a girl like you ˶ the vanquishing general
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ synopsis. you've been pining after feixiao since... forever now, basically. she's tall, hot, muscular—and she plays for the women's basketball team of your college. plus she has the best abs in town. a shame a girl as hot as her would never entertain the notion of reciprocating your feelings... right?
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ chemistry between. transfem basketball player!feixiao + meek afab!reader
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ warnings. mdni. wc ~14k, modern au, corny behavior, fluff, excessive(?) pining, brief jealousy, oral (r receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, squirting, p in v sex, light teasing, pet name usage, multiple orgasms, not proofread oops
The refining squeaks of basketball shoes sounding out against a finely lacquered court rang thoroughly within and throughout your eardrums, and it’s a sound you’ve gotten used to for reasons that have nothing to do with you, specifically, being on the court and on the mainline of action. Sequenced shouts meant to catch the attention of allies on offense—”Here!”, “Pass it!”, “I’m open!”—too, register in your mind, but you find your focus is not on them, as much as it is on one woman in particular.
She stands out quite damningly, and while you know that not everyone’s focus is akin to your own when regarding her, you wonder how such a fact is even a possibility when someone so effortlessly striking is on the court—and dominating her opponents, no less. Feixiao’s a vision, one you never wish to take your eyes off of. With your positioning being front-row of the opposing college’s stadium, the sight of her—adorned in the flimsy fit of her white-and-baby-blue basketball jersey and shorts, #7 the number upon its sweat-laden, polyester satin fabric—is a fairly close one. Drool, thick in its consistency, floods your mouth, and you feel the way blood travels north throughout your body, heating your cheeks, the back of your neck, and parts of your chest.
You meekly cheer when she shoots and scores, just as a friend with a vaguely conceited view of life and its wonders would—a large contrast to how everyone else cheers for the team when they, "as a whole," score a point. Despite the reserved, closed-off nature of said cheers, Feixiao still manages to hear them over the sound of the rest of the stadium’s hoots, still locks eyes with you every so often as if silently reminding you that, no, she hadn’t forgotten about you, even in the midst of a stressful game such as this one. She smiles at you, lips curling into a toothy and horribly cocky grin, every time you two make eye contact. It, on that same note, has your blood boiling south, an uncomfortable heat pooling at the apex of your thighs. It’s a heat that only worsens, really, with how you squeeze your thighs together every so often to somewhat ease the dull pulse that resonates at their crest. You know that when you return to your dorm room later on, you’ll wait until your roomie has gone to sleep to pleasure yourself, all while stalking the posts on Feixiao’s Instagram she—and her muscles—look especially good in. You feel ashamed thinking about it, and you know your shame will only worsen when the time comes to relieve yourself…
But you find yourself unable to care, at the moment, as you lock eyes with Feixiao yet again. A soft whimper rumbles low in your throat as you squeeze the fat of your thighs together—harder, this time—once more. This time, you don’t allow them to ease their pressure against your core—it’s the only thing keeping you from suddenly leaving the stadium to find somewhere that wasn’t your dorm room to relieve the pressure building, building, and building in your lower abdomen. You snap out of your less-than-favorable thoughts not on your own accord, but with the help of your friend who sat beside you giving you a light nudge to your shoulder. She asks if you’re okay when you slightly start at a gesture that wasn’t at all meant to scare you, and you offer her a nod and a lame excuse as to why you were spacing out. Lame, yes—but not lame enough for her to not take the bait. Her naivety has you releasing a muted sigh under your breath, and you silently will yourself to no longer get lost in your thoughts in the time that you’ll remain here and near Feixiao.
It is now that you wait just outside of the girls’ locker room entrance, the sufficiently-lit corridor silent in a way that has your thoughts filling said silence with an uncomfortable amount of Feixiao, babble, and more Feixiao, and your head hurting from the brightness of the lights overhead, even though they aren’t particularly bright to begin with. Your friend has long since left with her friends, and the buzz of the game—won without second thought—lingers under your skin, secondhand pride oozing from your every pore at the notion of your college’s team having won yet another basketball tournament. Everyone on the team had played respectively well, but you only—selfishly—think of one person who’s worthy of openly waxing lyrical about. She takes the form of the woman who now stands in front of you with an eager expression painting her features and a damp towel around her neck, paying no mind to the other women of the same team, too, making their way out of the locker room after having thoroughly gathered their after game bearings and prepared for the bus ride back to campus.
You give her a soft, shy smile in return, hands ever-fidgety despite your inwardly vain attempt at having them remain still now that the woman of every dream you’ve ever dreamed was face to face with you.
“Hello there.” You greet, cadence a lullaby to the woman who stood before you. Her smile brightens the longer she looks at you, and you feel as though making eye contact with someone as radiant as Feixiao is the equivalent of making “eye contact” with the sun. It burns, truly—but in all of its shining glory and greatness, you find yourself unable to look away.
“Hey, hey,” Feixiao greets in turn, “Can’t believe you’re still here.”
Your expression shifts into one of confusion. “You can’t? I’m always here after your games, though…?”
“Yeah, you are. Just…– You know, it’s low key late right now. Like, what—ten, almost ten-thirty? Isn’t it past your bedtime, or am I tripping–”
“Don’t start.” You cut her off before she can continue on with her bull crap tirade, an eye roll and a huff of pseudo-annoyance following suit. Your gestures done out of playful annoyance garner a hearty laugh from Feixiao, and she engulfs you with one muscular arm around your shoulders, roughly shaking you to and fro in her embrace, and your body, against your will, complies to the harsh demands of her muscled arm like you were nothing more than a rag doll. You, in your indignation at the suddenness of the action, squeal. It wasn’t the most dignified sound you’ve made since having met her, but you’re unable to care all too much about how embarrassing the sound you just made was since you’re currently face-first in the bedewed skin of Feixiao’s uncovered, broad, and equally muscled chest via the especially unwanted help—hurt, even—of the tank top she was wearing.
Her collarbone smells of soap and laundry detergent, and your ears finds themselves ringing as the previous dull pounding of your head comes back with a renewed vengeance, hitting you at full-force and taking the initiative to replace its once-dulcet title of “dull pounding” with a perfervid and much more fitting moniker of “resounding ache,” instead. If you were to possess a superpower that enabled you to die whenever and wherever you wanted to on command, you truly would be nothing more than a rag doll right now. But you don’t have superpowers, so dying here, in Feixiao’s arms, wasn’t an option. So, in lieu of death, you take to swatting at the larger woman’s shoulders, back, biceps—any part of her body that would push the “let me go, you dunce” rhetoric as soon as possible, seeing as you couldn’t speak with how your mouth was smooshed against her skin.
The dunce obliges to your wordless command, but not before she musses your hair with one large hand to further spite you. Her impertinent behavior has you grumbling, and one of your hands comes out just one last time to strike her, this time aiming at Feixiao’s ribcage, whilst the other quickly dealt with the mess that was now the hair atop your head for the time being. Feixiao cries wolf just before you hit her, and scrambles to cover your chosen attack site with her hands. She successfully manages to lessen the blow of your physical retaliation… which has you feeling less than stellar, and has her feeling all the more self-venerated at having thoroughly ruffled your feathers. With a smile no less bright than before, she checks the watch wrapped around her wrist and scoffs at the numbers perceived.
“Ah,” a sigh, “darn. I gotta head out, like, now.” A pout of feigned frustration, an eyebrow furrow of discontent—yes, the whole nine yards, this woman uses, to express how utterly forlorn she is at the idea of having to leave. Feixiao didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay here, with you—fuck with you a bit more. Keeping looking at how pretty the expressions you made were when she did something to annoy you—
“But!” She exclaims suddenly, reeling herself from those treacherous, damned thoughts with the way her head perks with a seemingly newfound fervor, tips of her ears steadily twitching atop her noggin, “Hey! You’re still up for being my study-buddy, right? Your schedule’s still relatively free? I hope so; we can hurry and work something small out, like… tomorrow, if so. I’m free all day, basically—but I don’t wanna spend all my time studying.”
Her words—petulant in their delivery—have you raising a brow in confusion. “You don’t want to spend all of your time studying?” You repeat, tone incredulous. “Shouldn’t you want to do that, though? Spending all your time studying, I mean—there’s not much time until finals arrive and—” A finger belonging to a hand that was not your own comes up to smush your lips together right before you finish speaking.
“Aht, aht. Don’t remind me. I know.”
…The utter audacity of this woman, to smush her finger against your lips to shush you! You— You haven’t a clue where the hell her hands have been—and simply thinking about that fact makes you want to gag. You slap the offending limb away from your face with a scoff, a scowl twisting your features this way and that. It wasn’t an expression that left a particularly biting impression—how could it? This was you, we were talking about. To Feixiao, there was nothing biting about little ol’ you. The worst you could do was… swat at her—maybe even tell her off, if you were up to it.
Another glance at the watch upon her wrist has Feixiao grimacing, and before either of you know it, she’s jogging down the corridor, head arced over her neck to look back at you as she went, hands waving you an ecstatic goodbye as she spoke.
“I really gotta go, now! Let’s hang out tomorrow, ‘kay? Get something to eat, have fun around campus—whatever you want! Text you later!”
The notification comes as a surprise, especially in your arousal-dazed state of mind. You hadn’t meant to open it, either—the message got in the way of your… research, per se.
You feel as though you’ve been caught red-handed. The embarrassment that comes with the notion of getting yourself off to your best friend’s Instagram posts is already overwhelming in and of itself—but having her text you in the midst of said getting off to her photos? The word "overwhelming" doesn’t even begin to describe the assortment of emotions the concept brings. The feeling of the additional warmth your hand brought to the already-warm flesh of your core leaving its place within the ruined confines of your panties causes you to wince, and you silently curse the foxian for having the nerve to text you whilst you relieved yourself—even if you knew she hadn’t a clue you were doing what you were doing.
Any other time, you might’ve replied with something other than a question mark. A “What?” or “Huh?” usually sufficed, but you weren’t reluctant to internally admit that your patience had been thoroughly run slim through the grating set of events that’d unfortunately taken place yesterday, and all you wanted to do now was to—excuse your French—jack off to… your hot best friend without interruption—no matter who said interruption was from!
Any more texts sent to harass you aren’t read—you make do with closing out of the chat before she sends anything else stupid or the phrase “headache-inducing” incarnate. Your lustful mood and thoughts alike hadn’t exactly been damped by her interruption, but your bashfulness most certainly increased tenfold. Back to Instagram, it was—back to wishing you two had more than the measly title of “friends” labeling your relationship, back to drooling over a woman who you knew would never see you as anything more than a friend. It was a troublesome thought—maddening, even. You hated the thought of Feixiao dating another, being as friendly with a stranger (a girl prettier than you, perhaps. Better than you in whatever ways mattered to the woman, so much so that she’d find herself accompanying “her” rather than you in her free time) as she was with you. It wouldn’t be right to say that you weren’t jealous, albeit the thought of admitting that you were, in fact, jealous has your chest aching in frustration. Jealous? You? Of some hypothetical suitor of whom looked nothing like you and was entirely more easygoing than you were? A silly sentiment.
But "silly" didn't negate the truth, did it? It didn't, you knew that. The reluctant acceptance of this knowledge lingered in the forefront of your mind, and it took all of whatever efficacy you were able to muster from within the depths of your soul to continue on with your reprobate actions without feeling all too much guilt. Guilt would pass with enough time… raging sexual arousal would not (you've been through enough experiences like this to know it would not, pessimism aside); it was the least you could do for yourself.
In your frustration, you horribly overestimate your longevity…. and wind up with unheralded soreness down below when waking up. Not only had you felt uncomfortably sticky amid your awakening, but now you also had to deal with the byproduct of your overzealous tendencies front row for the first time in a while—you usually overestimate yourself when it comes to things like actually putting in the work to study late night, resulting in an entirely too tired you of whom not even the "finest" of energy drinks—or radiant women named Feixiao—could wake from the innate graveyard planted in your mind, lest you got some semblance of sleep first. And, to be frank, you'd much rather take sleep-deprivation over the grisly ache lingering medial at the apex of your thighs. But you've long since learned that simply wanting something would never mean you'd be deserving of whatever said "something" may have been, and it's why and how you find yourself how you are now: hair slightly damp and wrapped laxly within the micro clothed confines of a towel, skin smelling vaguely of the body wash you used to clean yourself in the communal shower alongside the lotion you lathered across its expanse after the fact. You felt clean. Renewed, even—almost as if last night (earlier this morning if semantics mattered) hadn't happened, hadn't even been a concept.
Almost.
The thought lingered. Lingered so horribly, in fact, that you couldn't bare looking at Feixiao for more than 2.786 seconds approx. without feeling like you were about to combust into flames. It was a fact Feixiao, too, noticed—spontaneous combustion and the weirdly calculated inference of how long your gaze upon her burned before the ember was self-extinguished put aside—and also felt guilty about. Today was supposed to be a fun day… yet any and all semblance of "fun" had long since made its departure, opting to, instead, have awkward silence and debilitating conversation take its place.
The two of you concurrently decided that you would start your day off with some breakfast together, which then proceeded into the afternoon—spent taking what would have been a reviving walk around campus, if not for the suffocating undertone of tense, tense, and more tensity plaguing the air you two shared. Moderately-sized paper bowls full of ice cream also accompanied you two on your walk—Neapolitan for Feixiao, vanilla for you—and the ice cream on its own had the chance to be as greatly revitalizing as was the walk… but was also deterred in its success at the hands of the tetchy atmosphere. Feixiao forgot to grab a complimentary wooden stick available for scooping the ice cream before she left the establishment, so she uses her tongue to scoop the dessert into her mouth instead; chocolate first, strawberry second, vanilla last—all in that order. It isn't the most graceful thing in the world, but it was the only option available for her, considering she declined your request that you two turn around and go back to the ice cream shop so she could grab herself a utensil.
The sight is a goofy one: Feixiao, individually scooping the ternarily-flavored sweet treat into her mouth using her tongue, occasionally getting ice cream on the tip of her nose or the jut of her chin, only to then swab it off with help of her navy blue t-shirt. There was a certain charm the woman possessed, one that seemed effortless in its authenticity. You deeply appreciated her antics, no matter how many vehement denials you made claiming otherwise when she teased you about your obvious inclination toward her flighty behavior. You've caught yourself staring at her more often than you'd like to admit while on this walk, and every single time you do catch yourself, you're quick to inwardly reproach your pathetic tenor. You also hate to admit that Feixiao's done a phenomenal job at cheering you up on your hangout so far, though minuscule bits of shame still vaguely tarry throughout small cracks and crevices in your mind.
Feixiao, on the other hand, inwardly hoped she hadn't done anything wrong. Prayed, even. You were usually much more lively than this, even if said version of liveliness was meek esprit. Today… Today seemed like one of those days where you clearly spent too much time worrying about something academic the night before—an upcoming exam, a heavily weighted assignment you were most certainly sure you'd failed (despite having yet to make anything below a 93% on any of your graded assignments, not to mention your taxing tendency to study until you no longer can), making sure that the partners you'd gotten for group work had done their segment of the project according to the syllabus' standards, the like. And Feixiao? Feixiao believes that she is to blame for your gloominess; perhaps the texts she'd sent you last night really ticked you off, seriously fucked with your focus? You'd always been dry over text—Feixiao equated your behavior to be typical you stuff; what reason was there to feel discontent at your concise, frank replies through text if she personally knew just how plainspoken you could be corporally? Though, despite her reasoning, the severity of your dryness last night is yet to fail in making her feel anything but uneasy.
You sneak a side glance at her as you scoop your ice cream into your mouth, optics peering through the silk of your lashes to take her in for the nth time this evening. The sun beats down on her wonderfully, painting her tresses in blinding shades of fiery, neon white and lighting the teal of her irises incandescently. Inanity aside, Feixiao, much like in the midst of her competitions, was a vision in the sun, anywhere, really; one you wished to never look away from.
Suddenly, the continuously melting ice cream inside of her bowl glides its way down from its previously stationary position at the base of the bowl, and Feixiao is far too slow in her attempt to move it from her face's trajectory before its contents splattered across her skin... and with a muted plop!, a good bit of Feixiao's lower face is coated in multi-hued ice cream. She lets out something of a whine, abruptly keeling over to prevent the confection from stickily trickling its way downward and perhaps getting onto her shirt. You snort, the hand holding your flat wooden scoop abandoning the item in your ice cream bowl to cover your mouth and vainly hide the fact that you were, in fact, laughing at a situation that was totally not funny.
Feixiao's ears twitch at the sound of your stifled laughter, and she isn't hesitant to admit that the sound warms her chest and has butterflies swirling in her stomach for reasons beyond embarrassment. She'd been waiting for some sort of affirmative, silent or otherwise, that'd let her know if you were alright—that everything between you was okay. No matter that the affirmative was given in the form of you laughing at her plight, the fact that you laughed at all was all she needed. She sends a glare your way, meant to convey how she felt about you laughing at the less-than-favorable situation she put herself in: utter chagrin.
You don't stop laughing when she glares at you through the corner of her eye. On the contrary, you laugh even harder, having long since forsaken the notion of stifling your joy. It has Feixiao's cheeks heating with… with something other than embarrassment, not unlike the butterflies in her stomach and the warmth in her chest.
"'S not funny…" she snarls through gritted teeth, hand coming to wipe away the mess, tongue darting out to lick the mess away from her hand right after like she was some sort of dog. "Stop laughing!"
About three minutes pass, all of which you spend laughing at Feixiao, all of which she spends cleaning her face off and whining about how "annoying" you were for laughing at her struggle instead of offering to help. By the time she's done, Feixiao's face is squeaky clean—an impressive feat coming from a woman who only had her hands and tongue assist her in cleanup. Before you know it, the funny moment is over… and Feixiao stands tall before you, sucking off the last sticky vestiges that remained of the mess from her index finger.
"I hate you," she slurs through her finger, reaching out with the same hand she'd just used to clean herself with to shove you. "You're the worst."
"Ew!" You squawk, hurriedly swiping at the spot she touched in an attempt to remove the germs she'd most certainly transmitted. "Don't touch me!"
Feixiao reaches out and essays another touch to your skin. You just barely manage to swallow down the inapt cry that bubbles in your throat as you dodge her second attempt, and that's when war begins. Another attempt, another swat or dodge followed by frantic steps back. Your verbalized panic comes in the form of half-assed squeaks and hearty laughs, and before either of you know it, Feixiao's chasing you around the campus quadrangle, a shit-eating grin on her lips and ice cream bowl still in hand. You go this way and that, desperately trying to get her off your tail. Two loops each around two different trees, a lap around the communal wishing fountain, and a few near-crashes into strangers passing by later, and you find yourself cornered into dead-ended cloister.
Ragged, uneven breaths ghost past your lips in harsh exhales alongside breathless laughs—body crumpled into itself, hands to your knees as you gathered your bearings with the few seconds you had to do so, considering you had somewhat managed to juke out Feixiao in your haphazard scrambling. Your ice cream—an unwilling participant to what just partook—has fully melted now, so you bring it to your lips for a sip, and find that lukewarm vanilla ice cream that tasted vaguely of its wooden scoop counterpart wasn't the most favorable thing to drink on a day as sweltering as this one, especially after you just gotten done running from the cootie monster.
Speaking of the devil, the impending sound of her sneakers slapping against the concrete reverberates through your eardrums and it's not long before you hear an "Aha! F-Found you…!" coming from the voice of a woman who seems to be just as out of breath as you are. You straighten, turn on your heel to meet her head-on, and take two steps back for every one rickety step she takes forward. When you're no longer able to back up, you find that your back is pressed level with the wall of an innocuous building behind you, Feixiao's larger figure looming over your own.
She's close.
This close, you can see the way freckles lightly dot her flushed cheeks from too many days spent practicing layups and trash talking opponents on the joint outdoor basketball court while the sun beamed down upon her, how the bridge of her nose is reddened from sunburn despite how generously she lathers sunblock across the scope of her body every time she plans to go out, how the teal glow of her irises seems more vivacious now that you're up close and personal. Your eyes dart down to her lips just as she licks them, intently studying the way her saliva creates a sparkly sheen atop the plush tissue of her lips. You didn't mean to look—the action was instinctive, but you catch yourself before it could become too obvious. You simply hope she doesn't notice, and that, if she does, she doesn't say anything about it.
But Feixiao notices. Instead of mentioning your slip up, she takes the initiative to lean in closer—too close for comfort, but not so close where it's entirely uncomfortable, the phrase "treading on thin ice" incarnate. A hand reaches out… slow and assuredly, to— to caress your face. Her thumb glides over your cheek, the calloused texture of her fingertip against the apple of your cheek unlike any feeling you've ever felt before. Your breath hitches, and her hand sashays lower, relaying how Feixiao, clearly, was enjoying the feel of your skin against her fingers, savoring it like it was the finest delicacy she's had in a while.
You want to die. She's looking at you like you're everything she's ever wanted—was this what it felt like to die and ascend to the heavens? Does she know she's doing this? Is this conscious effort? Were you about to ki—
"Touch." Feixiao softly squeezes the fat of your cheeks between her index and thumb finger and pulls, breaking you from your reverie.
You want to die.
The feel of the air—air-conditioned quite refreshingly and smelling vaguely of Feixiao—as you step foot into her apartment is familiar. It's a little after three pm now, and after the day you've had so far, you want nothing more than to sit down and relax in the private space of your friend's apartment. You make a beeline for the furry couch situated smack-dab in the living room, plopping yourself onto the furniture face-first with a hushed groan. You were tired. Today was a tiring day. Just as the first paint strokes of a dream coat the black canvas of your eyelids, you're, more or less, suddenly being manhandled into a crooked sitting position by your friend, an indignant and slightly groggy "What the— ?!" rumbling low from the depths of your throat. In one hand, she holds two equally-perspired water bottles that seem to have come from far beyond the heavens. She offers you a bottle before she sits, and you eagerly accept her offer, gulping over half of the bottle's contents down before Feixiao could even consider the notion of getting comfortable. When she does sit, she sits close—thigh grazing yours in a man spread, one arm slung over the couch's backrest—and you're tempted to tell her to back off, maybe even ask her why she thought playing with your emotions the way she was was funny.
"Damn." Feixiao murmurs, taking a sip of her own. "You sure can put it away."
The comment is sly, meant to provoke you. You have no problem taking the bait.
"Whatever." You sneer, jabbing her ribs with your elbow. "You're not funny."
Feixiao bleats at the sharp pain that erupts through her side at your roughness and retaliates with a swat to your side. You swat at her in return to her swat, she swats at you in return to your swat to her swat. Petty, like cats.
Two quarters into the fifteenth hour of the day, and you're in your friend's room after a good, long session of the bicker and swat game. On your end, half of it was playful, while the other half consisted of splaying your feelings out for her in not-so-plain plain sight. On Feixiao's end, you figure every swat and dig was playful—words that friends with a relationship entirely unfeeling in any way involving romance would say to each other.
Situated in the corner of her room is the desk she uses for work, where you’re both currently seated. On the way home, Feixiao mentioned how there wasn't much she was interested in studying in besides a few banal topics, and asks for your assistance in writing an essay, instead. With that change of plan in mind, you flip through the half-stack of papers resting on her desk's lacquered surface, evaluating her initial outline for the expository essay due as a final grade in her military history class. A significant portion of the outline revolved around the aftermath of what war and petty animosity did to feeble and scarce generations in their wake. Synoptically, years of unresolved hate bred trans-generational abhor between cultures and social and economic penury between worlds—soul-deep habits that proved difficult to break the cycle of in the face of unrelenting bias. A few pieces of information have inconsistencies in their assertion, so you make comments here and there on what she should expand on and how she should go about expanding on it.
Here, in the ambiguously intimate space of her room, Feixiao doesn't sit so close. As she works, she keeps her distance in a way that feels intentional, and you wonder if the woman had secret mind-reading abilities and uninvitedly peeked into the depths of your mind to take notes on what you thought of her prior lack of distance and used that as guidance for now. Ironically enough, the tiny bit of distance between you two has you yearning to close the gap, to become closer to her in more ways than one, despite how you inwardly detested the idea of being anywhere near her no less than fifteen minutes ago. She unknowingly was an inexpert foreman to your unruly organization of emotions. Though you, admittedly, also held a silent weight of responsibility for what you were feeling on your shoulders and refused to acknowledge its burdensome weight lest that meant admitting a myriad of embarrassing truths to yourself. You couldn't blame Feixiao for all of what you felt—good and bad—no matter how tempting the concept was. Irresponsibility had no place within the reigns of your mind.
A few hours pass—four, almost five—in your guidance. The six-thousand word essay worth 60% of Feixiao's final grade is three-fourths of the way complete, every word wrote with your help and assurance. Feixiao, more than once, was tempted to lolly-gag and slack off; you made sure she got back on track no later than five minutes after her multiple requests for a brain break. It wouldn't have taken as long as it did had Feixiao not been so determined to take break after break… but you digress.
The feel of her bed's comforter against the clothed expanse of your front is relieving, and the pain that comes from tension settled deep in your spine slowly beginning to melt away from each nick and crevice in its vertebrae is a good kind of pain, one that has you sighing in relief. Secretly, you didn't want to go back to your dorm room. Feixiao's apartment was way better for a multitude of reasons—the main one being the abundance of space your dorm room was far from privy to. Any other time, you wouldn't hesitate to ask her if she'd be alright with you spending the night (okay, maybe you'd hesitate just a little), but tonight felt… different. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Not so awkward and uncomfortable that the air was suffocating, but just enough to leave you wishing you didn't have a fat crush on your best friend.
In tandem, she flops down beside you with a huff. The movement jostles the mattress, and your head lifts ever so slightly to take a peak at the woman of your dreams and nightmares alike. One arm is propped up behind her head, the other attached to a hand mundanely tasked with scrolling through her phone. Mutually, one of her legs is also propped up whilst the other lies stationary. Your head slams back down into the sheets and you let out another groan.
"I'm tired." Your voice is muffled, just barely audible to an untrained ear, perhaps—but Feixiao hadn't fox ears atop her head for nothing.
The fluffy appendages on her head twitch once in replying before she does. "Yeah?" She closes out of her phone, resting the device against her stomach as she spoke, "You can stay the night, if you wanna. I wouldn't mind; been missing your presence here lately."
…
Your heart's suddenly racing. Despite your excitement, you don't lift your head to look at her. No, of course you don't—you didn't want her to see how truly enamored you were with her. "You have?"
"Hell yeah! You're good company, dunce." Feixiao punctuates her sentence with a ruffle to your hair. Effortlessly, she sounds so confident. You hate her. You hate her confidence—you hate everything she has to offer as a person. Hate is a strong word, and that's absolutely what you feel for her, nothing more, nothing less.
But when you raise your head to openly look at her—to decipher the true meaning behind her words, on whether or not she was playing with your feelings in more ways than one—you find nothing but ingenuousness painting her features, and all the hate that you once felt for her is no where to be found. There's a small smile on her face, one that turns the corners of her lips upward and crinkles the fat of her under-eyes. Your face feels hot. Your heart is beating at unhealthily fast rates.
Sitting up, you scoot in a way that allows you to be closer to her, back resting against her bed's headboard, knees to your chest. You look down at her, she looks up at you—and your head is pounding, all of a sudden. It's tense. Awkward. The two of you simply stare at each other for what feels like hours, the sound of your rapidly-beating heart and the feel of your soul leaving its place in your body the only thing to punctuate the grievously tense air until Feixiao somewhat breaks the silence by sitting up, too.
You're shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm. Feixiao basically looms over you even while seated, so you can feel the way her breath comes out in light puffs to tickle the velvet skin of your hairline and forehead with every exhale she breathes through slightly-parted lips.
She proceeds to lick her lips. Your eyes follow the movement—unabashed, this time. What has gotten into y—
"You okay? You've been acting… I dunno— like, down, all day. Feels off. I didn't do anything, right?"
The concern lacing her tone is enough to break you out of your stupor. You blink once, twice—utterly stupefied now that you've been put on the spot.
"O-off?" You echo in a stammer, "No—nothing is… Nothing's wrong. I'm alright… just— I don't know, either. I didn't know I was acting "off," hehe…" What a liar.
And with the way Feixiao's face oddly contorts to display her mild disbelief at your excuse, you know she wastes no time in picking up on the fact that you're lying. Regardless of her shrewdness, she— she doesn't say anything.
Instead, she leans in—why is she leaning in??—one of her hands bracing itself on the hard edge of the headboard your back rested on, breath no longer lingering against your hairline and forehead as it was your lips. Soft, cool exhales coming from plush, pink, and moisturized lips.
Okay. Embarrassingly enough, maybe you had something on your face? A spec of pencil lead, or a random piece of glitter—
Much like earlier, calloused fingertips come to lovingly caress the skin of your cheek. Much like earlier, you want to die—and it's a feeling that's all the more amplified with how she suddenly begins leaning in even closer, eyes fluttering shut…
Panicked, one of your hands comes to shove at one of her shoulders, a ragged, not-so-pretty sound leaving you as the notion of what the hell you two were about to do finally clicks in your mind. Feixiao jolts backward at your declination, hurried, equally panicked blabbers of "Sorry" and "I don't know what got into me" leaving the same lips you were just studying intently. You don't say a word as you cursorily shimmy your way off her bed and make a beeline for her apartment's exit, not once sparing her a single glance as you go. Just barely do you manage to put on your shoes before you hear the daunting sound of her footsteps chasing after you, and that's when you bolt out of her apartment, door wide open behind you, heartbeat a deafening sound in your ears alongside the unhelpfully flimsy feel of your shoes halfway on your feet.
You don't stay the night as Feixiao suggested. Furthermore, you refuse to respond to any messages she sends you via text.
For the one and a half days you two spend not talking (or, more accurately, Feixiao spends spamming messages in your dms hoping for a reply back), Feixiao's sick. She's not able to get as much sleep as she used to, barely feels like eating enough, and has failed arriving to practice on time more than once. She's an ass. An ass. She hates herself, and the consummate reproach she feels for her behavior is entirely outmatched. She wants to die. God, does she want to die. She should have known better than to kiss you strictly before you gave your consent! She just… She's liked you for, like, quite some time now! Like, ever since freshman year of college type of adoration! And while Feixiao knows good and well liking someone for a long time isn't at all an excuse to make a random move on them, she's… she's impulsive, okay? Impulsive, dumb, and full of assumptions that you'd like her back as she liked you and wouldn't have minded kissing her. Boy, was she wrong. She can still remember the horrified expression your face held as you shoved her away; it's an image now deeply entrenched in her mind.
And you… you also feel mortified, but for reasons having nothing to do with what Feixiao tried doing.
It was what you didn't do.
Like a coward, you ran away from the love of your LIFE when she finally went out of her way to make a move on you! Ever since then, you've, more or less, spent your time caved up in your dorm room, silently sobbing. You haven't been taking care of yourself like you need to, nor have you checked your phone much, besides the occasional time audit. You don't want to talk to anyone right now, much less Feixiao of all people, who you most certainly know has sent you at least a text or two. You're hurt and deeply embarrassed at your cowardice and haven't a clue on how you're supposed to step out into society with the events that happened not even a week ago fresh on the forefront of your mind. Moreover, how were you supposed to look Feixiao in the eye again after all of what happened within the span of that fateful day?! Jerking off to her pictures in private was one thing—full on rejecting an initiatory kiss was another. Though, on the bright side of things, perhaps this means she reciprocates your feelings?
…
That single thought of rationality weaves strings of hope through your heart, stitching its broken pieces back together slowly, piece by piece. It's the kind of credence that has you digging your way out from underneath your self-made blanket shell-cave-thing and propping yourself up on your elbow, tear-filmed gaze squinting in retaliation to the bright early morning light of the sun's rays that shone through partially open curtains and beamed down upon the wooden floorboards of your shared room. Distantly, you can hear the melodic chirps of birds that start, quiet down, stop, and resume tempo in what you can only assume to be an intentional game of tabulated cadence.
A groan leaves your lips—when had the world become so bright and seemingly full of life?—as one of your hands rise to wipe away the lingering remnants of your regret from your face as best as it could without water and soap. You can see clearly now, and while you inwardly were detesting the illuminated layout of your room just a few seconds ago, you can't help but relish its beauty now that you're properly able to. Your eyes flit here and there around the area, taking in what you hadn't discernibly seen of your room for a long while with the kind of marvel only a person who's been away from the place they call home for a relatively long amount of time, reasons usually having to do with vacation or work, could feel.
Nothing looks new or out of place, so you're not sure where this need to look around and simply take in your environment stems from. Then again, it's an exhibition of behavior you can't and won't exactly blame yourself for, seeing as how you've been cooped up in the recesses of your own pity party for the better half of two days, just about. On that note, you move to sit up properly and begin the tedious search and rescue process for your phone. It's been days since you've last spoke to anyone. You're not sure if anyone's noticed your absence, and with that, if they cared enough to feel concerned. Regardless, you continue your search. Your thoughts were consumed by only one person in particular, right now; if you wanted anyone to especially care about your whereabouts, it was her.
After you spend ten minutes flipping your sheets and mattress this way and that, you realize that your phone had simply been… siting on your nightstand, as innocuously as ever, this entire time. The frustration you feel from this revelation is ample, but you don't waste too much of your time silently lamenting your existence for your lack of peripheral awareness. Instead, you make your bed and sit down on it after you're done, phone in hand. Scrolling through the device, you find that you have a few missed calls and unread texts alike—most coming from people you hadn't thought would take to calling or texting you in the first place. They're from peers you've worked with and talked to in the past, peers you make occasional small talk with here and there. You're not sure whether to feel flattered or confused by their worry—maybe you were closer to these people than you originally thought yourself to be?—but despite your unsureness, you make sure to reply to their messages one by one with a feeble explanation for your absence.
It takes about five minutes for you to respond to each person. When you're done concerning yourself with them, you're left with only one person awaiting a response from you.
Scrolling through the countless messages she's sent you in the span of one and a half days—messages full of worry and reciprocal regret—has your heart… fluttering. You expected Feixiao to text you, yes, but this many times? With this amount of sincerity in each text? That part wasn't what you were expecting. Her desperation makes you feel things. Horrible(ly lustful) things. Things you probably shouldn't be feeling given the context of the situation but… you feel them nonetheless.
For an eternity do you sit there, contemplating what you should say to her. Your heart's racing in your chest. Giddiness runs through your veins as your eyes skim through the most recent messages she's sent just a few hours ago.
The photo she sent was of her—a mirror pic. The camera is level with her face, though not covering it entirely. With a silly expression painting her features, she holds a thumbs up in the photo. Sweat dusts the vaguely tanned expanse of her skin, especially pooling in crevices where her muscles bulge in a flex. She wears nothing more than a simple tank top and gym shorts—shorts that nicely hug her bulky thighs—and those, too, are coated in sweat much more obviously than her skin was.
You moan. The sound wasn't intentional, more like instinctual, if anything. It's the type of sound that has you slapping a hand over your mouth in the next second, eyes wide in astonishment for what you'd just done. Moaning? Over a simple picture? You're horrible. You should feel ashamed. You do feel ashamed.
…But your shame doesn't stop heat from pooling southward of your form. Not only were you shamefully incorrigible, but you also reeked of sweat and tears (and the slightest hint of arousal). An unruly concoction. You decide you'll text her all of what you deem appropriate and proceed with a shower after you're done. For a good three minutes, though, you stare at your phone screen, attempting to think of what you should say, how you should say it, how long or short your sentences should to be, if you should tell her how you feel about her right here, right now. Your thumbs unconsciously ghost over the screen as you think about your next course of action. Should you greet her first? Maybe you should get right into it; you've wasted enough of Feixiao's time these past few days as is. Has texting always been so stress-inducing, or is it because you're about to text Feixiao, in specific, that you feel this way?
More minutes full of indecisiveness pass, in which you spend half focused on figuring out what to say and half focused on chiding yourself for being so awkward in the face of love. Eventually, your mind settles, your thumbs carefully swipe across your digital keyboard, and you send a series of explanatory messages.
As self-promised, you finish texting Feixiao, stare at the screen with mild abashment for an eternity, and gather both your bearings and bathing supplies in preparation for your shower. Someone like her is undoubtedly busy with a variety of things; you just silently hope that she'll, at the very least, respond to your messages by the time you're done showering. You're eager to see her—eager to speak to her. Eager to prove your romantic worth to her once and for all!
Thirty minutes pass. The same feeling of after-shower revitalization you felt days ago rears its familiar head, this time without accompanying soreness. Your hair's washed, your skin's clean and moisturized, your soul is rightfully recovering its previously lost color and vitality. You're you again… not that you ever really lost yourself. You barely take the time to tend to yourself after the fact before you're on your phone again, tapping away at its OLED surface to find Feixiao's contact information.
Feixiao is truly all you've ever wanted in a woman. You can hear the wedding bells ringing now, can smell the smell of sand, salt water, and sun screen as you two indulge in your honeymoon now. If there's ever been a time where you've especially wanted Feixiao, now would be that time (with the exception of distinctly late nights and early mornings). She's perfectly imperfect. What more could anyone want from one woman?
Her incredibleness (or, perhaps, your froward bias) has you feeling… heh, risqué, so you decide to spice up your following response.
Okay… so maybe it wasn't the most debauched text in the world, but it passed as risqué in your mind; that's all that matters! When have you ever used emojis while texting? Let alone HEARTS, of all emojis! You silently applaud your daredevil behavior, swoon when Feixiao hearts your messages, turn a blind eye to metaphorical haters saying what you sent was anything but risqué, and begin getting ready for your dat— meet-up. Study session. Essay session? Essay session.
Just as the prophecies foretold—just as you said you would—you arrive to Feixiao's front door thirty minutes later. Your knuckles rap against the brown wooden door once, twice—almost thrice for how long it took her to answer the door after your second knock—and hold intense eye contact when she finally opens the door. Intense, because when was the last time you two looked at each other like this? Steadily holding eye contact with something other than friendly, playful strife lacing the air? Today, it felt as though the air reeked heavily of amatory resolve—the type of resolve that has your heart uncomfortably palpitating in your chest and each breath you take into your lungs shaky and unsure. You step forward into her home, finally breaking eye contact—though you secretly wished to look at her for a bit longer—when she steps aside to further allow your entry.
"Hey," Feixiao speaks first, and there's an out-of-breath quality to her words, like she's surprised you're here and in her company after all of what has transpired. Is that good? Should you feel good for keeping her on her toes and giving her a taste of her own medicine?
"Hi." Your reply is squeaky and just barely manages to give the impression of anything other than a voice crack. You see now that the Aeons above would not provide you with more mercy than you've already been endowed, so each step you take around the mentally arduous footwork of your thoughts are steps no lighter than a feather and no stiffer than a board. Really, you're walking on eggshells here. Which was ironic, considering how confident you were literally thirty seconds ago.
Still, you muster up the courage to speak up once more, turning on your heel to face the love of your life just as she closes the door to her apartment and locks it (has watching her close and lock her door ever been so ominous as it was now?).
"I'm glad to be here; you don't know how much I've missed you." You've only been away from each other for a day and then some—your words screamed of abysmal codependency, agonizingly so.
"Yeah," an awkward clearing of the taller woman's throat to punctuate the tense air, "Missed you way more than you'll ever imagine. Y-You ready to finish up the essay, or were you gonna—"
"Let's finish your essay first." Cutting your knight in shining armor off when she's trying to speak? You've done it before, yes, but never in such an… edgy atmosphere. Great going.
"Damn, okay." A cough. "Got it." She mutedly replies serially.
…
You're both in Feixiao's room now. This was… not going as planned. Well— It was, but not as suavely as either of you intended! Texting after overcoming a particularly rough patch of your relationship was one thing, talking in person after said rough patch was another. What's worse is that you two aren't addressing the elephant in the room as you were, of course, finishing the expository essay due in three days time. Inwardly, you contemplate if it would've been better to confer about everything beforehand so you wouldn't have been left with this sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as a byproduct of your excitement at the prospect of finally putting a romantic label on your relationship. Alas, there's no taking back what's already set in stone, so you see your unruly emotions through and fully denote your time to locking in.
Three hours pass. Three hours of which the two of you spend fully locked in. No breaks, no interruptions, no ANYTHING except focusing on the task at hand so it'd been done and dusted with. You're proud of both yourself and Feixiao—there's yet to be a moment until this one where tomfoolery wasn't involved in your joint-work sessions, so this was quite the refreshing, though also unprecedented, experience. Three-thousand, four-hundred, and eighty-six words later, the assignment is complete and digitally turned in.
You sit on the edge of Feixiao's bed alongside her, head resting solemnly on her shoulder. This skin-to-skin contact is contact you've been craving since yesteryear, practically—how could you have ever inwardly shunned the notion? Feixiao's head rests lightly atop your own. Was this what being in a(n heavily insinuated) romantic relationship with your best friend after years of pining was like? Would you ever get the chance to hug her without being forcefully smothered, or— or maybe even kiss her? Relationships are nothing new to you; you've had your fair share of unserious romantic pursuits in the past, rest assured. You're no blushing maiden!
…Though you do feel like such. Should you break the silence? Should you lay your heart bare for her—display your feelings front row without further cause? Have you seriously always been this awkward when it comes to love??
"F-Feixiao," when you speak, you immediately wish to take back your utterance of her name. Your croak of her voice sounds entirely unlike you, you think, even counting the most awkward and oafish moments of your life. Though, luckily, Feixiao doesn't mention anything about your lack of grace. She simply hums her reply in lieu of words and lifts her head from your own just as you lift your head from her shoulder to properly perceive her with no hint of your previous confidence tangible on your features.
"I— We can… Uh. I'm r-ready to talk about the… thing" Thing? "if you're also ready. Or we can just stay like this and not talk. Whatever… Whatever you want."
"Oh. Yes, okay. Sure, I'm ready." Would it be wrong to say you're feeling the slightest bit of relief at how awkward she's also being? You don't feel relief at her plight as much as you do at the notion of not being alone on this damned rollercoaster ride of emotions. It's really nice seeing Feixiao lose her footing every now and then.
You take a deep breath, do your best to steady your heart rate before you spontaneously die of a love-induced heart attack, and scoot a little further away from her in the hopes that distance between you two will help dissipate the knot in your throat and the iron-like vice on your heart.
"Like I said before, I'm not mad at you or anything for what you did. I'm mad at myself because…. b-because I pulled away without meaning to. I really like you, so I wouldn't have minded kissing you at all; I just got… I was nervous, I guess? I didn't expect that f-from you, really."
There's a pause in the air. It's insufferable, suffocating, and makes you want to jump out of a window. Feixiao looks pleasantly surprised—eyebrows raised high, ears perked straight, mouth slightly agape in awe—which you suppose is a good sign.
"You like me?" An out-of-focus repetition of your words here, a glazed-over look to her eyes there. Almost as if she couldn't believe the words coming out of your mouth were real and entirely honest. Then, as if snapping to her senses—as if realizing you were awaiting an actual reply—she enlivens once more. "You like me! I didn't know you liked me. I like you, too!"
You avert your gaze at her confirmation of reciprocated feelings, not too fond of letting her see just what a few ditzy words from a flighty woman did to you. One of your hands comes up to cover your mouth in a fake cough. Confessing your feelings for one another was nice and all, but what more what there to speak about now that that's out of the way? Does this mark the beginning of your romantic relationship, or were there more words to speak and more feelings to feel? Since when had love become so complicated, seriously!?
"You didn't know I liked you…" You quietly muse aloud from under your palm. eyeing her sidelong the best you could without being too obvious about your staring. She didn't know you held feelings for her? How so?? In your mind, you were the most unintentionally obvious with your desire from the very start of your relationship! Were you more of a cunning vixen than you originally thought yourself to be?
"How come you didn't know?" You suddenly inquire, breaking Feixiao from her… reverie, more or less, as you did your own thoughts. "That I liked you, I mean. I thought it was kind of obvious…"
"Obvious?? For some people, maybe. To me, I don't… I dunno. I thought there was chemistry between us, you know, but I never really thought too much about it. Was too scared to; thinking about you makes me nervy…" An eyebrow wiggle and toothy grin highlights Feixiao's words. Her idiotic behavior has you rolling your eyes, and blushing even harder. Even despite this, you were no blushing maiden!
"Whatever…" Silence filled with the twiddling of your thumbs and the shuffling of your feet. It doesn't take long before you're feeling restless again, so you break the silence with one eager question of finality.
"…Does this mean we're together, now?"
"Hell yeah it does!" Feixiao's response is quick—the damned woman barely lets you finish your sentence before she's scrambling to call you hers and vice versa. She shuffles closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to pull you close. Unlike previous times, you don't feel inclined to wish death upon yourself now that she's in your personal bubble—and you believe you'll nary feel such inclination again in due time. "Been waiting for this day forever. God, bro."
Her words force a smile onto your face. The next words that come from her mouth make your smile drop just as quick.
"Can I kiss you?"
…
"…Yeah."
…
The first press of your lips to hers is… euphoric. Honestly, the feeling takes you by such pleasant surprise that you let out a soft moan in your indignation. Undoubtedly, this was what heaven felt like. One of its many angels took the form of a woman taller, broader, and ten times sexier than any fantasy woman you've curated in the depths of your debauched mind, sharing licks of heaven through soft, slow kisses that tasted vaguely of mint and sweet, lingering, touches that ghosted along the expanse of your arm in reverence. Your arms somehow find their way wrapped around Feixiao's neck, marking the end of what was initially meant to be an amiable kiss in place of marking the beginning of something… entirely more heated.
Strong arms wrap around your waist in turn, hands tracing invisible lines across the expanse of your back. Without even realizing the severity of her greed, Feixiao pushes harder—deeper—for something more. Her tongue—wet, warm, eager—prods at the closed entryway of your lips, anxious to break through and taste more of you, you, you. Your lips part for her without much struggle despite you not having made conscious effort to do so in the first place. The warm intrusion of her tongue sends shivers down your spine, and it's not of your own accord when yet another moan—louder, lacking your prior restraint—spills past your lips and into her mouth. Feixiao swallows the sound without protest, a gentle groan rumbling low in her chest.
It doesn't take long before you're flat on your back, Feixiao's larger figure wholly engulfing your own as she presses you further into the mattress. Surprisingly, her weight atop you is not overpowering. It's comparable to a warm, weighted, and deliciously ambrosial blanket sewed to perfection with your comfort, and only your comfort, in mind. You're chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, body-to-body with God herself—what more was there to ask for? Your doting worship comes in the form of nails lightly digging into the nape of Feixiao's neck, scraping their blunt edges to and fro across her skin, teasing the soft and short hairs there. When you feel her pulling away—for air, not from you, but you didn't pick up on that in your desperation—your grip strengthens—a silent plea for her to stay where she was, to not end this joyous moment so soon. When had you become so demanding?
Feixiao silently obliges to your request despite the raging inferno in her lungs and the ever-worsening lightheadedness she was feeling. What need was there for oxygen when you were here, in her arms, kissing and begging so sweetly for her to stay? No need, really—
In her conquest to continue kissing you per your silent request, Feixiao forgets herself and ends up breaking the kiss, anyway, to hack up a lung or two. You don't really react to her wheezing all too much, aside from the vague whisper of acknowledgement of her struggle in the unremittingly recognizant recesses of your mind, you're too busy riding your high (or being disoriented from your lack of air). By the time she's done coughing up a lung, Feixiao flops down on your person with a huff, burying her head in the crook of your neck. Despite her want to feel deeply embarrassed at having coughed mid-make out session, Feixiao fails to feel any semblance of embarrassment. She just feels… warm. Warm in a "I'd happily die here if I could" sort of way.
A few minutes pass, all of which are spent snuggling and wordlessly enjoying the other's company. A moment spent recuperating. Though, when it came to moments like this, Feixiao wasn't particularly fond of the notion "patience." Her lack of patience is why you feel a pair of lips applying pressure to the skin of your neck out of no where, indicating Feixiao's need to get this party back on track. Her lips ghost over almost all of the left side of your neck, first starting with the skin directly under your ear and gradually making her way down to your collarbone. She sucks a mark into your collarbone, teeth just barely grazing the sensitive skin atop it, only to have her tongue lave the stinging area to soothe it soon after.
You can't remember the last time you'd been given a hickey, so the feeling of her teeth to your skin and her tongue to the bite marks afterward is unfamiliar, though not uncomfortable. It's not long before you're coaxing Feixiao into lifting her head from your neck, intent on hurriedly commencing round two of your make out session. You don't know how long this one lasts for, nor do you know when either of you start grinding into the other. The grinding starts off as subtle—teasing bucks of the hip. The movement provides enough friction to leave you reeling, but remains inadequate enough to leave you hungry and wishing for more. "More" comes in the form of surefire jolts of your crotch against your girlfriend's pelvis. You're whimpering, now—unabashedly. Faintly, you can feel something solid rubbing against your ass with every move she makes.
It's a sensation that leaves you gulping.
You'd known Feixiao was trans ever since the start of your friendship, really. It was a fact she was open about, and a fact that especially fueled nights where you felt conclusively lonely. In spite of your knowledge, you're still nervous. Were you going to… take her? Were things bound to become more heated than they already were? The answer to your question comes no later than fifteen seconds after their conception with how Feixiao breaks the kiss—gracefully, this time—with a gasp. A shiny string of spit connects you briefly, but is soon broken with how she sits back on her calves. You offer a cursory glance downward, just to take a little peak, and find her shorts are tented.
Oh, dear. I mean, of course they were. But still… Oh, dear.
"We don't have to… huff do anything you don't want to do." It seems she's noticed your astonishment.
"N-No! No. I want to…" you trail off momentarily. Overly awkward. "I want to make you feel good."
The foxian registers your consent with a half-hearted hum as she leans down again, lips connecting with your neck bis. This time, there's more intent lacing her actions—she feels, is, surer than before. Mentally, Feixiao decides to not leave more marks than she already has on your neck—she doesn't want you worrying about them come later on. Instead, her lips glide across your skin in tandem with the roaming of her hands. One hand finds itself fondling a breast through your bra, thumb caressing the supple flesh of your nipple through its fabric until it hardens. Then, she teases it, rolling the peaked bud between the lengths of her index and middle finger. Who knew measly nipple play and teasing kisses up and down the expanse of your form would leave you writhing so pathetically? You would've never thought your first time with Feixiao would begin with you practically bursting through the seams at soft touches. You should feel ashamed for even entertaining the idea of coming prematurely… but you don't. Instead, you quietly accept your fate, (not entirely) succumbing to the pleasure Feixiao's hands on your body allowed you to feel.
The hand not busy with pawing at a breast lingers near the waistband of your pants. Feixiao teases you—her fingertips skimming your lower abdomen in ticklish touches, gliding up toward your belly button, and down toward your waistband, all in rhythmic and calculated motions. Her lack of attention concerning your downstairs area permits your frustration, and your nails are suddenly clawing into her broad back harder than they already were.
"Stop… Stop teasing me, you jerk…" Your complaint comes out as a whine. You're whiny over a few touches—hardly becoming behavior from someone of your likes. Nonetheless, Feixiao obliges to your request and slips her fingers past the fabric relenting fabric of your bottoms, fingers applying the perfect amount of pressure to your most sensitive part with the sort of ease that tells you she's done this before. With who, you're not sure, nor are you fond of thinking about.
Her fingers against your clit provides heavenly contact, even through the cotton of your panties. Either she's a professional at what she's doing, or you're just horribly desperate. Regardless, you're left reeling—moaning her name for more. The friction provided comes in tight circles, light enough in their pressure to not overwhelm you, but steadily walking along that tightrope all the same. Your thighs clamp down around her wrist, eager to prevent her from continuing but also eager to keep her hand there and ministrations alive? It wasn't an action done on your own accord—you're sensitive, okay?
"Wa… Ngh, wait! Wait… I'm gonna c-come if you don't… s-slow down…" Was that you speaking? Aeons above, you sound pathetic.
Feixiao doesn't listen to your pleas, just shuts them up by connecting her lips to yours in a sloppy kiss. It's as if the kiss was meant as a "shut up and take it" card, like Feixiao was silently relaying the fact that you coming was the end—and original—goal here, so why fight it? Just to spite you, she speeds her ministrations up. You forcefully, not intentionally, however, part your lips from her own and groan her name reflexively, hips stalling in their previously rhythmic grinding in time with her fingers. They jerk once, twice, and shudder when your pleasure reaches an all-time crescendo, coating both her fingers and your panties in thick, viscid layers of slick. Warmth spills down your spine in waves as you ride out your high; not even masturbation could make you feel this good.
Drool trickles from your lips in thin rivulets. Your eyes hold a dazed, fucked-out quality to them. You've officially ascended to the heavens. Welcome home.
"You're so pretty when you come."
Feixiao's words—embarrassing and flattering simultaneously—ground you, effectively snatching your soul from heaven's gateways to remind you of where you are, who you are, who you're with, and what you've just done. Your eyes find hers. She looks fucked-out, too. Why would she looked pleased with what just occurred?? How perverted was this woman?
Another cursory glance downward (this one entirely unintentional) reveals the fabric of her shorts are tented even further—how was that possible?—and a wet spot at the apex of the tent. Was it possible to come without the help of physical contact? You can feel your second orgasm steadily building; it's a feeling that worries you deeply.
"You… mmph…" You slur incoherently. You meant to tell her off and offer her reprieve all in one go, but your words got lost in translation on their way out. You barely discern the feeling of her hands leaving your pants, neither do you fully acknowledge her putting the offending fingers she used in her mouth in a lewd display of a taste test. She moans when your essence hits her taste buds.
You want to scream.
"And… you taste good, t-too. You're… addictive." Feixiao begins pawing at your clothes, "I want more of you. Is that okay, pretty?"
Holy pancake on a stick, dude. Not that you would've denied her advances had she not asked for permission to actively begin her physical pursuit of "more of you," but it's nice that she asked, anyway. It's also nice that she now has her head situated between your thighs. Quite nice, indeed.
You're naked, now. Fully bare and put on a pedestal for Feixiao, and only Feixiao. She basically ripped your clothes off your body and proceeded to excuse her behavior with nothing more than a meek apology. You don't mind it now, but you know you will later on. Feixiao, too, removed an article of clothing from her being: her shirt. Much like your clothes, the shirt once atop her back is now across the room, thrown there in a haste.
Your body jerks with each swipe of her tongue across your flesh. Gasps—high-pitched, breathy, desperate—steadily flow past your lips with every soft press of her fingertip against your velvet walls. Fingertip, because you were only equipped to take one of her fingers inside your cunt as of right now. Not that it mattered—one finger was more than enough to leave you feeling stuffed. This fact leaves you internally questioning how you're meant to take her co—
Feixiao's lips wrapping tightly and suddenly around your clit takes you by surprise, and you let out a weirdly strained noise in response to the feeling, the fingers you've placed atop her head coming to clench and yank the alabaster strands of her hair with each sucking pulse. Tears well in your eyes, clouding your vision before they make their descent down the side of your face.
"P-Please…" You don't know what you're pleading for. Again, not even masturbation could make you feel this good.
Feixiao hums into your pussy when your plea reaches her ears. You physically recoil at the sensation and further buck your flesh into her mouth. She moans into your cunt again, utterly pussy-drunk. When her tongue pushes past your entrance to join her finger's ministrations, you're gone. A silent scream pushes past gritted teeth as you reach your peak for the second time that evening. This one is no less sticky than the first—perhaps even stickier than the first. Your thighs fully encapsulate your girlfriend's head, trapping her between bliss incarnate as you weather your high for as long as it can go. When the tides of ecstasy recede, the arch of your back dwindles, and your thighs release their autonomous hostage.
You're spent.
"Hah, you're delicious…!" God exclaims as she resurfaces for the first time since having began her diving expedition. Every bit of her lower face—starting from the tip of her nose, ending at the jut of her chin—is soaked with your special-made pussy elixir. Very clearly, was Feixiao in it to win it.
You don't reply. Can't, really. You're spent.
"You good?" The question was a rhetorical one—meant as an ice breaker, used as she wipes the sticky and lingering vestiges of your sexual elation she can't clean with her tongue away with the back of her hand.
"You can take one more, right?"
That snaps you from your spent state. Well, kind of. At the very least, you utter yet another incoherent slur that was just slightly more incoherent than your last attempt as speaking.
"You… need… you…" ?? Okay, maybe not. What you meant to convey was your willingness to "take one more," as long as said taking included her reaching her peak, as well.
Because you're no quitter (and because your babbling registers as embarrassing in the back of your mind), you try again. "Your cock. I want… it." That was better.
Feixiao gleams. "Oh, she's feeling braveee... You think you can take it?"
"Augh…" Whatever that noise was. "Shut up."
She feigns offense the next second, a gasp full of melodrama and faulty lies making its way past her lips. "Wow, so rude! And right before I give you your reward for good behavior?" The woman looming over you loses her bra as she speaks—meaty tits to accompany rock-hard abs (and cock). A blessing in plain sight. Next comes her shorts and boxers. The moment the waistbands of both articles drop below her heavy balls, her basement-dwelling friend springs to life, mushroom head angrily red and sodden with the pre-cum that steadily leaked from its slit. She's a good 7 inches, at best. Oh, dear.
"That's alright," Feixiao cogitates aloud, "I'll go easy on you, 'kay? Don't want you passing out on me."
God shimmies the rest of her clothes off with ease and comes to settle between your spread—and faintly trembling—legs when bare.
"Too bad I don't have protection… but don't worry, I'll pull out." You don't know how trustworthy her words are, but you aren't necessarily in the right head space to think otherwise. The heavy mass of her cock rests atop your dripping cunt, and she's quick to grab its thick base and give a few teasing slaps to your slit. You twitch in place with each hit, a garbled sound bubbling in your throat at the last, harshest-of-them-all slap.
"We'll do missionary first," FIRST?! "If you stop feeling up to it, tell me. Okay?"
"Uh huh."
"Great."
She aligns her thickness with your sopping entrance. The first iotas of intrusion have you covetous for air, one hand busy with clawing at the sheets behind your head, the other busy with clawing into the broad flesh of Feixiao's shoulder. The sting is a good kind—both in reference to her cock stretching your insides and the blunt ends of your nails scraping her skin. Good enough to have your tongue dumbly lolling out of your mouth, to have your eyes rolling to the back of your head as she buries herself deeper within you, to have you moaning for mercy and thinking nothing more than of her name, to have your back contorted into a nasty crook. When she's finally balls deep, you're close to peaking.
"Oh, look a-at you…" Feixiao lowers herself onto her elbows. "You're taking me so well. Like a big girl, yeah?" There's nothing but mindless babble that leaves your lips in exchange. Embarrassing, yes—you're just glad Feixiao finds it cute more than anything.
She nuzzles her nose into your tear-stained cheek, "I'm gonna start moving now. Tell me if it hurts, seriously."
Feixiao's pace starts off slow. And then speeds per your request (demand). And then it slows down again, but not as slow as it initially was, per your request (demand). You feel full. You are full. What's worse, is that you feel like you need to pee. It's bad. Really bad. And with every moderately-paced thrust that feeling only intensifies. You want to inform Feixiao of your plight. In fact, you attempt to. But it only comes out as cock-drunk garble. You're doomed.
A lazy whimper sounds in your ear the next second. "You're tight as s-shitttt… Holy crap." Her words solidify your doom. This feeling is insufferable. It's comparable to the feeling of an orgasm building, you vaguely think, but you're not too informed on what that's supposed to mean.
"I'm gonna speed up, pretty…"
As the prophecies foretold—as Feixiao said she would—she speeds up. Her pace treads on the thin line separating moderate from passionate. She retreats, all the way to the tip, and proceeds with burying herself to the hilt in one clean, heavy, and assured motion. You're on cloud nine. Each thrust has the veins protruding from underneath the thin skin of her thick cock rubbing wonderfully against your inner walls. One small fix in how she's positioned leads the tip of the appendage to bully your g-spot with every thrust taken afterward. It causes the pressure ever-building in your lower abdomen to burst, spurts of ecstasy leaking past a quivering hole plugged full of cock. Your pleasure is white-hot, and you barely manage to warn Feixiao of your peak before it hits. Someway, somehow your teeth are lodged into her shoulder's flesh, replacing what once was concerning your nails. You taste iron on your tongue—you broke skin.
Feixiao reacts to your… mess with nothing more than a chuckle and some teasing words.
"Messy girl…" You hear her say. There was nothing funny about what you just went through. Why was she chuckling????
"I'm…" There's a pause in her words, only the erotic sound of her hips meeting your own and her balls striking your pussy remain a constant in this token second of silence. "…close."
"Outside…" You slur into her shoulder.
"Yes m-ma'am. Of course."
As you demanded (and as she said she would), Feixiao pulls out just in time to shoot copious rockets on your belly instead of in your belly, each spurt a string of ropy warmth against your soft skin. She comes buckets, and now you're both messy, exhausted, and out of breath. A match made in heaven.
For a long while, you two lay in sweaty silence. From what you can feel, Feixiao's still hard. And honestly? You wouldn't mind going for one more round, despite the exhaustion that's settled deep in your bones. Hands that once occupied themselves with aimlessly tracing patterns onto your girlfriend's back stop their motions. Instead, you tap her shoulder—the one not yet marked—a silent signal conveying your want for her to rise. Surprisingly, she does rise; you thought she'd be out cold by now, ever-persistent hard-on long forgotten.
"I could go… a-another round, if you want." Vaguely pleading eyes meet half-lidded, hazy ones. Feixiao raises a brow at your audacity, but doesn't question it. In fact, she inwardly applauds your stamina as she sits back on her haunches, one hand coming to idly stroke her cock.
"If I want?"
"Yeah."
"Really now?" Her sarcastically questioning tone has you gritting your teeth in annoyance.
"You know what? Ne—" Your whole world is spinning before you get the privilege of finishing your sentence. With ease, does Feixiao flip you on your stomach, propping your ass in the air before caressing its globe.
"Doggy style it is," a musing brought to life, "Look at me while I fuck you, 'kay? Wanna see your pretty face." Whether or not you planned on adhering to her command doesn't matter, she's tangling her fingers in your hair strands before any thought of disobedience crosses your mind.
You grit your teeth so hard they grind together. "You little assh—" Again, you're cut off. This time, it's via cock. She stuffs her cock in your pussy right before you can say anything remotely mean or degrading—all in one go. You're left practically screaming into her sheets with the unanticipated incursion. Despite how rough she was entering your heat, she's still relatively gentle with her thrusts. Relatively, because she was bordering "gentle"'s precipice, one wrong step in an equally wrong direction certain demise.
It's not long before either of you are reaching your pinnacles. After all the sex you've just had, why would it? Being sanctioned a bit more discernment this go round from the Aeons above, you certifiably and coherently warn Feixiao of your approaching climax.
"'m c-close."
"Yeah? Me too. Let's come together when you're ready." The sweetness of her words has you more ready then you've ever been in your life, and you hint at your frail willpower just seconds after she finishes speaking.
"Ohhh, alright. Okay. Hell yeah. I-I'm ready, too. On the count of one, got it?" You nod your head as best as you can with how she's got you tangled.
"Three," Had the start of three seconds always felt so daunting?
"Two," Two too many.
"…One."
Your crests hit simultaneously—right on time, just as planned. You squirt, again. It wasn't as heavy a shower as before, but it surely still rained. Feixiao… also squirts, though not as you do. She shoots rope after rope of the physical proof of her enjoyment thus far all across your lower back, with some of her essence making its way onto the fat of your ass. You collapse first, Feixiao soon follows suit. Before you pass out, you feebly recall your want to take a shower and clean yourself of this icky feeling, but it's a futile thing to desire, in your current state.
But you're happy, nonetheless. After all, you're safe and sound within the arms of every dream you've ever dreamed, your knight in shining armor, the love of your life, all you've ever wanted in a woman—your girlfriend, Feixiao.
© rdvlv '26 .