as she watches your wrists muster the fastest of strokes and as the inevitable comes, you release it, everything.

The plane of her ass gets painted white, plenty from the divot and of course, plenty from her inviting holes, her asshole collecting some as it constricts due to your constant teases near it. You keep pumping until every last drop is deposited all over her ass, and you’re certain that you’re completely drained as you keep yourself steady from the exhaustion as Eunchae’s in the same boat. You pull her near you, as you keep her back checked from the feeling of your soft lips peppering it with kisses, tasting the miniscule flavor of salt from her sweat and her insatiability.

“I really think you should’ve came inside me, still.”

You chuckle as the both of you meet each other's eyes again, stating such assuring words, “Like I said, maybe someday, princess—you really did a great job today.”

You peck her back, three kisses as you continue, “You looked spectacular at that fashion event. I’m sure everyone will be head over heels for you.”

“Like you…” Then, the both of you exchange laughs as the recovery period commences, yet you have plans to waste the night in Paris that is worth both your time, not just pure sex.

“I think we really need to clean up, princess.”

“We really do. Besides, there’s a lot for you to catch up on.”

You just hope these walls couldn’t talk themselves for the events that unveiled today, or the both of you will be fucked, and it’s a serious matter. Maybe no one noticed, and even if the day was young, it feels like it’s just getting started as the first play was a success. Even if she’s the youngest, you’re eager to hear her out and to follow her lead at times, and on this day, you’re curious on what she may have in store for you because this day was specifically planned to be with her, to yearn for her. 

[yieldtotemptation]

ARTHOUSE ft. Asa

asa x male reader smut

10k words

It’s becoming a habit of hers.

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

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

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

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

You don’t reply. Never do.

It’s always the same damn thing.

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

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

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

But look closer.

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

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

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

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

Wouldn’t want to spoil your girl.

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

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

You sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The things she’s telling you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daddy.”

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

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

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

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

She’s not wrong.

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

“It’s barely been a day.”

“Twenty-four whole hours.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only you knew.

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

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

And here she is again.

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

“Haven’t I been a good girl?”

Ah, fuck it.

The movie’s pretty shit anyway.

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

Asa melts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Asa makes this low, frustrated sound against your lips.

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

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

You don't let it escape.

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

She doesn't fight it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me,” you tell her.

Asa obeys instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s hooked on this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not enough. Not even close.

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

You need to see it all.

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

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

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

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

Fingers slide free, rest wet against her mound.

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

Every single person. See you fucking her completely senseless.

Real entertainment.

You shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Soon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let them have their suspicions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s the real view that hits.

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

She looks staggering.

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

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

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

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

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

You give your instruction: “Strip."

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

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

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

Just look at her.

So proud of the mess she's made.

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

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

“Fuckable, aren’t I?”

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. Hard.

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

“Brat.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then she stops.

Hands drop to her sides.

Leaves herself wide open, bare. At your mercy.

You roll your hips—just a fraction.

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

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

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

Asa’s eyes haven’t left it once.

“Can I?” she begs, shamelessly.

“Take it.”

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

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

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

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

The slide in is seamless.

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

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

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

A brand.

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

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

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

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

“Asa,” you groan against her neck.

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

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

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

“Fu—ah!”

Asa loses it.

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

Impaling her cunt like this—it’s rapture.

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

“Cumming—cumming—finally—fuck—”

It hits her out of nowhere. So fucking hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You let her.

Let her push you back just far enough.

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

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

Loud. Filthy.

The most satisfying sound you’ve ever heard.

And Asa just laughs.

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

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

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

So you make your decision.

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

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

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

Asa dives straight in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nail her in earnest.

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

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

“God damn, Asa.”

But your focus narrows to the rhythm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Need so much more from your girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She moves. Hips tilt just right.

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

Nothing but your good little cocksleeve now.

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

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

You find your pace. Grip tight on her hips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So demanding.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You drive harder. Deeper.

Chasing that white-hot snap where everything collapses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you erupt.

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

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

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

Nothing else exists. Nothing else has ever existed.

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

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

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

Your perfect idol. Dripping with your cum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It does something stupid to your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that what you want?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Look at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re all yours, after all.)

[octoberautumnbox]

To Be Young and in Love in New York City

Soloist Jo Yuri x Male reader

Categories/warnings: smut, fluff, idfk i forgor

Word count: 8.2k

~~~

In quite literally every other probable set of circumstances in the world, “Did you break up?” is not the best icebreaker for you and your girlfriend to go off on.

Yuri stops, mid-slurp of what looks to be a much more savory bowl of noodles and broth than it is, and eyes you with a warning shot. She chews hastily, swallows ungracefully, clears her throat, “We were never together,” with that uneasiness in her eyes you know means nothing good. “We didn't even kiss in the drama, you know.” She reaches down, kneads her calf, and you just let her. 

“I know,” because of course you did, “but you had really good chemistry. On the show, off the show, maybe even behind the cameras?” You pick at your California roll—a soy sauce-soaked grain of rice here, a loose sesame seed there—trying but obviously, laughably failing at laughing and passing it off as a mere observation. Her eyes are still hell to avoid: soft, or piercing, or mysterious on command, and today is no exception. Her phone isn’t a valid target either, just sitting there on the table, screen locked but facing up so it reflects your gaze every time it falls within. You have to look up, and once you do, those hellishly gorgeous eyes find yours in no time at all. She looks at you with a weird flavor of amusement, like entertaining the most ridiculous thought you’ve ever had. 

“He was nice. Tall, handsome, sweet too, at least that's what I'm told,” she huffs, trying just as hard with that smirk to keep the situation light. “Now I'll bite. Tell me, oppa, why do you ask?” Yuri leans back on her chair, arms crossing and her smirk growing just the slightest bit wider, testing the limits of what she can let herself get away with saying.

You had the nerve to ask her to this random New York noodle house for lunch, thousands of miles away from both your homes and jobs, while you’re both on vacation for Christ's sake, and ask her that as a shameful last ditch attempt at petty conversation you knew you couldn’t keep up with. “Just,” you concede with a pause that’s definitely, maybe a bit too pregnant, “just curious.” Not that it was a lie, but it’s a grave understatement—you did miss her, it looks like she missed you too, overreading the situation be damned. 

She laughs, which, mission accomplished for you. “You can’t fault me for wanting our breakup to have been worth something,” mirror her crossed arms with yours, throw back a pointed stare of your own. “You were giving up a real catch, so I didn’t want you regretting it.”

“Right, right. Sorry.” She clears her throat and wipes away the stray broth from her lips, throwing down the napkin like she was right back at home. With that same tone she always took with you, only you, “Well, if you must know, it was not worth it. At all. I mean, seriously, do you really think that he could compare?”

And there it is. It stops you both in your tracks, the tension of meeting up with an ex in a weird place after an ambiguous breakup immediately replaced by the realization that, for lack of a better term, “I don’t wanna compare,” rubbing your neck out of embarrassment more than humility, “I don’t wanna say ‘worth it.’”

Different this time, “Right, sorry. You know what I meant.” Yuri’s eyes cast down just as quick, and you find your respectfully waiting sushi on the plate right across from her gently cooling bowl of noodles. The clatter and chatter of sounds around you comforts you in a way you can’t explicitly understand, but the way her smile creeps back into her cheeks and her honest attempt at checking if what she said was okay with you means more than anything else. 

“Yeah, I know.”

Her phone lights up, breaking the ice better than you ever could, but Yuri’s face all but sours when she reads the notification. She wills the screen back to black, and flips it over this time. No more distractions. She turns back to you, hiding all the emotions from her face. Continues on, like nothing happened.

~~~

There's really no good way to describe the feeling again. It’s some parts anxious, other parts offended, yet other parts just plain relieved. Confusing is another word you’d love to use, but you’ve long accepted that everything was confusing in the face of one Jo Yuri, even if it was the last thing she wanted. She grips your arm tighter as her glasses fog up with a puff of breath gone awry. There’s a slight shiver in her fingers, dreadfully obvious even through her winter gloves, that makes its way up your sleeve and onto the arm she’s gripping onto. It’s confusing, anxious, offensive, just plain relieving, to have her on your arm like this again. 

“How’s work?” Again, not the best icebreaker, though by now you’ve gotten quite used to the awkward silences since her. What you’re not used to, unfortunately, is having her there with you. She grips tighter, not to any considerable degree, but enough for you to notice the flex of her fingers against the thick fabric of your coat. But you can feel, even without seeing the corners of her lips curve up, that she finds this more amusing than you do. 

“It’s fine,” Yuri breezes against your arm, “I’m glad to have a little time to myself before heading off to Manhattan or something,” before settling with a huff that produces a thin cloud of breath in front of her face. “What about you? You must’ve been busy too, not much time to be sitting around and missing me.” 

A moment of weakness is an understatement. What you’d give in exchange for the courage to tell her the truth that, yes, you missed her with all your heart, and that not a day on this God-given earth has passed that you haven’t wished she was right back there with you, without any or all of this complicated nonsense that you can’t bring yourself to tell her drove you two apart. Or, on the other hand, you could also say no, not one bit, you haven't even thought of her, and your password isn't your anniversary anymore, and the gallons upon gallons of midnight oil you burned at your desk at work didn’t have anything at all to do with not having her near. 

Instead, your hands ball into fists in your coat pockets. It’s for the warmth, it has to be for the warmth. There’s no particular reason why your tongue finds its way between your teeth, why the flashing digital billboards of brands you’ve never heard of suddenly seem so interesting, why the birds and chatter and the buskers singing love songs are much too loud for 3 pm. But you look to your right, see the tiny girl clung to your arm like a koala, half watching where she’s going past the crowd of people going the opposite way and the other half looking up at you. 

“You’re holding back,” she huffs, another breath-turned-fog-cloud rising up her face, though it’s just a smidge too late to hide the tiny furrow in her brow when she says it. “You never hold back.” 

Nevertheless, reassure her, “Am I? I don’t think so.” Pat the hand that clings to you, convince her that you’re okay and convince yourself harder, “I’m fine. You?”

Clearly not satisfied, (of course she’s not, not even you would buy that bullshit you just spouted), she presses: “Something’s bothering you. You think you’re so slick.” She pokes your side, in the spot you curse that she remembers is ticklish. “Fine, don’t tell me yet. But I bet you’ll slip or something. You always were,” she stops for a moment, the playful tinge in her voice flickering. “You always were an open book.”

She suddenly stops, fingers still tight on your arm, but she pulls out her phone with her free hand. She puts it to her ear, mumbles a simple “Uh-huh,” and her face does that thing again when she gets bad news. “Alright, thank you, oppa,” before pocketing it back with a sigh.

“Everything okay?” 

Not even one breath after you start, she perks back up: “Come up with me.” She tilts her head to the right, pointing at the big revolving door of the hotel she must be staying at. “My legs are tired, and it’s too cold, and everything is so loud here.”

“Oh, if you’ve had enough—”

“Come up.”

It’s one singular moment of hesitation—both yours and hers—before she pulls you along, into the lobby, past the staff, into the elevator. You almost don’t mind the eyes, human or digital or otherwise, that might catch you; you only allow yourself one of the worst palpitations you’ve ever had the displeasure of the thought of Jo Yuri being caught with some nobody not even worth a second of her time. She rushes down the hallway, avoiding eyes and ears like the expert you know her to be, until the last moment before she places her hand on a seemingly random doorknob: a man emerges from the room to the left, asking her who you are. 

“He’s new,” she says, before you realize that she was talking to you. She shoots you a new smile—a teasing one—before addressing the man this time, “He’s someone I need you to keep from management and everyone else, especially you-know-who. He’s not here at all.” The door flies open, Yuri doesn’t wait for a reply from him, shoves you in. 

~~~

Everything like old times, from the rambling about work and schedules, to how her mother and yours are doing, to fighting over the TV volume that has to be either a multiple of 2 or of 5 before ultimately settling on a crisp 30. That’s why it’s unsettling to you, creating friction somewhere deep in your chest, at the stark lack of it outside. It’s most apparent when she takes a big, lazy, manspread seat onto the sofa while you do the same on the floor in front of her, falling into step like you used to. You know things have changed, and she knows that things have changed, and that your old routines aren’t, shouldn’t, be the same as they once were. But the world is quiet, save for the TV spewing nonsense about the news or this telenovela or even this funny streamer she loves so much. You want the fighting, the interrogations between each other, the explosions of passion and yearning like the dramas—like it should be.

Instead, after the hellish couple hours of leisurely catching up like neither of you deserve, she chuckles, swings a leg over each of your shoulders, breathes out a slow sigh. Wraps a calf around the front of your neck, snuggling you between her thighs, and you place your hands right on her shin—not to remove, but simply to touch—kneading the muscles she's been complaining of soreness ever since the morning. 

Your eyes stay fixed on the TV, but watching it has long been out of your mind. The little people onscreen couldn't do anything right now to grab your attention back; now it's just on the gentle voice somewhere above and behind you, humming a familiar song as fingers run through your hair and ruffle through the liminal spaces between every strand. “Can't believe you remember we used to do this,” Yuri says, and she bends down over you, tilting your head back just a smidge with a soft tug. It's not demanding in the slightest, though you fight down the urge to tell her you would've given in if she did.

Her eyes were always so pretty. They could be soft, or piercing, or mysterious on command, but now it's nothing more than that comforting curiosity that got you to fall in love with her in the first place. It's always been the trust she had in you to be patient even to a fault, to let her go off into the wide open world as you stayed behind, to be there for her when she comes home and complains about her feet hurting as you come down to rub all the tension out once more. 

With the awkwardness only finally starting to melt away, you whisper in the most gentle tone you never knew you could muster, “This was my favorite part. I'm glad you let me do this back then,” as your fingers prod and squeeze away the spots of pain and pressure woven between her muscles, “even now.” She continues running her fingers through your hair, letting you feel the gentle strokes of her fingertips and nails against the skin of your scalp. She comes eye to eye with you, tilting your head far enough back that it rests on her lap, and she shows you that raw honesty you can tell she's been dying to show anyone. “Do you remember why we broke up?” you ask her, whispering far too quietly, scared to break this unbreakable peace you’ve already built with her. 

She sighs through a mouth curved into a sad smile. “No, it's been so long. I bet you remember, though. I must've been a bad girlfriend or something. Did I forget your birthday?” Warmth from a hand on each of your cheeks now, and the smoothness of a pair of lips right on the center of your forehead. The ends of her hair tickle your face wherever they land, but you don't mind them enough to brush off. Yuri peppers tiny pecks all over your face, and you have to let it happen. You get to let it happen. 

“Let's let that be my burden to carry. I don't blame you for not remembering.” You close your eyes slowly, receiving her love like you deserve it. On one particularly slow kiss right between your eyebrows, her smile grows a little wider, her exhale a little more forceful as she takes comfort in the tiny graces you pay her back. Your fingers continue to knead her calf, feeling the tension melt away as she grows ever more pliable under your hands, half-hoping that she doesn't realize you've been playing Fur Elise on her leg for the better part of the hour now, with the other half hoping that she does. 

And then, without warning or heed, her lips meet yours. They're just as soft as you remember, with the familiar pout you've come to memorize and, hell, even miss. She parts them slightly, takes your upper lip gently between her teeth. It's everything to you to let her have her tiny nibbles, all the while you get to love her right back. She takes the utmost care, as if handling the most fragile of glass mirrors, as she rubs her thumbs across your cheeks, feeling how corporeal and simply present you are with her. It's everything to be here again, to be hers again, to be again. It feels like an eternity and a day that you stay in her presence, taking from her without deserving, yet—

She pulls away, just for a moment, and whispers against your lips: “Here you go again with the owing me something. I know that twitch in your lips. I don’t like it.” She traces circles on one cheek, holding you steady by the other, waiting for you to settle. Waiting for you. Waiting for you. 

“You can’t not remember by now,” you chuckle, breath pushing lightly against her smile. “Tell me why we broke up. Right now. Come on,” poking and prodding at her psyche, before she breaks into that same adorable giggle that lights up the room and everything in it. 

“I said I was gonna be busy.” The way she says it is plain as day, as if it’s the simplest thing. “And you took it like ‘She doesn’t want to spend time with me anymore’ when you know it’s not that.” She rubs your cheeks again, trying to pull away the layers even though she knows it’s not you that’s hiding, “it was never that.”

“What was it then?” Keep testing her, even if you know she’ll get all the answers right anyway. The little things get lost in the noise, but not the big thing she keeps close to her heart. 

“It was,” with a pause much too short to be pregnant, “It was me saying ‘You aren’t worth the few free hours I have anymore.’ And you hated that, because who wouldn’t?” she confesses, voice shaking like old wounds were opening again. “But that’s not what I meant.”

Your turn to kiss her forehead, and the way you pull her down isn’t as awkward as you want it to be. Instead, she takes one slow glide into position, hovering right above your lips, and you don’t make her wait a millisecond longer than she needs to. “I know what you meant. But do you think I’d have ever forgiven myself if I ever got in your way?”

And then she pulls back, meeting your eyes again as if seeing for the first time the blazing galaxies behind the inky cover of night. Her smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, stretching ever so slightly, like it’s getting wider against her will. “It’s not fucking fair,” she says, gaze still locked on you, smile reaching peak width. “You make it look so easy, loving me. It’s like you’re this perfect fucking soulmate for me. How do you know me so well?”

“I,” you take a deep breath, bracing yourself for an answer that pains you to give, “I don’t know.” It’s the truth, that you don’t know how easy it was to fall for her, or why it was so simple to learn her little habits. How long she stays in bed scrolling after waking up, the number of the place she always gets her spicy marinated crabs from, her unnatural insistence that the volume of the TV has to be a multiple of 5. It’s all these little things: stuff that you and only you could ever know of her, stuff she only ever lets you see. It strikes you as every bit of odd, knowing so much about her, when all you are is some background character in the grand scheme of her life—

“I don’t get it.” Yuri’s voice shocks you back down to Earth, “You’re not the type to cry. Or hesitate. Or keep things hidden, at least from me. That’s that twitch in your lips, when you want to say something out loud but you bite it back. I don’t like it.” She thumbs your cheek again, more slowly, deliberately, “I don’t like when you don’t tell me things.”

Her phone again, this time a Kakao message judging from the notification sound. It reaches you both at the same time, but the effect it has on her is the worst yet. She shuts her eyes hard, as if wishing the message would be gone by the time she checks, and she doesn’t plan to check anytime soon. You even feel her hands get ever so slightly chillier, like it pains her to think about what that message could be. 

“You can get that if you need to.” You always had that soft spot for her, knowing where you stood in her life and when it was your turn. And of course, you were more than happy to step aside, because God forbid you, as you accidentally so eloquently put it, got in her way. 

But a fresh, warm breeze of breath hits your forehead. “That’s the second stupidest thing you’ve ever said.” Her eyes open again, and it hits you: soft or piercing or mysterious on command. Shining like the blazing galaxies that hide behind the inky blackness of the sky. All at once, the mystery of how you remember everything about her even after all this time just seems to solve itself. 

But there’s that doubt in her eyes again, when she sees your lips twitch again. “I really hurt you, didn’t I?” She’s downtrodden, and you can’t console her. Not like this. “What did I do?” 

Lie. Just lie. “Nothing, that was it.” Fight the twitch in your lip again, pretend you can hide it when she’s this close. 

You want her to let go, then say she’s busy, then pick up her phone and read it and say she needs her rest, then kick you out. But she doesn’t, even with the incessant pinging seemingly getting louder and louder. Through it all, she stares into your eyes, thumbs brushing the skin of your cheeks, trying to find any clue she can find. Instead she mumbles, “Bullshit,” focused on you. 

~~~

The TV hangs above a fake fireplace far from the foot of the bed, waiting patiently for the next time they can light back up. A newly-snuffed stick of incense fades out in its stand in the kitchen, and the far off cars and people somewhere on the busy 10-in-the-evening New York street beneath you try their hardest to throw soundwaves up that many stories and through your window to you. And her. 

She finally pulls you down, taking her with you as she descends backwards onto the fluff of the mattress. All the while, your lips never leave hers: slow kisses, fast, light, deep, and everything in between. Tongues swirl in a dance from long ago but never forgotten, somehow recalling every step of the way like you were never apart. Her breath grows heavier along with yours, vying to keep up with the heat you offer her and trying to outdo you all at the same time, when it all comes to a screeching halt; she pushes you off, keeping you only a hair's width away from her, no more and no less. 

Don’t ruin it. Don't do it. Don't say it. Don't—“So you’re not going out with him?”

And she looks up at you with those gorgeous eyes, piercing, before settling into soft, as her lips curl into a smirk that she tries so hard to fight down before failing anyway and, god forbid, laughing right in your face. You’d thought that this would happen sooner or later, but not like this. Not her comfily lying in a fluffy bed, keeping you mere millimeters from her face as she lets out a laugh from deep in her chest, at something you said that made her happy again. Once she settles, “No, absolutely not,” pulls you closer again right up until you’re fully flush against her lips. “Don’t make it hard for me now. How many more times are you gonna ask tonight?”

“Just one more,” you joke. Indulge her, even if only for this. She deserves at least one good memory—

“There you go again, that twitch in your lips. It’s distracting.” Yuri is nothing but gentle when she nudges you backward against the headboard, straddles your legs, places your hands on her lap as she has her way with you. It’s one deep kiss after another, not knowing where one ends and the next starts, the minutiae doesn’t really matter. What matters is that she’s here, you’re here, and that things haven’t changed at all. Her hands find their way to your neck, trying in vain to pull you any closer than you already are, and yours find her hips, going along with the grinding on your lap that she’s starting to build up.

“Mmh,” straight into your mouth, and it's something you didn't even know you needed. She's had onscreen kisses before, including the ones she's gotten into bed with you and shown you before falling asleep right before the good part comes. And it's that that you held on to: that the way she does those kisses is the farthest thing from the way she does these kisses. She's needy for something more than any physical contact a kiss could offer but the kind of comfort it brings, and you can tell by the way she takes and takes and takes from you, like you don't deserve to be the one offering it.

“Fucking—” but there's no actual heat behind the word. She pulls back ever so slightly, only far back enough to be able to look you in the eyes without crossing hers. “Stop that. Whatever it is you're thinking, I don't like it. Just kiss me again.”

“Sorry.” There's nothing to apologize for, really, since you know deep in your gut that you'll do it over and over. Your chest grows heavy, and not because of the girl that's doing nothing but trying to love you. Even when she insists, from the way she reaches behind her and under her shirt before pulling off her bra and throwing it off somewhere to the side, to her utter refusal at letting go of your hands once she places them on her chest herself, you can tell that she needs that comfort again. Through her knit top, you can feel the rising warmth of her body, the neverending softness of her boobs, the growing stiffness of her nipples already starting to poke through her shirt and into your palms. 

But despite it all, you can't ignore the weight in your chest. You're the one who let her drift away, never explained why or how, and now you're taking the same sort of comfort like you used to as if nothing changed. Like she's still the same Yuri, your Yuri, who isn't an international superstar nor budding small screen staple with a future she can't help but rise up to. No, Yuri is there now. Household name, face on the Netflix profile pictures, hundreds of thousands of monthly Spotify listeners and every other metric of success anyone could ever come up with to show just how right you were to let her go. 

She pulls back, not gentle in the slightest, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “What in the fuck do you want to hear, huh?” She slides her hands under your shirt, coming up your sides, before slipping through the hole for your head to station her hands on either shoulder of yours. Her forearms do the rest of the heavy lifting, bringing the hem up until you have to take your shirt off for her. Not even a moment once it’s off that she dives back in, claiming your mouth before moving down to pepper wet kisses on your neck, leaving trails of spit on your shoulders, nibbling gently at your collarbone, taking deep breaths of the scent on your chest, leaving you breathless and wanting more of what she’s so desperately trying to offer you. 

Her turn now. You grab the hem of her top, pulling it up and over her head as well. As it clears her chest, her boobs bounce free, a sight for sore eyes; yet she doesn’t let you dwell. Yui allows you two perfect squeezes of her soft, supple breasts, and she goes down. Your pants come away with a concerted joint effort, letting her urgency get the better of you to tear it off, and she takes your throbbing length into her hand. “Please tell me this is what you want,” as she strokes your cock in deep and slow pumps, all the while letting her spit trickle down your tip, onto the slit, down the shaft where she rubs you up and down. “Please don’t make me play this fucking guessing game.”

“I—” is all you can put together, just as a groan escapes you. The warmth of her mouth is divine, the slickness of her tongue on your cock a feeling you sorely missed. Yuri wastes no time, knowing just how to work you, by taking a long drag up the underside of your cock all the way to the tip and leaving a warm glistening trail, and then suckling on your head like she knows she was always good at. 

She’s gorgeous. Never mind the way her tongue swirls on your tip, nor how she pays special attention to the slit of your cock, nor even the way she releases with a pop each time before coming back down for more. It’s all of ten seconds that she keeps those soft, or piercing, or mysterious eyes on yours, right when they flutter closed to enjoy having your cock in her  mouth once again. It’s blasphemous reverence: the way she tilts her head left and right to make sure she coats your length with her spit, and the delicious heat of her mouth, her subtle yet firm tracing of her tongue along every vein on your cock she can reach, is nothing short of heaven. 

For a moment, she retracts, and you sigh a breath of relief. It’s too soon, much too soon, but the way she gazes at you lovingly from between your legs tells you everything you need to know: she wouldn’t mind a second, third, fourth round with you. “You were saying?” she teases, her lips still stuck gently on the underside of your cock, tiny sucks and licks in that sensitive spot she knows you have. 

You confess, “I forgot,” just as she makes a particularly long stripe of saliva from your base to tip. It’s that deadly smirk pulling up only one side of her mouth, that look she gives when she’s amused. It drives you crazy, and she knows it. 

“Mind if I take a guess?” she relents, just for a moment, retreating her mouth and replacing it with light, lazy strokes. Her fingers work you the way she knows you’re weak against, tracing her fingertips in the most sensitive spots she could only know through her very own trial and error. 

Before you know it, her free hand is no longer free, holding up her phone and showing you the screen. A guttural moan escapes you as she gives you those deep strokes you love her doing, keeping her lips on your head, as it finally connects: she’s calling her co-star. 

He picks up, and amidst a raucous background, “Hello? Yuri?” and immediately you know what she’s playing at. A loud pop, followed by a drag of her tongue around her lips, and she says back, “Are we dating?” Her gaze stays sharp on you, hand unceasingly tight around your base, but above all else, she looks bored. And, perhaps, a little bit annoyed to be hearing a voice she absolutely would not want to be hearing otherwise. 

“Uh, if you’re free—” more of that background noise, and you surmise he’s in some club, “—If you’re free, let me buy you a drink—” 

Yuri just stays hovering over your tip, her tongue sliding again and again over your slit, letting her spit dribble down the sides of your shaft. You know she’s bored now, and a little bit displeased—not by the apparently disappointing phone call, but by you who forced her to make it in the first place. 

“Just…” she mumbles, making sounds suspiciously like sucking on a lollipop for the call, “Are we dating? Yes or no?”

“No,” said the other voice, tentatively and having taken way too long, “I don’t think we are, yet, unle—” and she drops the call. Her phone lands on the mattress, bouncing slightly, before Yuri takes half your length into her mouth again. It’s that heat of her that you’re loving: the utmost care she showers all over your cock, the pointed attention she gives to you and you alone, the deliberate slowness and pressure she knows you like. The other half she can’t fit in your mouth, she strokes with her hand, as her cheeks hollow out around you, and she tries just a little bit harder with every bob of her head to take more of you in. 

“Y-Yuri,” you can’t resist. Everything in you wants to be rough with her again, to have what she’s promised only you can have all along. There’s absolutely no sign or hesitance in her eyes when your hand makes for the back of her head; only a breath held in anticipation of what’s to come. She halts, pressure constant and unchanging in her mouth and hand, cradling your cock like it’s something precious. A beat passes, she’s waiting for you, and you finally give in. 

Push her gently down. Her hand makes way, and her tongue works the underside of your cock as she takes more and more of you in. It’s slow, careful, almost shy, as if you were a stranger when you aren’t—you never were. 

Her nose meets your pubic bone, eyes slightly watery, the way she takes you tells you there’s nowhere she’d rather be. You’re not even pushing her at this point anymore; just taking the pressure of going all the way for her, promising her that you want this too. Her throat squeezes and constricts, massaging your cock in all the perfect spots, wrapping your length in an intoxicating heat, while she makes all these tiny attempts at making eye contact with you, only to fail when she feels you throb against the muscles of her throat, causing her to gag and settle and gag and settle. Even when you let go, retreating your hand away from the dark, fluffy strands of her hair, she stays wrapped around your length, not at all fighting for anything but merely letting you feel her.

But her need to breathe prevails, and she rises slowly, savoring the way your length slides and throbs against the walls of her throat. Yuri fully pulls her face off of your crotch, lines of spit still connecting, her breath heaving warm air onto your soaked cock. She takes a moment to steady her breathing and her heart, before wiping the spent saliva off her lips with the back of her hand. Then, as if nothing happened, she looks up at you with a teasing smirk. She knows she has you wrapped around her finger. 

It's really that easy for her to take your breath away. You almost succumb to the long, slow, deep strokes she makes on your shaft, throbbing even more against her palm, and her relenting when she knows you're getting worked up and getting close. It's heaven if it weren't hell, yet you love every second of it. It's a long time coming, and you're set on enjoying all the attention she gives you again.

But even so, it's different: the way she smirks changes ever so slightly, and you could never know why—you just feel it, know it. It devolves into something you've seen on her before, but never on the screen; not the smile she wears on stage performing her hit songs, nor the smile she puts on between the director yelling “action” and “cut.” No, it's the smile she shows you when it's nearly midnight and she needs her cuddles before a big day, the show of quiet contentment when she's leaning back in her chair with a massive plate of spicy marinated crab shells in front of her, it's the smile that's nothing but softness when she’s taking a break from packing for a location shoot and you promise her you'll stay up until 3 a.m. for her goodnight video call.

It's that smile she only ever shows you, and as she climbs on your lap again, her eyes never leave yours, that smile never shifts from her mouth. Yuri comes in close, plants a slow kiss on your lips, empties her lungs as her eyes flutter shut. She wraps her arms around your neck, tilts her head slightly to the left, makes tiny licks on your tongue whenever you allow it. 

She starts, “Can I—” but you already know. She hovers slightly over your cock, dripping liquid heat right onto your tip, teasing herself with it and rubbing her slick folds on you. You know it, and she knows it, only having fun, enjoying yourselves, no pressure, just… home.

She sinks herself onto you, her pussy lips parting at your familiar length. Even through it all, she’s hellishly tight as you remember, searing heat enveloping your length, giving delicious pleasure to every inch of you. Her descent is slow, almost savoring, as her grip on you tightens with every passing second. 

She’s beautiful. Her eyes closed in what you could only surmise is perfect bliss, head lolling back as if offering everything of her to you. The dim light of the moon filters through her hair, illuminating what she always considered her good side. It reflects off the smoothness of her skin, just the right amount of light to show you tantalizing glimpses of her curves: the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flex of her neck. Lean in, pull her close, take advantage of her vulnerability like she wants you to. You find the pulse on her neck like second nature, and the minute tugs as she snakes her fingers through your hair tell you more than words ever could. She holds you in place as you kiss and suck at her weak point, knowing you’re just as vulnerable in this moment as she is, and you can feel, with the way her grip is gentle yet needy, hungry yet loving, wanting to take so much but also wanting to give back. 

Only barely having forgotten, she finally sits herself onto your lap. She’s still for a moment, drinking in your affection through the kisses you place all over her neck and collarbone, trying to find her bearings as you hold her steady in place. Her heart beats against your chest, her breath tickles your shoulder, and before she pulls back to look you straight in the eyes again, she mumbles, “I missed you.”

It doesn’t take long before she captures your lips again. She starts a slow grind on your lap, and you help her along with your hands on her waist, feeling her warmth against your palms. It’s only small noises now: the deep exhale of a breath held too long, tiny whimpers slipping through the gaps of your lips, the gasp caught in her throat as you hit that perfect spot inside her. Above all else, there’s no hurry—she doesn’t make any effort to speed up, nor do you let her. Yuri maintains her pace on your lap, grinding instead of bouncing, fully feeling you inside her, as she says, “I really missed you.”

Deeper is the game, and both of you know it. Yuri leans forward, drawing herself closer onto you. It gives her that much of a better angle that her moans draw out longer, that you feel the quiver in her thighs just that little bit more. She arches her back in your direction, and you take that opportunity: you catch her nipple as she gets close, sucking and licking to your heart’s pleasure. It’s give and take when it comes to this position, like it always was with you two: “Mmh” and “fuck” and “please” in the empty spaces you never really needed to fill but do anyway. In every single one is the love you only now get to show each other again, and by God will you love her. 

It’s everything all at once, and you can’t get enough. The jiggle of her boobs against your face, her incessant pulling of you harder onto her chest, the steady speeding up of her grinding on your lap until she’s pathetically leaking onto the sheets below. “Shit, shit, shit,” she whines, getting closer and closer to her peak, and with the way you’re wrapping your arms around her waist, lapping up the drops of sweat that fall down the valley of her breasts, bouncing her on you with help from the mattress, you’re drawing close right with her.

Pressure mounts, the floodgates strain, and her tiny whimpers are music to your ears. She’s scratching marks on your back now, sinking her teeth in your shoulder, and you don’t mind the sting at all. You hold her tight, no doubt leaving handprints on either side of her waist, getting faster and faster vying to keep up with her when you know she’s straining to keep up with you. It’s that one final bounce, that broken moan, that sudden jerk that sends you over the edge. “Mmh,” just as you’re sucking her other nipple, and you bite down a bit too hard without meaning to. But, instead of anything else, she pulls you in, nearly jerking, as she throws her head back. You feel goosebumps forming up and down her back, and she gets that much tighter around your length. It’s that moment when her voice cracks, and she finally lets go, and her squirt floods your lap, coating your entire length with liquid heat as she convulses over and over around you. It triggers you too, and within a second, you pull her down, embedding yourself as deep as possible into her. You shoot spurt after spurt after spurt of your hot seed into her waiting womb, and she welcomes it by milking you for everything you have. Even with her going crazy bouncing on your cock, spraying her squirt all over your crotch, she takes in every drop you give her. It feels like forever, filling her up with your cum, pushing more and more into her, and she thrashes against you that you have to hold her still. You keep cumming and cumming, until she’s only wringing small spurts out of you. 

Then, nothing. The air is still and full and humid, the only proof that you exist being the ragged breaths the pair of you take. Her grip on your shoulders is loosening, and you slowly pull yourself from her chest and meet her gaze again.

“Holy shit, that was hot,” she gasps, chest heaving against yours. Her arms are limp around your neck, same as yours around her waist, holding loosely but holding all the same, just to let her know you’re still there. Her head finds the crook of your neck, snuggles into it. You feel her breaths on your shoulder, and you savor the moment of having been her utmost happiness, even for just a little while. 

“You good?” you attempt. A beat passes.

“I think so.” 

A breath. 

“I missed you.”

Another beat, another breath. 

“I missed you too.”

Pull a blanket over her and you, kiss what you can reach of her hair. Beyond that you stay motionless save for your own breaths. The last thing you want is for her to move, or, God forbid, get off of you. So you stay still; she’s comfy enough, and you have that trust in her that she’d tell you if she needed a change in position. But it never comes. 

The blaring urban jungle of New York City may as well be millions of miles away from your little world of just you and her. Inhales and exhales, small squeezes of fingers, split-second blinks that you’d never have noticed otherwise had her face not been buried in your neck. The world is dark and silent and unmoving, and for a second, you think that eternity like this may not be so bad. 

It’s almost a shame to break the silence. But with her, it comes like it was destined: “I can’t sleep.” 

~~~

“That’s a fucking massive tilt into big tech.” Way too dramatically do you slam your coffee cup onto the table. She laughs out loud at it, clutching her own for the last few slivers of warmth it can offer. “If you’re gonna buy tech, buy tech. Why an ETF?”

“Because,” she smirks, still incredulous and irreverent and mayhaps a slight bit teasing, “it’s diversifying. I don’t want to be caught up in the whims of the market.”

“You’d have been better off commissioning some AI prompter for some fanfiction.” Bury your face in your hands, feign this frustration that she used to always love about you. You hang your head low, her laughter picks up higher, and in this moment, you feel neither you nor she would rather be anywhere else. 

She takes a sip, then “Excuse me for using my own hard-earned cash to make a bet for the fucking tech industry.” You can tell, by the way her voice clears up from that early morning roughness, that the coffee is working its magic. “I have hope for this future, you know. QQQ isn’t the worst option out there.”

“Then buy Nvidia!” You explode, though every bit of heat from it is fake, and she all but falls out of her chair laughing-crying. “Buy Apple! Buy fucking Microsoft before Copilot tanks it even worse, for fuck’s sake! You’re paying fees you don’t have to pay for! God, it’s like talking to a brick wall,” and to drive the point home, you lean back, past your own chair’s backrest in faux exasperation, feeling the roughness of the actual brick wall on your hair and scalp. Through it all, she clutches what she can of her stomach through the layers and layers of blankets, tears nearly falling from the corners of her eyes from laughing the most beautiful laugh you’ve ever heard.

A star streaks through space, or at least you think it was a star, barreling through the pinks and reds of a sky only starting to stir. Looking back down, across the small marble table, past the pair of rapidly cooling coffee mugs placed quite close to each other and to each of you, Yuri meets your gaze. The metal railing wobbles slightly with the air currents this high up, and the crisp dawn atmosphere sends chills up and down your spine even through the bundle of jackets and coats you’ve wrapped yourself in. The wind blows through her hair and yours, momentarily pushing her bangs out of place. Reach over, pat them back down. She wouldn’t have minded, having only you up here, to show her forehead like that. But—

“Thanks. I’m still getting over it.” 

“You looked really pretty in that Love Shhh stage. I liked that look.”

“God, please don’t remind me,” she giggles, hiding her face in her coat underneath the three blankets she’s also chosen to keep herself warm with. She pulls up her sleeve all the way past her fingers, then reaches over and takes your hand in hers. After a moment of staring into the changing colors that make up the grand sky, “Stay a while.”

You give an incredulous exhale through your nose, letting the fog of it rise up and dissipate into the atmosphere. Little by little, the windows in the building across the urban chasm go dark, and the chatter of New York City picks up at ground level, lightyears below you. Taking a sip of your now-cold beverage, “Don’t you have somewhere to be today?”

“Would you believe me if I said I had a date?”

You chuckle. “No, not really.”

“Then there you go.” She gives your hand a gentle yet firm squeeze before pulling back, exposing the skin of your palm to the frigid morning air once more. She narrowly avoids the coffee, picking up hers and downing the last few sips of it in one go, “Stay here with me.” She pulls the several layers of blankets around her tighter, tilts her head back inside towards the warm, fluffy bed waiting for her. “Unless you have a date.”

“I do, actually,” you say back, getting up and stretching as far as you can without really exposing your midriff to the nippy air, “booked and busy the rest of the day.”

“Oh yeah? I take it this girl is a real catch.”

“She is, and she just invited me to spend the day in bed with her. So, there you go.” She giggles, and you walk over to her side of the table. She doesn’t really say anything, just watching, perhaps admiring, as you get closer, and more so when you scoop up the bundle of blankets and warmth in your arms. Once you regain your balance and make for the sliding glass balcony door, she sighs, accidentally brushing away her bangs from shielding her forehead, and as the heat of the great indoors meets her skin again through all those layers, she leans her head on your shoulder. 

“You know, I really hate being so,” she’s being careful with her words, and despite wanting to say that she doesn’t need to be, you also know it’d be a lie to say so, “so reckless. I don’t like it. And you, well, you make me less reckless. Is that bad?”

Tug at the outermost blanket she’s cocooned in, and she gives it up much too readily. You get in bed with her, unceremoniously just plopping into the empty white space next to this girl, “Why would it be bad? Without you, I’m all jealous and doubtful and all that shit. That’s even worse, I think.” 

“Mm, maybe.” She turns to you. Always to you. “Then I guess we just…”

“Lay here with me?”

“Deal.”

~~~

[defmaybe]

to love somebody (or to keep you close)

eunchae x male reader

4.6k words

emotion | sickly sweet | to love somebody (or to keep you close)

To quote Days with Somi: Expression by @valentinedrifter and twist it to your situation:

Hong Eunchae loves having sex.

Specifically, having sex with you.

Although there's this little remark that you should be concerned about.

Hong Eunchae doesn't love.

Specifically, she doesn't love you.

—

The door clicks shut for the last time of the day, and you're alone in the studio again.

Your mind is (metaphorically) scattered — contempt, turmoil, wistful. You're obviously not sorrowful. You can't allow yourself to be like that. Your hands hover over the sliders and buttons and panels of the mixing console competently as ever, even if your brain is a mess, even if your cock still feels the warmth of her cunt pulsing around it, even if you're about to cry for the first time in years.

Okay, shit, you have to cry.

The room still reminds you of Eunchae, unfortunately. The microphone she used as an excuse to lure you in is still there. The floor of the recording area has these droplets of her juice. The wall reeks of her perfume and squirt — so wicked.

Eunchae says all these things: I hate labels, don't kiss me on my lips. The signpost is fucking massive — red flag, precautions, warnings. Yunjin explicitly stated the emotional disaster Eunchae can be — can stir inside you — yet you let your heart slip into this ugly, catastrophic state for hers. There's this possibility that you're in love just with the idea of her — her being this perfect girlfriend without any flaws in her soul, smiling happily because of you. It's such a perfect cadence in your head.

In real life, however, it's still a misery. The best you can get is her body — fucking her through and through, making her moan on your cock, filling her to the brim with your essence — but not her fucking heart.

And now, in the studio, you just sit there, suppressing yourself from the inevitable surge of melancholy raging inside you.

The first drop of tears falls from your eyes, eventually.

—

turnstyle, 0:03: you up?

The whirring of the heater fills the room with warmth, casting a spell of comfort all over. You lie under your blanket idly, your phone in your hand. The screen shines into your eyes in the dark night, just hours after your second tryst with Eunchae. That's the third sentence in a row with a clause followed by a phrase, should vary the structure. Your mind keeps replaying this image of debauchery in the recording studio — words, moans, sensations. Unbelievably vivid, you'd call it.

Three dots bouncing from the other side, then:

jensuisjen, 0:05: kinda

jensuisjen, 0:05: what is up

jensuisjen, 0:06: aside from me lol

You recount the debased events from earlier: her voice, her hands, her lips. You hesitate a bit as your thumbs type down the order of happenings to Yunjin, unsure if you should open yourself to her fully. Still, you have no one else to reach out to. Your parents aren't the emotional type. Your friends are living too far away. And Eunchae is, well, the offender of this typhoon, so it's just Yunjin for now.

The trio of dots will linger quite a long time on Yunjin's side.

jensuisjen, 0:09: wow long message

jensuisjen, 0:09: please keep writing though i wanna read

It's mostly about the incident first, in your first block of message — the microphone, the walls, the belt. Then, there comes the second message to Yunjin, a much, much shorter — succinct, even — telling of your state of the heart. There's the uncertainty of your love for (the idea of) Hong Eunchae. It surely feels nothing short of peculiar to open up to someone who has been lauded as a public, picture-perfect figure like this, but you need to talk to one if you're to fall in love with another.

jensuisjen, 0:14: wow

Then, there's quite a lengthy pause from Yunjin. You're a bit concerned, really, but you have to give her time to process. She's perhaps completely shocked by the whole ordeal of your rendezvous in the studio, then your emotions, then your affection. She's seeing you in a new light, regardless of being bad or good.

jensuisjen, 0:17: that was something

jensuisjen, 0:17: [Grimacing Face]

jensuisjen, 0:18: ok wait i can't get the image out of my head

jensuisjen, 0:18: like i was in there one sec and you fuck her the next second lol

jensuisjen, 0:19: you guys are fucking freaks lmoa

You guys — you should correct her over that. Eunchae doesn't want to be whole with you, at least romantically. You let it slide, though.

turnstyle, 0:20: i have to tell her i think

turnstyle, 0:21: like

Then there's a stop — one that's a little too long for Yunjin's liking, perchance. You just don't know what to say!

jensuisjen, 0:22: like

What do you tell Eunchae, though? You don't want to be just friends-with-benefits, and you want more than that?

Let's reiterate over your heart a bit.

In all honesty, you're missing a fuckton of details for Eunchae. You don't know her birthday — just the 2006 part. You can't remember her perfume. You're unaware of her preferences in things. One thing you're certain of, however, is that you want her close to you. You want her to pull the trigger on the gun that you gave her when you met. Okay, perhaps two things: you wanna wake up next to her every day and see her smile first thing in the morning. Alright, three: you want emotional closeness, despite your narcissistic tendencies, despite all of your flaws. And to conclude with about two chapters of the story with you and Hong Eunchae — the kiss, the finger, the sex, after everything:

You can't figure out what the hell you want out of and for her.

There's neither unity nor resonance to it.

turnstyle, 0:25: ykw

turnstyle, 0:26: i don't think i know my feelings for her either

turnstyle, 0:26: idea or person idk

jensuisjen, 0:26: hmm

jensuisjen, 0:27: dw

jensuisjen, 0:27: you should talk to her still

turnstyle, 0:27: yeah i gotta

turnstyle, 0:28: no sex

jensuisjen, 0:28: lmoa

turnstyle, 0:29: yeah

You chuckle softly.

turnstyle, 0:30: gn

turnstyle, 0:31: thanks for tonight

jensuisjen, 0:31: gn [Kissing Face with Closed eyes]

As always, you just double tap her final message and call it a night.

—

We're on the release day of the EP — a Friday, one post meridiem — and your song is a success.

You can't give fewer fucks regarding the other tracks: the spoken-word prelude, the title track, the alt-pop, the compulsory final ballad. You rush to check the score for your track on Album of the Year and RateYourMusic. It fluctuates a bit during the first few hours. You keep refreshing the page while you are outside in the spring chill, having your somewhat late lunch in a park.

After a while, it settles at a satisfactory score. It might go down a tad more over time, but you're happy with the outcome. The reviews are reassuring: a breath of fresh air for K-pop, meticulously produced, derivative in its lyrical themes, but an encouraging sign for the industry.

Normally, you'd be spending your fortune on a vacation or whatever, celebrating yet another critical success. Still, despite the positive appraisals, you can't take your mind off the heartbreaking nature of your more-than-friends-but-not-lovers relationship with Hong Eunchae.

(Or, well, situationship — in simpler and worse terms.)

It has been an entire month since the detached rendezvous with Eunchae in the studio — the spearmint breath, the no-lips policy, the softness of her skin. There have been zero conversations between yourselves since she exited the door — messages, phone calls, face-to-face talks, just none. She has been busy with the pre-comeback promotional cycle, and you understand the fact. Still, you've been utterly haunted by it every single day, both by your feelings and the ambiguity.

Eunchae remains preoccupied with the music shows and post-release promotions. You watch her perform, of course you do. For the first time, you start to catch the flair and dexterity in her movements when she dances. You dream of her voice echoing in your head every other night, and half of the On Repeat playlist on your Spotify becomes LE SSERAFIM. Your concentration is totally ruined during the day just at the thought of her — again, her spearmint lips, her no-lips practice, her skin's plushness.

Still, in the wake of your desperate yearning for her, you just don't have the heart to tell Eunchae that you don't want this. You don't have the heart to demand more than her body and proximity out of this. You don't have the heart to ask for her love.

Academically, all in all, you want to keep her close, but keeping her close like this is also killing you.

And you can do nothing to evade that downfall.

—

The first week of the EP's release has passed. Hybe reports the album sales as a modest accomplishment, comfortable enough for another project in half a year. Your career with them is restored to the safety zone with your dreamy wall of sounds and the theme of longing. It resonates with people. The melody is lovely. The lyrics are engaging.

Your love life isn't resolved, still.

There's a little difference in your relationship from last week. You've tried to send something to Eunchae a few times. You type into the message box in your chat with her, albeit tragically, only to end up clearing it out of cowardice, over the terror of losing her forever.

In terms of health, you can't fucking sleep properly for the last three days. Insomnia begins to set in with all the stress clumping up. You keep waking up every 90 minutes somehow. In the morning, you don't feel like you're fully charged, and you're just forced to spend the rest of the day with baggy eyes and a barely beating heart.

The world is kind enough to give you another chance, though — another push.

It's still spring, but the air isn't agonizingly cold anymore. You don't really tremble in this temperature. A long sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans suffice for you. You tread along the sidewalk, burdened, mentally drained, physically deteriorated. Your brain is not functioning properly, and you keep walking exhaustedly for nobody knows how far — directionless, with no destination in mind. Eunchae's name gets repeated in your mind like an endless prayer — a true decadence for you. You're truly scatterbrained right now, and nothing can—

"Hey!" a voice calls from the road.

You keep walking. They're not asking for—

"Producer!"

Okay, that cannot be anyone but you. How many producers are in Seoul right now? You turn to the speaker immediately.

There is, physically, an obsidian (writer's hasty Google search) black car parked by the sidewalk. Two men in suits are standing in front of the sliding door — the bodyguards from that day you ate an uncohesive kebab? Inside is Huh Yunjin in a cream sweater and some kind of pants, sitting in her seat and looking your way.

"Wanna hop in?"

You look at Yunjin, confused by her unprompted appearance in your area — BLACKPINK style. How convenient of her to appear at your low point in life like this?

"It's just me and the guys! The rest are at Inkigayo already," Yunjin continues, and a part of you feels better with the knowledge that Eunchae isn't here. Then, of course, you hop into the car. The door closes promptly, and you find yourself sitting inside the van with Huh Yunjin.

(And the driver.)

(And the bodyguards.)

"I slept in," Yunjin starts as the van moves forward. "How are you? Haven't seen you since, what, the recording day, right?" she asks with a smile — friendly, disarming.

Might sound overly dramatic, but you almost want to hug her right now and cry within her arms, if not for her makeup that's already there on her. You just go with your nonchalant composure first, even if you look like shit physically. "Been better."

"Been better my ass," Yunjin immediately rebukes, and you agree with that statement, really. "You look like a fucking zombie."

You give her an awkward smile, then: "How are you, though?"

A laugh from her, then: "You're the one to ask," she scoffs, and you can only grimace. "Alright, it's the usual comeback stuff: practices, events, music shows. We've barely gotten any sleep this past week."

"We? How's Eunchae?" That's mean to Yunjin, but you can't help it!

"Ouch, I'm still talking about myself here," and Yunjin chuckles. She knows where you're coming from, thankfully. "Okay, a question for you: have you talked to her yet?"

"I did try writing in her message box," you answer truthfully, entirely too spent to lie.

Yunjin gives you this are-you-deadass expression — a mix of disappointment and confusion. "That's not encouraging, if we're being honest," she states.

And if you're being honest, "Yeah, I just," and you kind of become aware of the people around you in the van all of a sudden: two bodyguards and one driver. "You guys are not telling her, right?" you ask the guys.

They turn to you and nod. Alright, your not-so-anti-fragile, failing state of mind is safe with them.

You take a deep breath before opening yourself a little more to Yunjin. Your heart beats faster. Your breaths quicken. "I just, fuck, I wanna keep her close to me."

"And you look atrocious in this state of situationship. Not that I'm siding with you — gotta be fair to you guys — but you really, really need to talk to her."

"I'm trying! But—" Yunjin's deathly glare stops another excuse leaving your lips.

She sighs, expression softening before half-ordering you, "You should do it tonight, after today's show. What are we? I want more than being your friend-slash-fuck-buddy. Just make it simple."

You look at the bodyguards and the driver as if to survey their opinions regarding the topic. They nod agreeingly, and you can do nothing but purse your lips timidly.

"You can delay a bit until the end of the promotion if you want — let things settle and stuff — but I don't think you'd ask her if I don't encourage you like this," Yunjin continues, shrugging. "And I don't wanna sing a sad song for the next EP," she says with a chuckle. You almost smile along with her.

"Okay, we're here!" The driver announces. That's rather fast. You didn't even realize that you were walking this close to the Inkigayo studio under the spring air.

"Alright!" and Yunjin pulls you into a hug suddenly. Warm. Her perfume is rosy. Loving. Her sweater is a little scratchy, but you don't mind that. Consoling. You can feel your tear ducts about to break loose, really.

"Thanks," you utter. "I'll text her tonight."

Yunjin releases you from her arms, and you make way for her to get out of the van into the studio. She gives you a few more final words before she disappears into the building still.

"I don't know how this will end, to be honest," Yunjin manages, then a smile — sincere, "but I hope you guys can still talk to each other after this, no matter what happens"

You smile back at her with a glimmer of hope — the hope that it won't break your heart.

"Thanks."

—

Deep breath.

Exhale.

Deep breath.

Exhale.

Deep breath.

Send.

turnstyle, 22:47: hey

turnstyle, 22:47: can we talk

turnstyle, 22:48: about us

turnstyle, 22:48: i think i want more than

turnstyle, 22:48: this

You wait for about five minutes, staring at the screen, wishing for an instant reply. There's no read indicator popping up from Eunchae's side, and you just put your phone back on the nightstand at seven to eleven (not sponsored), and you just sleep.

You still can't rest well, despite the sent message. Your imagination runs wild in the realm of possibilities of her words that you will-slash-might see in the morning. She might just break up with you. She might just read without replying. She might not even read it. You just can't stop these thoughts, and they're eating you up from the inside.

Bleak dream as well: her face, her voice, her smell. It's just so vivid under the merciless nocturne.

Still, despite the probable predicaments plaguing your mental well-being, you wake up to:

notyoureunchae, 2:14: after the promo

notyoureunchae, 2:14: promise

That's a week away, and it's the only thing you can hold on to, really. There's nothing else you can act on or hope for.

(Also, great, the time is making up as February 14th — lovely day.)

All of this because of a woman named Hong Eunchae — Manchae, smile potato, not yours.

—

The week is fucking grueling. You try not to be a deadweight for Yunjin, despite how much willpower is needed not to text and vent and cry in the DM. You spend the 168 hours (give or take) on Ableton and going outside and meeting your friends and doing new shenanigans. Still, you swear that time is fucking with you. It's as if someone keeps halting its motion.

You stop watching music shows for the entirety of seven days; you just can't bring yourself to do it. Everything tells you that Eunchae remains professional on broadcasts as always — smiling, dancing, singing on the stage. You just know she can do it, and a part of your heart wishes her to do well, really, even if the other is dreading an answer from her, even if the other wants her to prioritize itself.

Your song is still doing well on the charts, hitting a decent position for a B-side. It gets some acclaim with minimal complaints. That fact keeps you going, indeed. Though the arrogance and ego are completely demolished for Eunchae to occupy your messy mind freely — her eyes, her voice, her lips that she refuses to let you press yours against. Oh, you know the boundaries she set. You know she's aware of her own capacity to love someone. You know she's being incredibly mature about this. Oh, why are you still wishing for something that you'll never have?

(To intervene, you're like a fucking gambler right now, betting on seventeen black — a metaphor for her emotions for you in this case — and you just let it ride.)

You keep interrogating yourself about everything during the long wait — your feelings, your attachment, your qualities — and sometimes you get answers, sometimes you don't. They don't stop you from seeking solutions, though. The silence gives you time to discover yourself, to find the perfect cadence in the diverse frequencies of the world.

And the most important note: to find out whether you love her.

The time comes, eventually.

A message pops up at the top of your screen one day. You're in your bed scrolling Reddit.

notyoureunchae, 10:29: promo done

You open Instagram immediately to find three dots bouncing from Eunchae's side.

notyoureunchae, 10:30: come to the dorm

notyoureunchae, 10:30: we can talk

Your mental ability doesn't allow you to read between the lines, and the fact bugs you, to be honest. Her feelings remain a mystery. You take a walk from your place to hers in an instant, nonetheless.

—

There's a Thai tea sitting idly in front of you — vividly orange, sickly sweet. Eunchae is facing you on the couch, legs crossed. She's wearing a baby-blue shirt and a pair of snow-white shorts. Her back hunches a bit. The weight of expression on her face tells you that she's more than aware of the seriousness of the words you're about to say. Her hair is still a tad wet from the recent shower. There remains a soft whir of the heater working against the late spring cold. The room smells of spring-like air freshener — a redundancy to the atmosphere outside.

"I've been thinking," you start, attempting to express your state of mind you've had for the past six or so weeks to your situationship, but only an exhale leaves your lips.

"I think I want to keep you close," Eunchae says. The words come out rather airy and light, and the message is sent — an incomplete affection.

"I know," you reply with a weak smile, head falling down a bit. "I want to be close to you as well, but it's just," and you pause. The heaviness of the main confession dawns upon yourselves for a heartbeat. "Not like this."

You hear Eunchae breathe a tad louder against the whirring of the living room's heater. She shifts on the couch slightly. "Not that I haven't thought about us," Eunchae starts, looking at you sympathetically. You can feel it in her eyes, even if it's not quite what you've been chasing these past few weeks. "After your message, I kinda get the way you reacted after that."

i think i want more than

this

You stay silent in front of her, eyes on the leather of the couch, replaying the moment where you evaded her hand in the studio. Perhaps it was post-sex clarity. Perhaps it was contempt for yourself. Perhaps it was both.

Eunchae continues, "And I kind of realized that: I didn't think about your feelings enough."

(Off-screen realization: Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. You appreciate the character growth, of course.)

"Wait, no," you stop her. "You set the boundaries clearly: labels, no kissing, just sex." You don't want her to take the blame just because your heart is weak. "I put myself through it."

"And you got hurt."

Her delivery isn't charged, not really, but the meaning is loaded enough for Eunchae to take a halt and move back a bit.

That's a brand new melody you've just discovered with Hong Eunchae:

She cares about you, at least more than you've thought.

You give her an utterly confused look before uttering, "You care about that?" Does she really care about your feelings? "About me?"

Eunchae scoffs lightly, not mocking. "You're a hypocritical, narcissistic asshole, but you're also an asshole I think about too much," she manages. You hear a soft sniffling sound from her. "I know that I'm not good at this — caring for someone. It took me, like, two years for me to start bonding with the girls off-camera."

You chuckle softly, and you mutter, "I'm fucking twenty-one, and I can't be half as good as you are at it. I'm, like, a shitty person."

"A shitty person that, again, I," and Eunchae pauses for another scoff. Her eyes are all glossy from the brimming tears. "Care about." She sniffles again, this time wiping the tears from her eyes as well.

With courage, you're the one who cups her face with your hand this time. Her flushed cheek warms against your palm. She looks at you with something that's almost a smile.

"I don't know if I can do this — this fucking," Eunchae utters shakily. You don't stop her tears running down her cheeks slowly with the pull of gravity. You just let her cry.

"I don't know either," you utter, "but I miss you — on the train, in the morning. I never know what to think about, and I think about you."

"Really?"

"Definitely, maybe."

Eunchae half-laughs, half-sniffles. "Fuckass."

You chuckle lightly, brushing your thumb on her cheek. A drop of tear smears your hand — warm. You smell her salty toothpaste coming from her mouth. She looks into your eyes — so teary and disarmed.

For you, there remain a few emotional loose ends to be tied, and they're so abundant in their nature, blighting your heart, withering your ability to maintain closeness. Still, with Eunchae, for the first time in your life, you seem ready to face them, to find happiness in your imperfect cadence together.

"I still hate labels," Eunchae whispers quaveringly. Then, a tiny smile appears on her lips. She's aware of your emotions — setting boundaries, a caveat, a warning. "But I know that," and a pensive exhale, "I'm saying this again: I want to keep you close."

You feel her heartbeat softly on the cheek. To sound similar to LLMs, they're small, persistent thumps against your hand, against the soft sounds from another planet (not sponsored) of the heater. She's still looking into your eyes, and to be honest, you can't read too much intent behind it aside from the tears and the slight dilation of her pupils. She wants you close, that's certain and overly looped. She has stripped off her defenses with you. She cares about you.

She just doesn't love you.

That's messy, really. It's incomplete. You've wrestled with the fact for weeks. You've teased with the probability that it might shatter your heart into little pieces after this, making your future discography become an expression of your own sorrow. It has been looming over you like that. That's ugly, really.

Yet you're willing to indulge in it somehow — this strange kind of love.

Corporeally, to ground the scene, your hand is still on Eunchae's cheek. She's sniffling softly against the soft whirring of the heater and the birds chirping outside. Tears fall from her eyes into your weak, under-worked palm. Your faces are so close to each other. Her breath mingles on your face tenderly — still salt. You don't move in for a kiss. It still feels wrong to be this close to her with all the unresolved feelings and definitions, but maybe just caring for her heart and craving her intimacy are already enough for now.

"Can I ask you something?" Eunchae breaks the silence, coincidentally at the time your train of thoughts comes to a halt. She reaches forward for the hem of your thin sweater, running her fingers behind the hem of it softly. Her knuckles graze against your skin — warm to the touch — and you shiver lightly, sucking in air through your teeth. Your logic is collapsing at her proximity again. And once more, you just let her demolish your integrity headquarters into rubble (atrocious imagery).

"You ready to kiss me now?" you scoff, though still half-expect her to say yes, even if the signposts aren't pointing towards that. The notes aren't complementing.

Eunchae lets out a discouraged sigh, gripping your sweater a tad tighter. The intent becomes even clearer now — just proximity, but not all of you. There's the hope of not yet, but it's barely flickering. One hand still on her face, you use the other to touch hers that's on your fabric. Eunchae flinches slightly, almost not believing the fact that you're rejecting her vicinity. Her grip on your cloth loosens a bit, and you're aware that seizing the moment is important — not letting her go, making her stay.

And it has to be on your own terms, not solely hers, not akin to the past. This shit is a duet.

You whisper, "Promise me one thing, Eunchae."

Eunchae gulps, and she chokes out, "What is it?"

"Try."

Succinct, direct, compact — that's your demand.

Eunchae stares at you blankly first, and you're almost scared of what she's about to say next.

But all that leaves her mouth are, and you don't get to process them, a smile, then a chuckle.

And the credits roll, just like that.

[defmaybe]

sickly sweet

eunchae x male reader

5.3k words

emotion | sickly sweet | untitled

So, to begin selfishly, you were blue-balled because Yunjin decided to barge into the room while you were being Eunchae's little bitch boy.

Then, to begin with a little more empathy and impartial judgement, Yunjin saw your illicit affairs happening in the same studio that the girls, just mere minutes ago, listened to your demo.

Finally, to begin selflessly, you fucked up.

The relationship is one aspect of risk, indeed — an idol and her peasant, even if almost a young adult prodigy, producer. Your ever-messy emotions are another thing to be considered.

What are we?

I hate labels.

Physically, you're still in the same studio you had your tryst with Eunchae — completely frozen, utterly agitated. You don't bother turning off the demo that has been on loop for the eighth time. It's almost nine (o'clock). Your body cannot move an inch. Well, there are the shaking hands, not voluntarily, however.

You still remember the way Eunchae plunges her left middle finger into your mouth — the floral scent, the metallic tang. You still remember the way she says bitch at you — unforgiving, almost meaningful. You still remember the way her nipples harden between your digits — desire to be touched, aching for your fingerprints.

All of this just to be wholly demolished by an oh my fucking God.

You didn't build a habit of knocking on the doors for them. You didn't close the door, even. You didn't resist the urge to let Eunchae toy with your fragile heart. They're all your fault, obviously.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Okay, you need a plan — an emergency plan. The comeback is in a month. You should see Eunchae and Yunjin just one more time for the recording. Okay, fuck, what if Yunjin tells the other women you let Eunchae bounce on your lap crazy style?

The comeback is in a month. You should see Eunchae, Yunjin, Chaewon, Sakura, and Kazuha just one more time for the recording.

That's rather fucked up, genuinely.

Maybe you call in for sick leave on the recording day. You don't fucking know. It's probably the best shot you've got at avoiding Eunchae.

Okay, let's see what tomorrow brings first, and you move accordingly.

—

Alright, great, you can't sleep, and tomorrow will be a wait rather than a teleportation. You've been shifting and flipping your pillows back and forth for two and a half hours now. Eunchae and Yunjin are plaguing your mind — the doubts, the risks, your career. You keep replaying the possibilities of the next days in your head nervously. Maybe Eunchae stops talking to you completely. Maybe Yunjin resents you for your rendezvous. Maybe you're getting your ass kicked out of Hybe as damage control from the executives.

Your phone dings with a message, and you pick it up to read it.

jensuisjen, 1:30: we have to talk

You sigh. The allure to open the DM is there, surely, but you just can't face—

Oh, your fingers work on their own, prompting a read on Yunjin's side at 1:30 ante meridiem. Yeah, you can't just leave her at that when the clock is in the second half of the night.

You type the first thing that comes to your mind.

turnstyle, 1:30: i'm fucked ain't i

Three dots from Yunjin, then it disappears. Your anticipation runs wild, bracing yourself for the worst — a fuck you, a screw you (practically means the same thing). You close your eyes, not wanting to see the rant Yunjin is about to give you this late into the night. Oh, maybe it's worse. Maybe she just leaves you on—

jensuisjen, 1:31: [Grimacing Face]

jensuisjen, 1:31: my honest reaction

Oh.

That's not as bad as you thought. Three dots continue bouncing on the screen, though. There's more from Yunjin, and you watch her type expectantly.

jensuisjen, 1:32: i'm just shocked

jensuisjen, 1:32: that's all

So she's shocked, maybe a pang of disdain in there, still.

jensuisjen, 1:32: not that i'm letting you go easily

jensuisjen, 1:33: just never thought you'd see her that way lol

She gets it a bit inaccurately, not too far off the mark, at least. Also, she's probably really just surprised — (likely) zero negative feelings.

turnstyle, 1:33: she kissed me first fwiw

jensuisjen, 1:33: really

jensuisjen, 1:34: ?

turnstyle, 1:34: yeah

turnstyle, 1:34: on the cheek

jensuisjen, 1:35: romantic

Oh, okay, there's no apparent contempt! Sure, you're still wary of your messages you're about to send, but the tension starts to relieve itself. You can feel it. It's like finding a cadence together — not quite perfect, but tender to the ear, for now.

The conversation slowly turns into a fun tug of war — teasing at the potential of you and Eunchae. At one point, you smile quietly in the darkness of your room. Yunjin is melting your heart bit by bit, and you find yourself opening to her a little more with each block of message.

You talk about the day at the dorm — the too-sweet Thai tea, the pleasant-to-the-ear Hatchie, and the not-so-definite-in-its-emotion kiss. She is receptive to your words, nudging you along the way as you let the details of your tryst slip into the reserved space between you and Yunjin.

The important question poses itself, eventually.

jensuisjen, 1:59: so like

jensuisjen, 1:59: are you guys a couple

And yeah, you think — ponder, contemplate, ruminate. Again, you're forced to revisit the structure of your relationship with Eunchae.

I want you — so fucking bad.

I hate labels.

Bitch.

You're, for starters, indubitably her bitch boy. She called you a bitch, at least until Yunjin walked onto the scene. You sucked her left middle finger (so detailed) greedily — bitch, slut, whore, name it. Still, Eunchae refused to have your relationship have a proper meaning. I hate labels. I hate labels. I hate labels.

It's probable that she just uses you for her own entertainment as a surrogate for the hollowness in her heart. Still, feeling a bit playful to hide your concern, you type out:

turnstyle, 2:01: perchance

jensuisjen, 2:01: fym perchance

jensuisjen, 2:02: you can't just say perchance

jensuisjen, 2:02: still

jensuisjen, 2:02: so you guys are just having fun

jensuisjen, 2:03: is there anything else i should be aware of

Well, there's the fact that Eunchae doesn't let you define yourselves as a proper couple. Shit has been bugging you for hours, perhaps it'll turn into days. You're hesitating to tell Yunjin, though — too proud of yourself to—

turnstyle, 2:03: yeah

Fucking hell, your fingers work on their own again, and you have to follow it up with a—

turnstyle, 2:03: she won't define it

turnstyle, 2:04: i'm not agreeing with that

turnstyle, 2:04: never said a thing though

There, emotional openness is achieved with Yunjin. Your heart is working overtime to reveal itself to her — the desire for Hong Eunchae — and you sigh exasperatedly, watching the three dots bouncing on Yunjin's side again.

jensuisjen, 2:05: that sucks

Yeah, this fucking sucks.

jensuisjen, 2:06: i gotta talk to her soon still

jensuisjen, 2:06: you want me to talk to her about that?

You think again in the silence of the room that's occasionally interrupted by the sound of your heater. Having someone else be your relationship definition proxy certainly is a choice — not a good one. You kind of trust Yunjin with the half-an-hour conversation you've been having so far, but you're also too proud of yourself to let her do the talking for you. It feels wrong. What if Yunjin pressures Eunchae too much? What if Yunjin tells Eunchae she's better without you? What if—

Alright, you're spiraling. Still, the possibilities aren't looking too bright. You'll talk to Eunchae about this like a real man, certainly not because you care about your image of being mentally strong and stable with her.

(As if you didn't just let her call you a bitch.)

turnstyle, 2:08: dw i'll talk to her about it

jensuisjen, 2:08: alr

jensuisjen, 2:08: i tell no one trust

jensuisjen, 2:08: i won't pry further

jensuisjen, 2:09: you tonight and eunchae later

jensuisjen, 2:09: okay i sleep

jensuisjen, 2:09: gn

turnstyle, 2:09: gn

And you double tap the gn from Yunjin.

So, you have to talk to Hong Eunchae about yourself and her.

What are we?

—

It's a good thing that you've finished your demo already. You won't be able to work with such an obstacle of Eunchae's reluctance of declaration suppressing your creativity.

Okay, make the scene tangible; it's recording day.

Oh, shit, it's recording day?

You wake up to the dread of seeing Eunchae's face; that's your first thought in the morning. Showering, brushing your teeth, and breakfast (consisting of Thai tea) don't help you forget it or soothe you. The trip to Hybe headquarters is so bad that you almost crash into another car on the road. Your steps feel heavy and punishing.

The studio feels suffocating — the same place you played your demo, the same place you sucked Eunchae's fingers and her silver ring, the same place Yunjin found out about the incident. The place doesn't reek of Eunchae and you, and instead, they're replaced by air freshener and wooden furniture. You take a seat in front of your mixing console, getting yourself ready for a meeting with the girls.

Five songs for this EP, as always, and you start with Chaewon, then Sakura, Yunjin (fewest lines today), Kazuha, and Eunchae (most lines today) last, in that order.

Chaewon and Sakura don't really give you a look. They just greet you casually and walk into the recording section. Their level of professionalism remains intact, painstakingly high from their IZ*ONE days. You do your usual shenanigans with the mixing console: adjusting treble and bass, adding effects, moving the faders. In the blink of an eye, they're done — just a bit over an hour.

Yunjin is up next.

This time, she knocks the door. It's like you're hiding someone here. You approve the entry, and she walks into the studio.

"Hey," Yunjin greets.

"Hi," you respond. To steer the conversation into your predicament with Eunchae would be rude, so you stifle the urge to do so for now. "You have the least airtime in this EP, by the way," you open in a serious tone.

"Rude," Yunjin jokes with a chuckle, lightening the mood. "Who the fuck initiates a conversation like that? I just walked in here."

"Me, I guess," you respond in a softer tone, earning a tender nudge from Yunjin on your shoulder.

"Fuckass," she curses playfully before entering the recording room.

Yunjin hits the high notes with her inner talent as usual. She dances along to the melody that has already been layered with Chaewon and Sakura's lines as well. Still, you can't help but think if there's bad news ahead of this light-hearted recording session. What if Yunjin acts all cheerful to make you let your guard down before the calamity of her maknae strikes?

Yunjin eventually concludes her parts — twenty-five minutes. She places the headphones on the stand and walks out of the recording area.

"Okay, done!" Yunjin cheers. "I'll go get Ka—wait."

Yunjin looks at you with an awkward grimace, as if nervous to break the news to you. She's making your mind race against the anxiety and fear looming over you. Your mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out of it — voices, words, meanings. They're all lost by the undoings of your unease — a hushed cadence.

"So, I talked to her," Yunjin starts, and she sighs. "Good news or bad news first?"

"Bad news," you mutter subconsciously. It's second nature to you now to brace yourself for the worst.

"The good news about the bad news is that it's short!" Yunjin breaks the news halfway through, and you just shoot her a confused look.

"What?"

"Kidding," and Yunjin laughs, so unfitting for a person who's about to give you bad news.

"Yunjin," you half-scold.

"Sorry," with an expression of guilt. "Okay, so, the bad news is: Eunchae doesn't want me to know about you guys. That's number one."

"There's two of them?" You utter, along with the thought of your wish for the existence of the Neuralyzer and using it on Yunjin.

"Yep, and the second one is," and Yunjin does a dramatic sigh, "she's not ready for a relationship — her words and my assessment as well."

Yunjin is trying to let you down easy; that's apparent. You feel yourself making this disappointed face — lips tightening, an annoyed exhale.

You steer away from the pain, not quite in the five stages of grief yet. "Your assessment?"

"She's not emotionally competent — my words, though she's aware of it."

"Hence the evasion of labels?" you ask, digging deeper into your vocabulary than usual to subside the pain. That's your grief handling — a defense mechanism, one might say.

Yunjin's voice climbs up in volume as she says: "That kind of leads us to good news!" and she makes these weird hand movements.

You almost chuckle. "And the good news is?"

A ta-da from Yunjin, then: "She still wants you close — physically. She wants someone she can talk to that's not a LE SSERAFIM member, ouch for me, and Chaewon, and Sakura, and Kazuha."

You recognize the term for it instantly. "A fucking situationship?"

"Perchance," Yunjin breezes.

"First of all, you can't just say perchance," you declare, earning a chuckle from Yunjin. "Second, so like, what? A fucking situationship?"

"You just said situationship twice."

"You can't expect me to be in a stable state of mind right now."

"Fair enough."

You've spent years building this sturdy mechanical castle wall that opens on certain terms — in brief, someone who's a good fit for you. It doesn't have to be perfect. That's what you've realized about people. You just need a home, and you thought you found it in Hong Eunchae at your age of twenty-one and her nineteen, really — marvelous music taste, playful, physically and mentally dominant that's totally not a writer's insertion of his type. Your mind reels over the flashback of your intimacy on the couch, just steps away in the corner of this studio — her finger, her smell, her words. You are utterly astounded by this woman, and now to be told that she's emotionally unavailable?

Fuck.

"Do you know how I see you?" Yunjin starts again.

"Are you asking this just to throw bad adjectives at me?"

"Fifty-fifty," and Yunjin shrugs. "You're insanely talented for your age. I know how much you've sacrificed to be here, despite, well, nepotism."

She's right — both the talented part and the nepotism part. You nod agreeingly and audibly.

"And the other half is?"

"You're too far up your own ass," Yunjin says succinctly, voice implying a tinge of frustration, even if she tries to keep it light for a quick closure for Kazuha's entrance in a few minu— "and you're awfully aware and unaware at the same time. You're a fucking contradiction of a person."

You open your mouth, but you think first. Okay, yes, you don't try the tried-and-true formulas in your production, but you have HOT in your On Repeat [1]. Okay, sure, you love cohesion in foods, yet you eat kebab-slash-shawarma. Okay, alright, your internal narration always describes your arrogance, in lieu of actively fixing it, though, you just leave it there.

Oh.

Yeah, Yunjin's right.

You sigh, completely irked by the confusing cadence of your life. It's supposed to be colorful and unique and unrestrained, sure, but hypocrisy and ego remain as plagues in your heart.

Yunjin seems to notice your mental spiral still. Perhaps it's the sad eyes. Perhaps it's the hunched back.

"Hey," Yunjin starts, tipping your chin up with her hand. Her face gets close to you — not kissing-range close, but not I-hate-the-way-your-breath-smells far. You just chewed a spearmint gum. There's this slight connection of trust between you and Yunjin going on here. "I believe in you, okay? You're like, what, twenty?"

"Twenty-one."

Yunjin chuckles. "There's plenty of time. Keep your head up," she encourages, smiling. You take it as a sincere one. "It's just life, you know."

And you sigh, not really resigning yourself to the depths of your bad parts, but still not too optimistic about your future either — you and Eunchae and all.

"Thanks, I guess," you manage, voice barely above a whisper. Your expression turns into a tired smile.

"Again, I believe in you," Yunjin says before walking away, and the door shuts with a click

Kazuha, then Eunchae. You can do this, even if the name bites into your heart.

—

[1] [2] To avoid tomatoes being hurled at the story and the writer, HOT is not necessarily a terrible, unlistenable song. You (which, in this case, is the writer's self-indulgent projection-slash-self-insert) just think that it lacks the edge and personality compared to tracks like ANTIFRAGILE or CRAZY.

[2] The writer is a hack. This style of writing is copied from @barnacles34. [3]

[3] Don't expect more citation-like notes to appear anywhere else in the fic. This is a onetime thing.

—

"See ya," Kazuha bids you farewell.

"Bye!"

For the fourth time in two-ish hours, the door clicks shut as Kazuha leaves the studio, and you just sigh — loud. Your body stiffens for what is about to come next. You can't settle yourself into a calming trance after what happened between you and Eunchae a week ago — a finger, name-calling, discovery. The tempo is all over the place, and you're not sure if you can arrange it into a proper song.

The door opens eventually, and you hastily rotate your chair back towards the mixing console — out of fear, out of discontent, you don't really know.

You see Eunchae coming into the studio in the faint reflection on the glass between you and the recording area. She doesn't say a word — not a greeting, not a checking in — and you are pretty unfazed by it.

Okay, no, at least be honest to yourself. You wish she'd say something first, sparing you from the discomfort between two people who were dry-humping each other last week.

She just walks past you into the recording area and puts on the headphones that her members have worn before her, and there it is: the first eye contact.

You're not sure if you've waited for an entire week plus a few days just to see a pair of eyes that's so fucking devoid of emotion like this. It's not quite a case of staring into your soul, more of a blank vastness of Hong Eunchae being expressed through her pupils. There's no affection, just pure detachment, and it breaks you to see her like this, really.

"I'm ready," Eunchae says.

(With the choice of dialogue tag, it's pretty fitting. The utter lack of emotion is just so apparent that the word say leaves the rest of the competition in its dust.)

Everybody else's voices are already there when the first song begins, a spoken words prelude — routine. Eunchae's demeanor remains professional — no tics, no slips. Her hands hold the sides of her headphones, looking down, nodding along to the beat until—

Her tone is as sweet as ever. You've heard it countless of times in this recording studio — behind the glass, on the couch, with her finger inside your mouth.

Bitch.

Still, never once has it hit as hard as right now. Her voice is making your heart burn with agony inside your chest, between your lungs, behind your ribs. You try to keep your calm façade during the entire runtime of the song. It's a success, mostly. You remain professional and competent despite minor, invisible-to-Eunchae's-eyes lapses. There are these little quivers on the tips of your fingers while you work on the console, just the opposite side of her.

Then comes your song. It's the fourth track on the EP, preceded by an alt-pop that you find somewhat attractive, admirable in its intrinsic ambition relative to the industry's, followed by a mandatory ballad just to settle the listeners into peacefulness at the end — usual Hybe structure. The meaning is basic: one-sided love, to love someone who just can't say it back. Oh, what a cruel parallel! The unruly nature of your track is going to be what stands out for this project. You're going to get praise from all over the industry for breaking the mold.

Still, your mind lingers over Hong Eunchae, and in all honesty, you'd trade those soon-to-come acclaims just for a measly chance for her to see you as solace.

Emotions remain imperceptible on both sides of the glass. You watch her. She sings. Your fingers glide over the panel competently. She delivers her part of the lyrics from the depths of her lungs. The song bounces off the walls of the studio with zero regard for the scene. It's a normality that you almost cannot stand. It's—

"I can't do this."

You look up from the panel. What did she just say? Did you hear that right: she can't do this?

"What?" you ask. "You—"

"I can't do this," Eunchae repeats against the undercurrent of the wall of sounds, looking at you. "I can't fucking sing this song."

You shoot her a confused look. What's happening to her? "Are you alright, Eunchae?" you speak into the microphone on your side, giving the song a pause. Silence ensues.

Eunchae sighs. Then, in a shaky intonation: "Can we, can you come in here a bit? I think there's something with the—"

You get up from your seat immediately, entering the recording area in a haste. Eunchae avoids eye contact with you, though you can see the tears building in her eyes.

"I think there's," a pause, "there's something with the mic."

Okay, the cadence is all over the place here — physically, emotionally — and you don't know how to act on it. You're aware that she's trying to be pragmatic — restrained, logical — but the courage to execute something isn't there for you.

"Okay, I'll change the mic. Wait here," you reply.

As you're about to exit the perimeter, though, you feel a pair of hands touching your fingers.

"Wait," Eunchae calls, and of course, you turn to her. You're that credulous.

Her hands hold yours a bit firmer, effectively holding you on the spot. She's still gazing down at the floor. Sure, you can just brush her away easily. The force on you isn't that much, but a part of you tells you that a new microphone won't be needed for now.

"I," and a pause, one that lets her look up at you — mouth slightly agape. Her eyes don't look so apathetic anymore, replaced by tears threatening to run down her cheeks, replaced by something you can't quite read: yearning, trust, desperation. You can't recognize, not with your level of emotional quotient.

You just know that you have to be there for her — the entirety of you.

A sound comes out, eventually. "I have ten more minutes, right?"

Well, that's not quite the question you expected, but you push on through, nonetheless.

"Fifteen, according to your schedule, but," you look at your watch, "I clock out in about an hour."

Eunchae examines you for a heartbeat, as if devising a plan. You swear you can hear the gears in her brain turning restlessly.

Then, a small smile appears on her lips.

"Whatever we do, just," she wipes her eyes with the fabric of her sweater — white. You just came to notice it — a contrast against the black leggings. "Don't kiss me on my lips."

You tilt your head to the side a bit. "No lips?"

Instead of a reply, Eunchae reels you in immediately with her sheer force. That's rude, not even giving you time to ponder. Your body is pulled towards her, and in the blink of an eye, you're in her arms.

You breathe heavily against the whirring sound of the heater just outside, and so does Eunchae, though a little more controlled, less anxious. Your heart aches (metaphorically) against your ribcage, uncertain of her next step. Her breath smells of spearmint. You can still see the remnants of the tears in her eyes, albeit the pupils lack the desperation from earlier. The air in the room shifts. You can smell her shampoo and perfume being this close to her. Her breathing mingles against your face — so intimate, almost right.

The emotions just aren't there, despite her smile, despite your heartbeats. It's just empty — wrong cadence, scattered tempo, inflected tone.

"What the fuck am I doing?" you mouth. Eunchae doesn't notice it.

You just give in the moment her lips touch your skin, nonetheless.

You moan reflexively into the stillness of the recording area as Eunchae kisses the side of your neck. Your hands struggle against her back pathetically — raking, clawing against her sweater. Then, she pushes you against the black, soundproof foam — the same color as her leggings. Her height towers over you a bit. She nibbles and takes a mouthful of your skin greedily, and you can't help but whine again.

Everything is wrong. Everything is fucking wrong. Your ego and arrogance and self-respect are being undone by the person who's ambivalent about romance. The person you can almost call home is dismantling your mental state completely, and she's doing it with ease, and you just let her. You should protest. You should say no, but God, her lips are so soft against your skin, and her hands are undoing your belt now. Your pants come off with ease, revealing a raging bulge under your boxers.

"Flip me around and fuck me," Eunchae whines, pushing her leggings down onto the floor — brown panties, wet spot at her entrance. "I need it," and there goes her underwear as well, leaving her bottom half naked under the blazing heat of your studio. Her pussy is already drenched with juice, ready for your cock inside her.

Making it an equal ground, you force your boxers down your legs, and your cock springs free — so eager to fill her to the brim. You look into her eyes. What you find isn't love or affection, just burning lust.

And by God, it's just so desolate.

Music without emotion is, to say the least, soulless. You've listened to countless songs that were merely made to be a chart-topper and not a heart-wrencher, and you fucking swear that you'll never create anything like that. You've accomplished that so far in your career, musically, despite all the constraints of the industry. Now, physically, you're about to fail — lust for life, loveless, callous — just for a woman named Hong Eunchae.

You comply with her command, despite the protests of your rational side, despite all the confusion warring inside your heart. You flip her body around, and Eunchae is pinned against the soundproof wall, cheek touching the black foam. Her mouth opens for a whine to leak out of her lungs. Her eyes flutter shut — lustful, eager, but oh, awfully blank.

"Inside me," Eunchae orders, voice hoarse, "now."

Surgically, you push your cock inside her — zero teasing, zero foreplay — and Eunchae moans wantonly against the whirring sound of the heater sitting outside. Your body squirms from the tight comfort of her cunt. A moan leaves your lips, and you feel a flash of need to kiss hers run through you — to make her yours, to make you hers — but you don't act on it.

The movements are dreadfully mechanical — thrust in and thrust out. You grab her hips firmly, sometimes slipping under her sweater to feel her bra-clad nipples, making Eunchae squirm frantically. Your mind still imagines them as brown.

You've had your fair share of sex in the past, and those were intimate, full of affection. Right now, though, the score is terribly arranged — no kissing, emotionless. Your breaths are ragged from the action, sure. Your moans are filling the room, certainly. Your cheeks are red, surely. The line that Eunchae has drawn, however, it's killing you, and you just surrender to it so easily. What a tragedy.

Your orgasm feels less like bliss and more analogous to a checklist begging to be crossed out. It feels good with how Eunchae's cunt is fluttering around your cock. You like the smell of her perfume filling your nostrils — citrusy. All in all, though, it feels like a fucking dead end with her. There's no future. There's no love. There's nothing except for sex and a side of the thrill of fucking a member from one of the world's biggest girl groups.

The forthcoming physical doom of you comes close. It doesn't feel as good, but you accept the desolation in this studio with Eunchae — for the most part, at least. Her moans rise through the scale higher and higher with each thrust. You're having sex with her.

Just that.

"I'm, I'm gonna cum. Gonna cum on this cock," Eunchae rasps, cheeks flushing awfully red. "Don't you fucking pull out."

It's a riveting decadence when you burst inside Eunchae's pussy. Your spine stiffens as your fingers squeeze her pert tits, drawing an unrestrained whine out of her mouth. Your cock spills cum deep into her womb. At the same time, Eunchae gushes torrents of fluid onto the studio floor, wetting the foam, wetting the carpet. Her body shakes against yours uncontrollably as she sobs into the wall. Her pussy flutters around your cock, squeezing every single drop of semen from your balls. She lets you pin her against the soundproof material. She moans with your cock fucking her. She lets you cum inside of her.

And the best part of all this?

It's just casual.

The decline is atrociously violent without the buffer of your unreciprocated affection. The mental clarity hits you like a car crash, and you don't stay inside her for long. You pull out of her heaving, cum-drenched pussy almost out of contempt. Even if the sight is purely lewd, you scramble for your clothes as Eunchae detaches herself from the wall and finds her leggings on the floor instantly.

The two of you put on your clothes quietly. Not a single word is exchanged in the aftermath of you dispensing your seed into Hong Eunchae's womb. The corporeal remnants are there — trembles, breaths, scent of sex — but the mental residue is invisible between yourselves. It's a grey-colored core memory.

You arrange the last bit of your belt on your waist finally as Eunchae peers down at you, breathing slightly out of tempo. The height difference isn't stark — an inch. But perhaps with the utter self-loathing brewing inside your heart, you feel like you're an inch tall.

To avoid confronting the fact any longer, you take a brief glance at your watch — five minutes left for her session, therefore ten minutes of heartless debauchery — before stating, "We're late."

Eunchae chuckles, as if unfazed by the whole ordeal. "Okay," and she cups your face again, like that day at the dorm.

You dodge her hand, though. You know her heart just isn't there, and you fucking hate yourself for letting her use yours like that.

"We should," then a sigh. You're not in the mood for explaining yourself, you can't. The emotion inside your heart is flaring. "We should continue recording and get it done."

Eunchae steps back slightly, but still in your personal space — close enough that you can hear her breath. "Sure." Her minty breath hits your nose. You don't notice her expression anymore, too lost in your conflicting feelings.

And you walk away from her towards your roller chair, closing the door to the recording area. Eunchae gets herself ready again for another session of singing — this time with your cum inside her, this time with her bodily needs satisfied, this time with you being utterly aware that this cannot persist.

"Okay, I'll restart the song."

Your song — the one that's about unreciprocated love.

And devoid of any emotion, you press play.

[defmaybe]

emotion

eunchae x male reader

5.5k words

Igor_Dmitriev

0/100 (Remark: a lone number without the full score looks aesthetically better, but the numbers' font size will be too large for the writer's liking on Tumblr.)

"Bad bitch in between your teeth" Wth? How we went from Antifragile to this shit? Hybe should stop give them mediocre songs for TikTok, Le Sserafim deserves better kind of music

rbbaddie

25/100

no one eating from that stinky plate [Face with Tears of Joy]

rickyrickymom

42/100

if i see a single one of you hoes saying 'yOu gUyS jUsT hAtE fUn' i'm going to throw myself out the nearest window. spaghetti is a boring, derivative slop song, and pearlies isn't interesting enough to compensate for it. none of this is fun.

SPAGHETTI // 20

Pearlies // 65

You just fucked up — big time.

You genuinely thought it's fun — sexy bass line, addictive lyrics, j-fucking-hope. Though perhaps fun doesn't translate into positive audience reception and a lasting legacy. Alright, sure, the stream numbers are promising for now. The thing is going viral on TikTok and Instagram. People are shaking their heads to it.

Hybe is on your fucking ass.

Well, they're not actively on a manhunt for you, just on the verge of being banished into the shadow realm until morale improves. Perchance it's a few years, which, again, is a long time in this branch of industry. A group can debut and disband during the period. Idols grow up. And by the time you're back, you realize that you're not getting the call of duty anymore, at least from companies of your former stature.

You better hit the green with the next shot, whatever fuckass it's going to be.

(4 fucks in almost 150 words, way to go.)

Eat it up, eat it, eat it up

—

You have your accolades — credentials, feats — despite the youthful age of twenty-one years old. Your production is one of the best in this ruthless industry for Hybe: ENHYPEN's Go Big or Go Home, to NewJeans' ETA, to LE SSERAFIM's Ash. Call you a nepo baby with your mom's connections, you don't give many fucks about it, not that you search for her name everyday on Twitter. The scores and the praise are up there. That's the protein shake that has been letting you feed your ego upon — awful analogy, isn't it?

There are a few templates that you can borrow from: ANTIFRAGILE, Blue Flame, Eve, Psyche & The Bluebeard's Wife. To make it easy, you can just make another reggaetón, you can just make another nu-disco, you can just make another Baltimore club. Still, you're too far up your own ass to use the resolute formulas that are tried and true from other producers. You need new genres. You need something shiny. You need some undiscovered cadence and melody.

You want to be number one.

(You need a hit as well, but that's kind of the second priority. That kind of undermines the urgency of the earlier paragraphs, sure, but again, you're too arrogant to produce another generic, widely accessible dance-pop.)

(Another parenthesis just to say that HOT is in your On Repeat, despite all the disdain you have towards it, despite all the erroneousness that it represents about the music industry, despite the contradictions it's turning your life into.)

So, to set the scene, here you are, holing up in your room for the last three days, searching for the melody and rhythm to resurrect your career with, to be your royal flush. The deadline is far away, but you're a firm believer in not beating it by a small margin. You tinker and configure the tunes on your Ableton almost frantically. What the fuck is the current trend again?

You experiment a lot, certainly, possibly, even with how scattered your shots are, no matter how the audience reception might prevail as — house, R&B, even jazz is registered on your interface. You squeeze every drop of your originality onto the slate. Every chord is there. Every rhythm is there. Every word is there.

Still, nothing feels right.

You need air.

A session of showering like your dad taught you, and you're ready for a walk in this late-winter-and-early-spring weather. You go ride the elevator down from your floor's hallway. You walk out the door of your apartment building. You meet the chilly wind on the roadside. It reminds you of the spoken word preludes in LE SSERAFIM's EPs and albums for some reason.

Burn the bridge

Burn it all

Maybe it's the chatter of the people passing through.

Each step on the footpath turns the gears inside your head by a few degrees. They've been working together for the music that's pleasant to the ears for years, at least ante-Spaghetti — note after note, scale after scale, arpeggio after arpeggio. Your mind wanders through the possibilities of your career in regard to the next project's success: accomplished, passable, failure. The path in front of you is right there if you could just stop being such a snob about innovation and pioneering K-pop and—

"Producer?" a voice cuts through the air. You stop, frozen for a heartbeat. Not that you're not used to being recognized in public, you're just wary of the unforeseen consequences of talking to someone outside your company — corporate secrets and all. You adore talking about whatever you're doing right now (telling and not showing, a common pitfall, a fix is desired). You're so fucking proud of yourself (emotional dictation, again, a common pitfall).

You turn to the speaker, nonetheless, hands in your pockets that's surely not out of cold.

"Afternoon?"

It's Eunchae — the Hong Eunchae you failed a few months back, at least the version of her in the figment of your imagination; you've never asked her explicitly — out with the band, all five of them, plus two bodyguards.

"Oh, hey, afternoon, girls," you greet with the lilt of a weak duck.

The other members wave at you politely, while the guards just nod.

"You out for a meal?" Eunchae probes.

"No," and you pause. Your stomach growls the moment Eunchae mentions food. You haven't eaten since breakfast, and it's two post meridiem now. The answer changes into indefiniteness, "Maybe?"

Eunchae's lips curve up slightly into a small grin, looking cheerful as ever. "Wanna come with us?"

"Didn't we just eat?" Chaewon prompts, unconvinced.

"We can just stand in front of the restaurant while he eats!" Eunchae proposes. "And I completely forgot about the notion of street food."

The bodyguards and the other members are chuckling, while Chaewon just shrugs. "Should be a few at the square on our way back."

"I mean, I don't wanna be your deadweight. I can eat by myself, I promise," you decline out of considerateness.

—

Alright, maybe eating this kebab alone might be detrimental to your morale. Shit's fucking delicious with seven other people with you to talk about nonsense, five if you don't count the big, muscular bodyguards (why even bother describing them like this).

"Fuck mint chocolate, that's my stance," you state, mouth full of beef and tortilla-like wrap and all sorts of vegetables.

"So uncultured," Yunjin says, almost dismissing of your statement. "Bet you hate cherry Coke as well."

"I have a raging disdain for food experiments," you reply with a chuckle. "I like my plate, in music terms, cohesive."

Eunchae makes an audible sound of thinking before chiming in, "Wait, no, was gonna bring up Spaghetti, but your discography has been great aside from that."

"How rude," you humor — a twinge in your heart still. It's going to be a taint on your career from now on.

"And again, your words, cohesive," Eunchae continues. "Spaghetti, even if uninspired and TikTok-catering, remains united throughout the duration of almost three minutes."

"Here comes Hong Eunchae, the music critic," Sakura teases. "You should tell him your idea for the next comeback: shoe something, right?"

"Shoegaze!" Eunchae corrects. "It won't work here, though."

"Maybe he has some ideas, right, Mister Producer?" Yunjin encourages.

Oh, shit, yes, shoegaze, you haven't tried that one yet! The genre highly likely won't pass as the title track, but as a B-side, we're talking Blue Flame-level of music excellence! Your thoughts move towards the relatively experimental NMIXX's Fe3O4: FORWARD from last year — alt-pop, trap [EDM], contemporary R&B. Maybe it'll work, at least for one of the five songs.

"I'm listening," you say, locking eyes with Eunchae's, which are now gleaming with excitement about the genre that the anchors are My Bloody Valentine and Cocteau Twins (a bit of a run-on sentence, and quite a show-off from the writer).

She takes a deep breath and: "Do you know Hatchie?"

You're not really familiar with her. You like Sure, though. "A bit, I think."

"I'll send you her essential tracks," Eunchae says happily, whipping out her phone from her pocket, then:

notyoureunchae, 14:22: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/37i9dQZF1DZ06evO1RkXzf?si=0de09bd729194de4

You just double tap her message — a red heart.

(Also, she should've gone with this username for her public account, not hhh.e_c.v.)

—

The walk back to their dorm is you and the girls talking about more nonsense: the importance of mathematics, skincare routines, more mint chocolate bashings (from you, same reason: lack of harmony). The gears in your brain are turning greedily against one another, driving you into full operation with the brimming creativity coming from your conversations.

You're going to be on a goddamn roll when you're back at your apartment.

The eight of you reach LE SSERAFIM's dorm, eventually. You've been here a few times, showing them samples of their latest songs. It looks adequate for a group of their stature — a garden, a pool, a cozy appearance. Still, goodbyes exist, and the conversation becomes you and the girls and the guys bidding farewe—

"You wanna come in?" Eunchae invites before you can walk away.

You're taken aback slightly by the lack of reason for access. "For what?"

"Hanging out, maybe?" she answers with a shrug. "We have some Thai tea from, well, Thailand," and Eunchae giggles, earning more laughs from the other members and the bodyguards.

—

The glass containing an orangish substance (extremely likely Thai tea, as mentioned before) makes a clink sound against the table, and Eunchae settles herself beside you on the couch — not affectionate-close, not disgusted-far, in LLMs' words, just satisfactory. There's the sound of the heater running against the late-winter-and-early-spring air. The place smells floral from the air freshener, so lovely.

Your shoes are at the door. That's all the change in your outfit, while Eunchae has changed her clothes into a more casual tee and shorts. You've seen her in this look before, not complaining, though. It's heartwarming to have someone trust you this much, especially as a lone-wolf, youthful producer.

"You have your earbuds to yourself?" Eunchae asks, not saying AirPods because she doesn't use an iPhone.

You touch the outside of your pockets to find two objects on the left side: wallet and your AirPods case. "Yeah, Hatchie, right?"

"Yep."

You click the link Eunchae sent you earlier on Instagram, and you start with the first song: Carousel.

Play, and you sink into the sofa.

Eunchae is on whatever's on her phone as the song progresses. There's the hazy guitar. There are the dreamy vocals from Hatchie. There's the chilly rhythm from the drum kit. And if we're being honest, you think you can take something from it: undoubtedly the guitar. The vocals might be amiss in places if applied to the girls, but you might trailblaze the genre in South Korea! B-side it, and you get one of the best K-pop tracks ever. Your career is rejuvenated!

Carousel is followed by Sure, and Sure is followed by Back Into Your Arms with RINSE. The style is consistent throughout the tracks, but you don't feel jaded by these songs at all. God, why didn't you think of dream pop and shoegaze faster?

You keep listening to the playlist, gathering more information regarding the genre. Eunchae is still on her phone beside you, letting you bask in the emotion from Hatchie's music, and it helps, really. Your body relaxes into the sofa with each second that passes until you're at the deepest point you can get inside it.

"This is great," you say as you pull your right AirPods out by the end of the seventh track: Atonement with Winter (not that Winter). You're not wholly, utterly floored by Harriette Pilbeam, but this is good enough. "Anyone else I should listen to?"

Eunchae turns to you with a hum, then: "You are done already?" She looks confused as to why you've completed the two-hour-and-almost-a-half playlist so quickly.

"I think I have the idea of it," you reply, sliding Spotify away from your screen. You should probably leave now. Fuck, you haven't even touched the Thai tea. Okay, maybe you should try it. Why the hell is that orange so bright, though?

A sip — that's sweeter than you expected. You're strict with your diet, and it's apparent in your rather thin, lanky body. Sweeteners are restricted substances in your food.

"Alright, wow, this is sweet," you utter, not without another sip, though. Eunchae giggles. You think you like the smell of it — robust, unique.

"Was a little heavy-handed with the sugar, my bad," Eunchae apologizes with a cute smile, and you just have to backtrack your words about the drink a bit. She just looks too cute for the criticism.

"Not necessarily a bad thing, though," you say, and a sip turns into a gulp — addicted. In a sudden, you just downed an entire glass of Thai iced tea in front of Eunchae's eyes.

"Thanks!" she cheers, clapping softly.

You chuckle, setting the glass down on the table with a clink. "Okay, I'll leave now. Shit," and a moment of hesitation. "Again, anyone else I should listen to?"

"You're leaving already?" Eunchae speaks, almost not believing your words.

"I mean, I don't wanna disturb you guys too much, and I have to work, and I have to—"

"Come on, you're not disturbing us, and we can listen to," and Eunchae opens her Spotify. "Hold on, I need to find a shoegaze artist."

And against every rational, antisocial voice in your head, you wait. Maybe it's her unconditional fondness for the genre. Maybe it's her doe eyes. Maybe it's her thighs that you're staring at.

"The Radio Dept.!" Eunchae sings as she turns to you, and you're startled out of your short-lived, somewhat lusty trance. "Join my Jam!"

Okay, The Radio Dept. piques your interest, and Eunchae is practically begging you to stay with her all-cute face: again, doe eyes, pouty lips, sweet accents. How could you say no to that?

(There might be more Thai tea as well.)

You sigh, and you sit your lanky ass down on the sofa. Just for you, Hong Eunchae.

"Alright, I really love this compilation, so we can try this one first."

I Don't Need Love, I've Got My Band — the name stares back at you as Eunchae presses play, and you're greeted with the drums of Pulling Our Weight.

—

Time passes. It's probably half an hour by now since the start of the album, no, the compilation. You're at the pretty emotional and richly produced Let Me Have This, the last track. Eunchae hasn't made you another serving of Thai tea, and the ice cubes begin to melt in the glass. Your gulps don't really quench the thirst. The whole project is splendid, nevertheless. It's a perfect blend of electronic and shoegaze. You can definitely learn a thing or two from this going into your next session of dabbling with Ableton.

You look at Eunchae from time to time, seeing how she immerses herself into the music, sinking deep into the couch. Her fingers tap along to the beat on the fabric. Occasionally, she notices your eyes and smiles back at you.

The song ends eventually, and Eunchae immediately pauses the track before it gets the chance to move on to the next one. She sits up on the couch, leaving a faint print of her body on the cushion.

"Okay!" she utters, sliding Spotify away from her phone screen. She turns to you, making these presentation hands. "You're now well-equipped with the knowledge of shoegaze and dream pop for our next comeback!" she says grandiosely, eliciting a laugh from your lips.

"Thanks, Madam Hong," you say with a bow in your seat, and you rise to your feet finally. You've been dallying here for too long. You should leave!

Eunchae stands up along with you, though. The height difference is visible — you being shorter than her by an inch. You can smell her perfume from here — citrus-like — and you notice the small cracks in the lips. They look good on her. She looks down into your eyes. The gaze pins you in your place. Eunchae tilts her head a bit. You gulp. Is she going to say something?

With your predictive ability: "Yes, Eunchae?"

"Before you go," Eunchae utters, and she cups your face gently. Your eyes widen in shock. Her eyes soften into something quieter, instantly filling the air with tension.

Alright, wait, is she just going to kiss you? Did The Radio Dept. session leave her with an unresolved emotion? The cadence feels so wrong here. Is she really going to kiss a producer who once went against his principles for a TikTok-friendly track? (The stream numbers are juicy, still.) A shoegaze girl and an arrogant, borderline-antisocial multi-genre boy — that's fucking impossible.

Eunchae's eyes give you that assurance that she's going to kiss you, however.

Until she opens her mouth, and her breath smells like mint.

"I didn't do this just for you to do another shitass Spaghetti again, understand?" Eunchae says, and you jump. It's almost a growl, really.

You stammer, "Yeah, sure."

"Make a good song. I know you have it in you," she continues, and she just gives a kiss on your cheek — simple, just like that. Warmth blooms under your skin, akin to an orchid. The smell of her shampoo wafts into your nose momentarily as she pulls back, and you just stand there — stupid, awestruck.

She stares into your eyes, then: "I want you — so fucking bad," she says it so ardently, and you believe it.

You try to act all-charming and cocky amidst the conditional yearning. "Why not now? I'm right here," you chirp, albeit horribly trembling.

"I don't wanna fuck someone who just produced TikTok music," Eunchae replies with a chuckle. "You may leave now."

That's cruel, and to quote Hatchie to hammer the point home, to put salt in the wound:

Why did you do it?

You couldn't just laugh and walk away?

—

So, you're sitting in front of your Ableton again in silence.

Distorted guitar, dreamy vocals, distant drums — that's the task for your next outing, a B-sider. Shit's going to be revolutionary. You're going to be called a leader in the industry for digging up the formula from the nineties, just to get laid with Hong Eunchae.

You're puzzled as to why it takes this long for the genre, though. That shit's genuinely a crack.

—

A few weeks pass, and the comeback season rolls over again — mid-spring. One more time, your post-Spaghetti career is, to put it simply, on the line with this EP. Unfavorable (or polarizing) audience reception and you shall be exiled to the center of the Earth. So, no more Dubai chocolate matcha Labubu music.

Holing up inside your own apartment doesn't relieve the fact that Eunchae gave you an ultimatum — music-wise. You keep thinking about it, reminding yourself of her demand. And if we're being frank, it kind of drives you forward! You're so damn determined to create a piece of art that snobs are going to eat it up (bad reference), and to leave a lasting legacy for the next generations to come.

Of course, you talk to Eunchae from time to time since the kiss, and with another indication of honesty in rapid succession, you look forward to her appearing in your direct messages every single night.

notyoureunchae, 21:39: how you be

turnstyle, 21:40: still on it

turnstyle, 21:40: not another spaghetti trust

notyoureunchae, 21:41: nice

notyoureunchae, 21:41: ok tell me when it's done

notyoureunchae, 21:42: [Kissing Face with Closed Eyes]

Too shoegaze-ridden to reply, you just double tap the emoji, still a plain red heart. Can't help wondering about the prospects of your relationship, still. A part of you hopes that it blossoms against the current of this brutal industry.

Finally, the demo is there in your archive. No one has listened to it but you. A lot of effort was put into the production — guitars, drums, basses. You did a lot. It's a new realm that you've never explored before, and you've learned a fuckton from making this track, really.

turnstyle, 16:33: done

notyoureunchae, 16:34: splendid

turnstyle, 16:34: [Double Exclamation Mark]

notyoureunchae, 16:34: coming in tonight

turnstyle, 16:35: alright

Eunchae double taps the alright, two hearts.

Okay, to ground yourself physically for the nocturne: Hybe recording studio, with the women, the night is still young. The air smells like leather, and, to sound like LLMs, something that screams classiness. Chaewon, Sakura, and Kazuha aren't really used to the immensely immersive wall of sound. They make these confused faces over the song's duration. Still, you believe they'll get it, eventually. These three will understand why electronic-infused shoegaze is called for in their discography. You sound so fucking conceited, but it's necessary to be when you're on the brink of calamity. Yunjin looks a tad more receptive, nodding along to the slow beat. Eunchae, though, smiles, and you can't help but let yours escape your lips every time she utters yeah out of satisfaction.

"This is fucking rad," Eunchae says, removing the headphones from her ears as the song ends. "You get an Eunchae thumbs up," and Eunchae, well, gives you a thumbs up.

"You made it for Eunchae, didn't you?" Kazuha nudges, slapping your knee lightly. "Did you guys agree on a deal or something?"

Eunchae giggles. "Just told him not to make shit music, that's all." You find your sorrow in her words — mean.

Kazuha gives Eunchae these judging eyes, but perhaps finds no benefit in escalating into a fight over artistic opinions. "Fair enough," she says with a shrug.

Chaewon lets out an exasperated sigh before asking, "Okay, recording next week?"

"Yep, I'll inform you guys about the exact date by Sunday."

Chaewon gives you a nod, even if visibly tired. "Alright, that's a wrap for today. Let's meet at nine downstairs."

That's in thirty minutes, as if it concerns you in any way. The girls walk out of the studio one by one, with Yunjin trailing behind to take interest in some of the instruments. Eunchae, though, just settles herself on the couch in the corner lazily, and just like that day: it's you and her together, alone, again.

"You can just pick up the guitar. No need to tiptoe around," you state as Eunchae observes the room curiously.

"I'm just gonna wait until it's eight fifty-five, and I'll dip," Eunchae says while whipping out her phone from the pocket. "Can you play the demo again, though?"

You press play again, this time pulling the headphone jacks out of the holes. The room is instantly filled with the dreamy melody, a delicate brew of your guitar, voice, and drums. Eunchae is visibly delighted with the current product, nodding her head along to the sluggish beat of the demo. Her fingers are tapping the couch to the song's tempo.

"Could be an all-timer," she says against the noise coming from your speakers. "I knew you had it in you."

Your body relaxes into your chair at Eunchae's praise. You're ecstatic to hear the positive reception from her!

"Come sit here," Eunchae tells, patting the space beside her. You notice a shiny silver ring on her left middle finger. The leather on the couch is all creased from prolonged use through the years. That doesn't stop you from getting off your ergonomic roller chair and taking a seat by her side, however, and the cushion becomes compressed under your weight.

You lean back into the sofa, closing your eyes and letting the music envelop your body, letting its cadence soothe you. Eunchae does so as well. You can feel the shuffling on the leather beside you gently as she lies against the backrest.

"Guess your job is safe now?" Eunchae asks.

You smile, still with your eyes closed. "At least until the next comeback, yeah," you breeze, relieved. Again, if the music's poor on the next comeback, you'll get just one more chance to redeem yourself — rinse and repeat. Eunchae is at stake here, and you'll squeeze every drop of creativity out of your idea toothpaste, which is an utter fuckwit of an analogy again.

"That means I get to have you until this time next year, maybe?"

"Definitely," you reply succinctly, and everything tells you that Eunchae is smiling beside you. There's supposed to be nothing going wrong after this. Still, your brain chooses to focus on a certain part of the message.

Have you.

How does she see you, though? Since the dorm, since The Radio Dept., since the kiss — you can't quite ascertain your relationship with her.

I want you — so fucking bad.

"Eunchae," you utter, turning to her, and you point back and forth between you as her head lies idly on the backrest. "What are we?"

Eunchae sits up. Her eyes look into yours a little weakly, and you think you feel the cloud of uncertainty looming over her. The silence overstays its welcome at the relationship clarity resort. She's not ready for this question. You were too forte — too brave. It's invasive!

Eunchae opens her mouth. "I," and a pause — too long, perchance. Yeah, you were too brazen in your question. The melody is off. Still, a smirk that you can't register yet appears wide on Eunchae's face.

"My bad, I shouldn't—" and your train of speech is interrupted by Eunchae climbing on top of you sitting on the couch. Her legs are straddling your thighs firmly, and a surge of heat is crashing into you. Your brows clench. Your hands tremble. Alright, wait, what the fuck?

"I hate labels," Eunchae utters with a sly wink, and in that instant, you kind of concern about the predicament of emotional ambiguity you've gotten yourself into with Eunchae.

You have to give in to your lust, though.

So, between the loud walls of music in your (actually, Hybe's) studio. You're being restrained by the girl who's a little taller than you — an inch — the girl who made the puking noise in your last record, the girl who has been putting your heart into a whirlwind for the last few weeks. Your emotions are neither exactly reciprocated nor resolved. It is incumbent on getting at least one of them as soon as possible. The vagueness from this woman is killing you!

Eunchae doesn't physically stop just that, however.

She starts grinding promptly on top of your lap while staring dead into your eyes — somehow romantic with that deathly gaze — creating this punishing friction that courses through your entire body. You feel her heat throbbing against your lap. Your cock pulsates inside your pants wildly, begging to be freed from the fabric confines. Your eyes roll into the back of your head — kind of overstated but almost true still. Your hands start exploring her body as hers turn your physique into a playground. She mostly lingers on your chest, but with the dilation in her pupils when she looks at your mouth, the tease on your lips becomes apparent.

"Fuck, shit," you utter feebly, barely able to draft your voice into coherent words, and there it is, Eunchae plunges her left middle finger into your mouth. As cued, you start lavishing on the digit greedily. There's this taste of her skin — floral from the handwash. There's this metallic tang to the ring, and you're unsure if the element is going to poison you atop Eunchae's mental barrage. There's her nail grazing your tongue softly. There's her cute little moan leaving her lips into your ears.

And with all the sensations on your body, you feel like a—

"Bitch," Eunchae scolds, and you whine pathetically into her finger. You're a bitch — Hong Eunchae's bitch. "Do you like being called that?" she inquires knowingly. Of course, you'll say—

"Yes, yes, yes, fuck," you rasp against the undercurrent of music and Eunchae's left middle finger (too specific), mind cannot focus on a single thing anymore. "I'm a bitch." You're wholly overloaded at this instant by the entire ordeal, and your entire brain is reinforcing the notion of you being her bitch.

Not until now, you just notice the fabric that is her jeans rubbing against your sweatpants — good friction. Your hands slip under her olive black shirt — no bra. Her nipples harden against your fingers eagerly, yearning to be touched, ruined, and stirred. You imagine they're brown. Eunchae moans into the air that's thick with burning tension mindlessly with the euphoria on her frame, not before she probes you with another question, still.

"Whose bitch, huh?"

The voices that leave your mouth are now unintelligible. Just: "I'm your bitch, Eunchae," comes out firmly. "I'm yours."

Eunchae scoffs before pulling her finger away from the inside of your mouth. You notice a clear string of your spit connecting your lips and her digit, and you chase, only for her to pull away even further with that fucking devilish smile. She wiggles her finger in a no-no motion.

"Make me cum before eight fifty-five, and I might give you something," Eunchae commands; that's ten minutes left. Okay, wow, time passes pretty fast. Maybe she'll give you the emotional resolution you've been pursuing this whole time. So, you begin thrusting up onto her covered crotch. Eunchae's moans grow louder and less restrained this way. Her eyes flutter shut. Her fingers tremble on your skin, and you're more than elated to please her like this.

God, everything just feels so fucking right.

Eunchae's moans are still climbing the scale, each one indicating the proximity to her climax that she gets closer and closer on top of your lap. For you, you've never thought dry-humping would make you cum; you've never thought dry-humping would be this incredulously hot, and in the present, now, you're about to wet your pants with your cum!

"Goddamn, I'm close," Eunchae hums, eyes locking with yours, and in that instant, you feel some kind of raw, genuine connection with her, even if it's so short-lived. Perhaps it's the side of her that she has been hiding for the past few weeks. The kiss doesn't follow it, but there's surely something behind her eyes — vulnerability?

Your body feels the surge of orgasm running through, and as jokey as it is, fuck your trousers, really. You're gonna drive home with cumstains on them like a real man, and Eunchae's gonna ride the van back to her dorm with squirtstains on her jeans like a real woman. Fuck it if the other members see it. The climaxes of your bodies edge closer with each second that passes, time to cum!

Eunchae whines, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fu—"

"Hello, I'm just here to—oh my fucking God!"

You open your eyes to see Eunchae scrambling over herself and Yunjin standing at the door that is ajar.

Shit.

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck.

Her mouth is opening in sheer shock — not disgusted, just utterly, completely shocked. You freeze, of course you can't move. Your cock aches badly in your pants to no avail, and you're pretty certain that Eunchae's cunt is throbbing with need as well. Fucking Yunjin's here to ruin your day (as if you'll get any psychological clarity once you cum with Eunchae). Your hands detach themselves from Eunchae's pert chest. Your bulge is painfully visible. Your mind is shattered.

Shit.

Fuck.

Yunjin closes her mouth, gulps, and walks out of the door frame as if trying to bury the event she just saw two meters below, leaving you and Eunchae in the awkward silence that's measly decorated with your decelerating heartbeats and ragged breaths.

"I should go," Eunchae quickly hides the awkwardness, though it doesn't really do much. It's fucking messy right now. She stands up with a small, visible wet spot on her crotch before she hastily exits the room.

The music is still bouncing off the walls of Hybe's studio, and you just sit there — stupid, emotionally drained, and alone. It's almost nine. The room almost reeks of sex and you and Eunchae.

God, you know real life doesn't always have resolutions, but bloody fucking hell, you'd sacrifice your soon-to-be rejuvenated career for one with Eunchae right now.

(Would've been a glorious end to the first part of a story, wouldn't it? Maybe the gods will be kind to you.)

Fin.

[valentinedrifter]

Snippets with Chaeryeong: Robust

male reader x Lee Chaeryeong

~2.4k words

A Sequel to Theatrics.

A/N: Short fic Valentine era officially comes to a close as the last fic of 2025! Hope everyone's enjoyed the holidays and are ready to welcome 2026!

Enjoy.

“Chaery, you know I love you right?”

“Mhm.”

“And you know I spent two hours on this, right?”

“Yep!”

“And you still wanna do this?”

“We can always have it replaced, love. Seven day refund, remember?”

She says it like she'll be the one explaining why you're returning a defective table you bought not even twenty four hours ago because your wife had the brilliant idea of fucking you on top of it.

Let's rewind a bit.

After the trial run as you've dubbed it, it's somehow become a weekly thing for the both of you to re-enact some sort of scene from the world of pornography.

One week she was a cowgirl saving you from a gunfight (shootouts from movies played on your TV). The other you were a doctor diagnosing her with a made up virus with the only cure being your cum (you shouldn’t have left your books scattered around). Just last week you two decided to try the infamous I'm stuck trope using your laundry machine.

You're not complaining; if anything you’re thankful, hell, overjoyed this is happening. Your sex life has never been better, Friday nights are now an even more anticipated day. Aside from the bi-weekly payroll your bank account is receiving, Chaeryeong is also taking your cock while being some sort of whatever the role demanded of her.

And while this was an odd way to test out your new furniture's durability, you'll do anything for your wife.

Which is how you ended up flat on your back on top of the brand new dining table you had bought, screaming about—

“Help,” you call out lazily, flailing your arms up in the air and looking around your room. Chaeryeong was nowhere in sight, telling you that she needed to change upstairs. Only telling you to begin the act with a text on your phone. And you do, continuing your enthusiastic cries for help.

Your pocket buzzes again. A quick peek greets you to another text.

Wife <3:Love.

And that was enough to tell you to start trying now or else she’ll get all mad and pouty at you for not playing along.

You sigh. You: Fineeeeee

A good minute of screaming along the lines of please help, I’m drowning you hear the clack of heels coming down the staircase. A quick turn of your head towards the sound makes your jaw drop.

Thighs.

Pale, meaty, head crushing thighs. You can almost pass them off as earmuffs. Every step makes them ripple, and you’re no longer miffed at her antics. It had you in such a headlock that you nearly missed the midriff swaying in front of you, getting closer and closer until you can smell her perfume. 

That musky vanilla that’s never failed to get you outright feral.

“What’s this?” Her hands brush along your legs, up to your chest. “A survivor?”

Right, you were role playing. You look up to her face, all smiles hiding the perverted thoughts you know she’s having right now. She couldn't not be, when she’s all dolled up for you and her fingers are caressing your chest.

“Y-Yeah,” you utter, completely captivated by Chaeryeong. It wasn’t like she was wearing anything flashy. A cropped sweater and a pair of shorts riding up her waist. Added in a pair of thigh straps that you are dying to get your hands on. But there’s something so sexy about it, about how she holds herself that makes the entire thing stick out and brick your brain.

She sits down on the edge of the table, her thigh right next to your face. And you swear to god, that made them fuller than they should’ve been. “Aren’t you a cutie,” she flatters, your fingers moving up to cup your cheeks, turning you away from her meaty thighs and back up to her gaze. “You need my help, hmm?”

“Uh-huh.” Your brain’s still playing catch up, and she knows it. Giggling and poking your cheek, enjoying every second of your being utterly braindead over her. You shake your head, eyes blinking, remembering that you’re still acting. “I mean, yeah. Our ship got wrecked and I-uh, must’ve gotten knocked out or something. I just woke up in the middle of the ocean and here I am.”

You glance around your living room. Not a body of water in sight. Only the ground, the table, and Chaeryeong.

She grins, moving to straddle you. She leans in dangerously close to your face, and you take a deep breath just to control yourself. “And how do you suppose you want your help?” she asks, poking your nose. She’s laid flat on your chest, doe eyes looking at you. Rolling her hips back, unable to hide your hard on.

“Maybe some uh–” You gulp, licking your lips, attempting to regain some semblance of rational thought. “Some shelter, or food I guess?”

Once again you are reminded why this was a great idea, when Chaeryeong wiggles her ass on your crotch. You tense up, a groan sounding out of you as her hands brace on your chest, pushing herself upright.

“That'll come with some really hard consequences,” she purrs, grinding harder, her hips hypnotizing you. It’s all you can think of anymore, watching them roll in front of you, right there on your cock. “You think you can handle it?”

“Anything you want, Chaery,” you grit out, hands coming up to hold that waist of hers. Wanting to feel them in your hands as they move. Her own comes down to the hem of your shorts, unfastening the strings and making them come loose.

“Anything I want, huh?” She doesn’t pull them down. Instead she stands up, on top of you. On top the table. Drawing her legs in, one by one, slipping her heels off. She tosses them to the floor, giving you a smirk before she starts up a little show. 

Swaying side to side, twirling, dipping down and popping her ass out at you. She immerses herself in it, feeling herself in the dance. You don’t even know if this was still part of the act or not, and at this point you couldn’t care less. Not when the view is breaking your will to think properly again.

You don't even care that the table hasn't broken down because of your weight. Or that this whole thing is bordering on a possible accident waiting to happen. 

Chaeryeong bites her lip, popping one button off her shorts. And another, until she turns around. She looks back at you and wiggles her eyebrows, a grin forming on her face as she slowly shimmies them down. She takes her time with it, letting the blue lace underneath peek out bit by bit until it finally comes down, kicking the shorts away.

You don’t hear a word she says when she turns around because your thoughts are, for a lack of a simpler way of forming them, all fall in the category of when the fuck did she buy crotchless panties. You don’t even realize she’s pulled your entire lower half of clothing down until you feel her hands stroking your cock.

“Love?” she asks, stopping everything to look at you with concern. “You alright? You were spacing out.”

“I’m okay.” You shake your head, finding Chaeryeong on top of you once more, ready to take you in her dripping cunt. God, she wants this just as much as you do. “I just–wow.”

Chaeryeong giggles, her worry dissipating over knowing that you were simply in awe at her. “Thought it'd be appropriate,” she admits, jerking you off lazily. “With our whole roleplaying thing. Makes it easy to do this–”

Heat engulfs your length, a sigh releasing over her mouth. Stretching her out gradually, inch by inch until you’re sheathed completely inside of her. Chaeryeong lets the moment pass, letting herself adjust to your cock. Her gaze focuses on you, expression full of perverse affection for you. “Hi daddy.”

You chuckle. “Hi princess–” you let out a hiss as she starts to rock her hips, a hand on your chest, another on your knee to steady herself. She was toying with you, taking enjoyment seeing you squirm underneath her because it was such a rarity for her to see it.

Sure, you lose your shit over her every day of the week, especially when she starts with the outfits and the acting and the goddamn perfume of all things. But it normally always ends up with her on her back and getting fucked until she sees stars. And it wasn’t like she doesn’t want it, you know she loves it like that.

So seeing her have fun in taking the reins once in a while brings a smile to your lips. She looks so enraptured over the simplest things, allowing her this. Fucking herself on your cock at her own pace, watching that waist of hers move like she’s dancing.

She’s aware that you’ll take over at some point. You can almost see it in her eyes. The hunger underneath the love, waiting for you to roll her over the table and use her like the good girl she is.

Besides, you’ll do anything for your wife. And if letting her enjoy this means keeping her happy, then you’ll happily let her ride the utter fuck out of you. 

Doesn’t mean you can’t have your own fun.

Chaeryeong gasps when you thrust your hips up. “Daddy,” she whines, her rhythm broken by one single motion. “Don’t–Don’t butt in–”

“Why not?” You cut her off with another thrust, one that makes her mewl. “Think you’ve had enough fun.”

“I–I’m being good,” she pants, yelping when you pull her closer, your arms wrapping around her body. Her moans are near symphony in your ears as you start to fuck her now. “Daddy please–”

“Please what?” you whisper, pressing kisses on her neck, the urge to leave a mark on that pale skin rising. Your thrusts get faster, your feet planting themselves on the furniture. “Say your words properly, princess.”

“Let me cum daddy, please. Want to–want to cum.” Her thighs press closer, tensing you against you. “Seeing you want me so bad turned me on so much, daddy. Please, I'm so close–”

You grant her wish, your hips pushing up into her. Deeper, faster, hitting that one spot that makes her lose her mind. And the immediate collapse of her limbs let you know just how much it affects her.

“Daddy–” She chokes up, gasping and sobbing and mind completely fucked as she freezes up and starts to shake. Her pussy gets unbelievably tight, and her hands wrap around your neck, her hair obscuring your vision in exchange for a whiff of her scent and her screams of pleasure. 

It’s that combination that drives you insane with her. Her juices gush out of her, spilling onto your thighs as you rut away. Unyielding in your thrusts, making her sob in the overstimulation. Your hands meet the curve of her ass, squeezing her asscheeks as you pound her right into another orgasm.

“Da–Daddy, wait—” There’s tears in her eyes, squeezing shut as she feels another wave of pleasure crash over her. Hitting her entire frame and shaking her, another squirt of her warmth wetting you even more. “I-I can’t—”

“I thought you wanted to cum, princess.” You hilt yourself deep, pausing in your assault. Chaeryeong’s heaving, desperately trying to regain some form of strength from surviving two orgasms back to back. “Or do you not want to anymore? Is that it? Want me to stop making you cum?”

She shakes her head, squirming in your grip. “I–I want—” Your hips push upwards, just once. Just enough to keep her on her toes. “Want your cum daddy. Want it all over my tummy. I’ll clean it all up like a good girl after too. Please daddy, please please pleasepleaseplease—”

You roll her over to the side, a whine escaping her as you pull out and find your footing on the ground. “Come here, princess,” you order, stroking your cock slowly.

She scrambles, moving closer to you, legs opening wide, hooking her arms underneath to keep them apart. Lining you up with a perfect view of her wet cunt, leaking her juices. You push forward, back into her warm embrace, your hands pressing against her thighs as you get back into fucking your wife.

You don’t last long. Not when her walls are trying to milk you. Not when her moans and her words of fuck me, daddy. Till you cum, till you paint my tummy white. are all what you can hear. Not when her pleading face is begging you. 

Doesn’t mean you can’t give her one last crash of cloud nine.

Your hips won’t stop moving, can’t stop hammering into Chaeryeong. Willing yourself to hold on a bit longer, enough to make her roll her head back and scream. Her thighs tremble as she creams all over your cock, her pussy clenching tight. And that was all it took to end you.

A few lasting thrusts into her and you pull out, inching as close as you can get to her. Stroking yourself frantically before you groan and unload all over her stomach. Her pale skin gets even whiter, sticky blobs of your load covering her skin. Getting all over that smooth canvas that you call her tummy.

And she just watches. Panting heavily, barely able to focus back from the high of her climax as splashes of your cum land all over her stomach, strays of them staining her top, her sleeves, panties. Completely covering her, ruining her top as your seed dribbling as you jerk the last of your load onto her. 

“There’s so much–” A finger comes to scoop up a some of your cum, bringing it to her lips to lick it off. “Fuck, love. You really love my outfit that much?”

You laugh. Of course she knows how fucked you got from what she wore. “I love it because you’re the one wearing it. Might have to throw that top away though.”

She blushes, grinning bashfully. “I like this top,” she says, laying back on the table.

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“So daddy can cum on it again?”

“I mean, if you want–”

A playful kick answers you, and you stumble backwards with a chuckle. You were about to ask her if she needed a tissue, but she waves you off.

“I’ll clean daddy’s cum like a good girl.” is what she says, stretching on the table and emphasizing her glazed belly, her fingers coming to collect all your seed and cleaning them off with licks and sucks.

You simply watch and enjoy the front row seat, until it hits you:

What do you know, the table didn’t break.