A/N: Halfway into the Bro Zuha's second set! Last one should be soon, barring any surprise BFHs.
Fanprose link here.
Enjoy.
Like, seriously, if there is one thing you don’t get about Kazuha, is that she does things without letting you know sometimes.
You’ve learned to get used to it, really. You’ve stopped wondering how in god’s green earth this happened, or why the universe decided to send it to your end of the world.
The Chaewon incident that started this whole thing coming to mind, which you weren’t opposed to at all, considering the events that occurred afterwards. A few more surprises here and there with her closest friends with the other, the more recent one being Kazuha coming home, drunk off her ass along with the girls.
That was a rather interesting Friday night, you’ll say. Your body has never felt so sore in your entire life the next few days after.
Extremely worth it, for all intents and purposes however.
But, to your point, she doesn’t let you know about things that you would very much like to know beforehand. Like today, for example, when you come home from what you thought was going to be an ordinary Wednesday until—
“Hi!”
“Jesus–” This was not what you were expecting when you came home from work. Luggage bags left in your hallway, a woman that is most certainly not Kazuha sitting on your couch, sipping on one of your yogurt milk drinks as she waves at you. Which makes you question where Kazuha is. “Uh, hello?”
“You must be Kazuha's boyfriend.” The woman continues sipping on her drink, the loud slurps coming from the straw pausing as she smiles prettily at you. “She said you'd be here around this time, so I thought of saying hi.”
“Right.” You are, for all intents and purposes, extremely skeptical of this woman. Don’t know who she is, where she came from, why there’s so much of her shit scattered in your hallway. She’s just here, for reasons you have zero idea of.
You walk to the kitchen counter, placing down your backpack before turning towards her. “Sorry, who are you?”
“Oh!” She practically jumps out of the couch, and skips straight towards you with a grin on her face. “Name’s Rei. Naoi Rei.” She outstretches a hand.
You take her hand and shake it gently, tell her your name and be answered with a cute little nod that you swear is not making you cringe on the inside or make your heart race from how adorable it was.
“So you are Zuha’s boyfriend!” she repeats, and before you could come up with a reply for it, the front door swings open once again.
“Looks like you two are getting along.” Kazuha's striding in, a shopping bag in one hand, and a small handbag in another. She stands next to you, smiling and leaning in to give you a peck on the lips before she hands the bag to Rei. “Here's some extra pillows you can use.”
Rei gasps, and you're confused on whether this woman's a walking adorable little thing or not because every action she does looks way, way too cute to be normal.
“Thank you so much, I'll pay you back before I leave,” Rei says, pulling out a pair of pillows from the bag, the paper falling down the ground.
“Don't worry about it,” Kazuha replies, placing her bag next to your pack, and you watch as Rei squeezes one of the cushions between her arm, picking up the bag on the ground and walking back to the couch with another thanks.
Which leaves you with Kazuha. You turn to her, blinking slowly and giving her a pointed look. Your hands gesture towards Rei, who's gotten in her own world on the couch, setting up her makeshift bed on it. “So.”
“So,” Kazuha repeats, eyes following your hands. “That's Rei.”
“That is Rei, yes.” Your palms rest on your hips. “Why is Rei here with a bunch of luggage, exactly?”
“She’s asked if she can crash for a few days,” she explains, leaning her elbow on the kitchen counter. “Traveled all the way from Japan for some music festival this weekend.” Said Rei would be gone by Wednesday next week, Kazuha swears. “She won’t cause us any trouble, trust me.”
You turn your gaze back to Rei, legs up in the air while she’s hugging one of the pillows and scrolling down her phone. You can faintly hear the sounds quickly shifting from one topic to another as her thumb swipes up every so often. “And when you say trouble–” Queue your finger air quotes. “You mean she’s not going to be involved in one of your plans?”
Kazuha only smiles at you, hand rising up to pat your cheek fondly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” There’s that familiar twinkle in your eye that you spot—one that you’re not sure whether to be excited or wary of what she’s cooking up—before she walks away.
Sighing and shaking your head, you take another look at Rei. Still busy with her phone, paying you no mind and not causing any trouble, just like Kazuha said.
You can’t help but add a ‘yet’, though.
—
Trouble, you’ve realized, decided to come in small batches over the course of the next few days.
Nothing that would get you arrested or caught in an indecent way, no. For the most part, it was you doing your usual routine with the added intrusion that Rei is living in your living room. And it causes a few odd encounters with her every now and again.
Like when Kazuha decided to jump you the following Thursday when you got home, kissing you right there in the doorway just as you opened the door to your apartment. And while it was an unexpected surprise that you would normally, wholeheartedly welcome with open arms, seeing Rei pretend that you and Kazuha are not sucking each other’s faces off wasn’t weird at all.
At least, not for Kazuha. It was odd as all hell for you when you realized that Rei was looking pretty earnestly until she got caught.
Or on Friday, where you swear to all manners of religion out there that you heard moaning outside your bedroom door when you woke up in the middle of the night because the bathroom was calling you. Suffice to say it was a quick run to and from the bathroom to avoid interrupting Rei’s potential ‘her’ time.
And you won’t lie, needing to be quiet in your own home because a guest was touching yourself was incredibly awkward, considering that’s not something anyone would ever stumble upon. Even more so when you were left alone on Saturday, when Rei was out at her festival, Kazuha coming along with her when Rei said her friend wouldn’t be able to make it.
“It’d be a great way for us to really catch up!” You remember Rei telling Kazuha before they left this morning. And for the most part, you kinda agree with her. The three of you never really seem to have a good time to sit down and hang out, outside of the two of them since they seemed rather close. You in particular, given that you’re mostly out on the weekdays that Rei started living in your apartment.
And as much as they wanted you to come with, the extortionist pricing to get tickets this late made all three of you exclaim profanities so loud that you were afraid of finally getting a noise complaint.
Aside from the rather relaxing afternoon you had cleaning up your home while watching the weekend motorsport race in an attempt to get rid of any lingering thoughts about Rei touching herself on your couch—one that you sat on for quite a while after doing the chores (you need to clean this couch soon)—and making some dinner for yourself after getting a text from Kazuha that they’ll be coming home late, you decided to call it early tonight and catch up with the two in the morning.
Which gets completely derailed when you wake up in the wee hours of Sunday, where you are awoken from the sounds that are coming from your living room. It causes you to groggily get out of bed, the intimate familiarity of your home allowing you to walk on autopilot even without fully opening your eyes.
Or have your senses wake up until you flick the light on to find Kazuha and Rei making out by the kitchen counter, the former practically shoving her tongue down the latter.
You blink like an owl. Slowly, peculiarly, until the scene before you registers in your mind and you start looking like a deer in headlights. Then your brain finally catches up to what you’re seeing and—
“Well, good morning to you girls too.” Dragging a palm across your face, you decide to head over to grab a cup and fill it up with water. “Did you have fun earlier?”
Rei lets out a blissful hum, letting out a gasp as Kazuha leaves her lips to kiss down her neck. “Great,” she gasps, holding onto Kazuha’s locks. Rei lets out an even loud gasp when she gets hoisted up onto the counter by Kazuha, and even you were raising eyebrows at how assertive Kazuha is being tonight.
Or today, you’re not sure yourself.
You take a good, long drink of your cup, downing it all in one go, a quiet, refreshed noise coming out of your lips before putting it down. You have half a mind to walk up and join in on whatever debauchery Kazuha’s planned, and another to go back to bed and let them have their fun, considering they’ve already started without you.
Kazuha might not even know you’re here, what with her buried completely in Rei’s chest, her hands pulling the jacket she has on away before her fingers begin to pull Rei’s top up to expose her chest and holy shit Rei being even more stacked than you thought was not in your bingo card.
Not that you were looking, of course. You were simply appreciating the times her cleavage was in display. Totally not looking down whenever you had the chance, no.
Your bro will never let you live it down. But then again, anyone would be happy to have their faces shoved full of tits, especially ones as big as Rei’s.
Kazuha included.
Speaking of, she’s finally gotten her head out of Rei’s tits and turns to you with a grin. “Hey.” Is all she says, like this is another Sunday for her (and for the most part, this was a normal Sunday before you two were a thing, the player that your girlfriend was. Still is.) “Had a good day doing nothing today?”
“I cleaned, thank you very much,” you answer, walking up next to her, arm wrapping around her waist and leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek, like this is another Sunday for you. “I’m guessing this is how Rei is paying you back for staying?”
“Oh this was for the pillows I got her,” Kazuha says, taking your free hand and placing it on Rei’s bra-covered breast, and even with the fabric in the way you can feel how soft and large they are in your hand. Rei encourages you further, pushing her chest out for the both of you and your fingers can’t stop themselves from squeezing. “Now she’s paying us back with her pillows.”
“They are some very nice pillows,” you mutter, engrossed in the soft flesh.
Kazuha chuckles, a hand coming down to cup the bulge growing in your shorts, fondling you through your clothing. Her lips come close; kisses starting from your neck, journeying her way up to your cheek all the way until she can nibble your earlobe, cooing a question that you’ll ever answer. “Better than Kkura’s?”
Whether it be because you don’t want to hurt Rei’s feelings (especially cause you’re getting a feel of her tits), Sakura’s feelings when Kazuha eventually tells her (cause you know Sakura’s going to come barging in your apartment one night when she learns about it), or your own physical being, you can’t be sure. What you are sure of is that all three can be an option, but you’re too busy fondling Rei’s breasts to give Kazuha an answer anyway.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Kazuha sing-songs, tugging your shorts down to your ankles. “Rei, be a dear and help me out here, why don’t you?”
“On it!” Rei’s hands come to the waistband of your boxers, and they end up right above your shorts. Your cock twitching and leaking and Christ her hands feel amazing stroking you so gently it makes you moan.
It makes Kazuha giggle; a sound that makes you fall deeper into this whole rabbit hole of fucking yet another one of her friends. “Excited now, are we bro?” And it’s like she’s reading your mind, even when she’s on her knees and looking at you with those doe eyes. Knowing that you’re just as turned on as she is, that you’ll be sharing Rei between the both of you.
That, or it could be the other way around and she’s sharing you with her friends.
“Well, don’t worry too much,” Kazuha continues, inching closer to your cock. “Let Rei and I take care of you for the night, hmm?” Her tongue gives a quick lick at your tip, making your thighs clench.
“Let me guess–” you exhale, glancing back to Rei. “Is this your thanks for letting you stay?”
“Nope!” she says, her entire face lighting up. She leans in and gives your cheek a quick peck then drops off the counter to follow Kazuha on her knees. “I’m doing this cause I’m so fucking wet right now.” Rei gives that same quick kiss to your tip, holding you by the base all while Kazuha watches by her side.
“Rei’s a little bit of a horndog,” Kazuha adds, nudging Rei lightly. Rei only nods in agreement, her tongue coming out to lick your shaft; from the tip going down to the base of your cock, she leaves no surface safe from her pretty pink muscle that’s eager to get you ready. “And she is very adventurous.”
“I can tell.” Just by the way Rei is worshipping your balls, taking each one in her mouth and rolling them with her tongue, sucking and licking away at them so goddamn well it makes you lean back onto the counter to brace yourself for when Kazuha inescapably joins in. “Christ, Zuha, you’re making me think you’ve fucked all your friends.”
“Not all of them,” Kazuha snaps back, a smirk on her lips. She gets closer to your dick, hot breath tickling you, and the air you need in your lungs gets exponentially bigger the moment her own tongue comes out to have her fun. “I’m thinking we should double team someone one of these days, though.”
Jesus, this woman truly is after your own heart. Even the mere thought of Kazuha wearing a strap, pinning Rei down and getting to stuff her in both holes sounded insane. And here she is, telling you that she’s ready and willing to go; might not even need to be Rei at all.
“Hot,” Rei comments, like her mouth isn’t preoccupied with your balls. “Can that be me? Please let it be me.”
The shit eating grin on Kazuha’s face when she hears that, paired with her eyebrows wiggling at you causes a shaky laugh to spill out of your lips. Knowing that it really, actually, might be Rei that’s going to get stuffed by the both of you in the near future makes you throb harder, pulsing around Kazuha’s hand.
Something you’ll anticipate for later, when the time comes. Right now you need to focus on not cumming too early when both Kazuha takes your cock in her mouth, tongue swirling around your cockhead just as Rei manages to take both your balls in hers. It makes you grip the counter tighter, hissing a curse and looking up at the ceiling just so the view won’t make you explode in record time.
Not that it matters, you’re only delaying the inevitable when it comes to Kazuha.
“Z-Zuha–” you stutter, a hand coming to rest on her hair, running your fingers through her locks when she takes you deep. Mouth locked firmly around your length, she sucks eagerly, cheeks hollowing out as she bobs. Up and down and up and down and down and down until her nose almost reaches your crotch. Letting out a gag before she comes up for air, stroking your spit covered cock and looks up at you with a smile.
“Problem?” The tilt of her head partnered with the grin playing her face is fucking you up seven ways to Sunday, and your fingers curled up in her hair tightens in response. Combined with the fact that Rei’s never let up on your balls, and it’s a constant barrage of pleasure that you do not have the strength to win against.
“I–fuck–” It’s embarrassing to admit, having to lose so quickly against these two, but waking up and having your dick sucked wasn't exactly what you were expecting to happen. “I’m not gonna last long.”
Rei pauses, coming up and finally giving you a moment's rest, and she is a mess. Droll running down her chin that she doesn’t bother wiping off, only slurping what she can in her mouth as she grins at you two. “Can I do the thing please?”
You turn to Kazuha. “What thing?”
“Course you can, Rei.” Kazuha gives Rei a kiss on the cheek.
“Yes!” Rei leaves one last kiss on your cock, her tongue making out with the tip and the surprise almost makes you kick your feet up.
“Holy shit–”
She doesn't stay for long, kissing you cock one last time before she stands up. Before you can know it Kazuha is pulling you away from the counter, getting you to stand upright.
“Dude, what is she talking about?” You hold on to Kazuha's shoulders, the clothes around your ankles being a pain to move forward.
Kazuha only grins and gives you a wink. “When I said Rei was adventurous–” You can feel Rei behind you now, her hands on your shoulders, face peeking out from behind to kiss you dangerously close to your lips but pulls away to smooch you on the cheek. “She’s really adventurous.”
Rei must know what'll happen if she decides to have a taste of your lips.
Clothes rustling behind you pique your curiosity, making you want to turn around to see Rei's breasts out of that damn bra. Wanting to feel the weight of them in your palms, pinch and play with her nipples, give them a nice, good squeeze—
A squeaky, girly noise comes out of you, shivers up your spine, your skin tingling all over the place, body locking up; it happens all at once, overloading your senses and almost making you double over if not for Kazuha holding you upright. You don’t know how to react, your body running on instinct at the burst of pleasure that’s hit you, all because of a wet intrusion poking in your taint.
“What the fuck, Rei–” The letters that constitute pronouncing her name slowly become gibberish in favor of a long, drawn out moan, your hands grabbing Kazuha’s head in an attempt to find solace. Even if you must look so fucked stupid in front of her, that smile Kazuha gives you is somehow both endearing and problematic at the same time.
“Relax,” Kazuha says, and that one word—that one, simple word—is enough to let you know that there is, in fact, a problem. “Just let go when you need to, alright?”
And when Kazuha starts to double down on the assault of pleasure being inflicted on you, you just know that you’re not going to last much longer. You’re almost hyperventilating at how potent the feeling is, the tingling becoming a numbing sensation over your body from it all.
The sensation of Rei licking around your pucker, circling it with her tongue before she does a few pokes to test your reaction. Kazuha’s head a blur from how fast her head is bobbing, blowing you so eagerly. Rei digging her fingers in your ass once her tongue plunges in to rim you. Kazuha’s gaze never losing its focus away from you, her lips suctioned at your tip, tongue circling around, flicking the slit of your cockhead while her hands stroke you.
You’re seeing stars. Blots of white start blocking your vision, the hold you have on Kazuha’s head getting firmer to hold yourself together. It’s useless trying to fight back against it, not when these two are tongue fucking you on both sides. You try to warn either of them that the inevitable is happening, but all that comes out is garbled mutterings of a man gone mad.
It just happened, is what you eventually tell the both. When your eyes roll back and your cock erupts straight into Kazuha’s waiting mouth, filling up with cum at each pulse. The hum that vibrates around your cock along with the tongue slowly licking around your taint coaxes more and more of your load to come out, and it all seems neverending.
Rei comes out from behind, leaving your backside to kneel next to your leg. A finger feathers around your taint, even as she stares at Kazuha prolongs your load. And Kazuha manages to stay attached to your cock, jerking you off to gain more of your spunk, swallowing what she can even as it starts to spill out of her lips. The wonder in Rei’s eyes as she watches, the perverse anticipation in her lips—and all you can do is moan and let it all happen.
“There you go,” Rei mutters, her thighs pushing together. “Give her all that cum. Give her everything so I can have some for myself.”
Kazuha’s lips leave your shaft and you’re crumbling to the floor, feeling like you just ran a marathon and back from the experience. Rei makes sure that you don’t hurt yourself, getting your back against the counter before she gets pulled in for a kiss by Kazuha.
Cum gets swapped between their lips, lips savouring the taste, their tongues sliding together and sharing what Kazuha has milked from you. Some spill down, some stick to their lips, most get swallowed from both. It’s all so messy, and they don’t care at all.
Somehow, someway, your cock comes to life from the view. You don’t understand how, and you’re genuinely scared to find out what happens when you figure out that your body is overruling your sense of survival for more of this.
They part, Kazuha turning to you as Rei licks up any leftover cum that’s fallen down to the former’s chest. “You look like you enjoyed that.”
“I look like I’m a fucking corpse,” you reply, causing Kazuha and Rei to giggle. “What the hell was even that?”
“Just a little thank you for cleaning up the apartment while we were off partying.” Kazuha closes the distance between you two, coming to your left. She cups your cheek, and her lips meet yours.
Arms wrap around her waist to pull her close, and you relax. Letting yourself get swept away by Kazuha’s soft lips for a moment, whispering such a rare phrase to you in between all of the kisses that it makes you smile. You say it back, just when you feel a wet pressure around your length.
It makes you flinch in surprise, pulling you away from the moment, from Kazuha. You look down, and Rei’s in between your legs, cock popping off her lips.
“So about that double team,” Rei starts, slowly stroking you. It was enough to ease you back into hardness. She’s careful with you, making sure that the pleasure doesn’t become pain from overstimulating you. “Can that be my payment for staying here for the week?”
The following is Chapter 12 in the Toy series - but it can (mostly) be read on its own.
This chapter is from the POV of Woody.
11,668 words.
---
My mind in a vice grip
Your legs still wrapped around my head
In that hotel suite
Cigarette ashes on my bed
They stain the sheets - I see you nude, dancing around my room
As if you ain’t a thousand miles back home
But it’s cool I’ll probably see you soon
I can’t go to that thrift store
Without smelling sex in the dressing room
Can’t hear my favorite film score
Without sweet nothings played on loop
It’s kind of rude, won’t let me loose
As if you weren’t a thousand miles back home
But it’s cool I’ll probably see you soon
I can still feel you kiss me
I thought I was ready
to see you off on that flight
I said goodbye - but as the clock, it ticks on by\
I realize I’m still holding you close\
As if you ain’t a thousand miles back home
But least we got telephones
Whoever said “out of sight, out of mind”
Fucking lied
‘Cause you’re not by, by my side
Still keep me up at night
I can still feel you kiss me
-Holywatr, “Without U”
---
It’s painful, honestly, the way she does it.
She steps into the cafe like she owns it, despite the oversized hoodie and ridiculously short denim shorts that looked worn out and threadbare but are probably designer and worth more than what you make in a month. The cap on her head, the large sunglasses, and the mask cover her - because without them someone might recognize her face as one that’s been on a million screens, a thousand advertisements, all over the world.
She looks, almost, like she doesn’t care. She looks like any other young woman grabbing an overpriced, oversweetened dose of caffeine that she’ll probably snap a picture of for her Instagram story before leaving half-finished on a sidewalk somewhere. She reaches the counter and mutters an order to a barista that doesn’t deign to even look up from the tablet he punches her order into.
Every movement she makes is painful to you. Her nonchalance - her indifference - stings. It’s a sharp spike poised above your ribs, giving you tiny little jabs of bright pain.
She steps aside from the register and saunters to the waiting area. A hand slips into her oversized tote - which, like the rest of her attire, hid a ludicrous price tag beneath its ragged exterior - to produce a phone that she idly scrolls as she waits.
It’s then that she sees you.
Dark glasses turn. The mask hides her expression. You imagine it’s hiding a regretful sigh, or one of disgust at something unpleasant that she’ll have to take care of - like a full trash can that needs to be emptied.
The barista calls her name - not her real one, not here, out in public - and she takes the plastic caffeine container, loaded with an obscene amount of ice and whipped cream and those stupid fucking chocolate sprinkles she loves so much. She walks over to the corner booth where you’re sitting, sits across from you.
The mask drops. The glasses come off.
Minatozaki Sana was many things. Idol, model.
Today she is just a young woman throwing away a toy she’d grown tired of.
---
“You look like you’re doing well,” she says, flatly. Her eyes, often so full of mirth and mischief and something she wanted people to interpret as joy - they look dull and uninterested today, as though she’d had to force herself to be here, to see you.
You don’t know what to say. What could you say? This was one of the most popular woman on earth, one of the most gorgeous, and you’d spent the last few years catering to her every whim. You’d seen her at her highest, supported you through her lowest, fucked her throughout. Those lips had wrapped themselves around your cock, whispered filth against shower tiles as you took her from behind, spilt her hopes and dreams and deepest insecurities on those quiet nights between shows when all you did was hold her in her hotel room while she cried about how she believed everyone around her wanted her just for her looks and not for the girl beneath them ---
And now she was greeting you with the same interest she had given the barista moments earlier.
“I’m good,” you manage, although the words that leave your lips seem to come from a voice that isn’t yours.
“How’s your mom?” she continues, even as she takes her drink and stirs it absently, taking a short sip of the sugar water within.
“She’s good, she’s good,” you answer. The words cost you something to say, because speaking to her isn’t free anymore, not now. “The doctors say she’s responding well to the treatment. They say she’ll be out of the hospital in a few weeks.”
“Good,” she says. Her eyes don’t meet yours. She takes another sip of her drink. “Which hospital is she at?”
“She just got transferred to the Women’s Hospital, the one on 6th street.”
Sana nods, barely, but doesn’t make eye contact.
“How are you?” you ask, because that was how conversations worked, right? She asks how you are, you answer, you ask her how she is, she answers. You don’t have the courage or the brain cells to manage much more than that - not now, not when the woman sitting across from you is who she is.
Silence. It’s only for a few seconds as he stirs her drink with that green paper straw she hated so much. The world thought they knew everything about Minatozaki Sana, but her hatred of paper straws is something only you know about her. It’s an intimate thing, amidst the myriad of other intimate things you know of her.
But none of that knowledge is able to bridge the silence between you. It lasts only a few seconds, but they feel like forever.
“How are the girls?” you add, hoping a simpler question might prompt more conversation, might produce something, anything out of her to fill this painful, terrible silence.
“They’re good. Tour wrapped up. Just the encores in Seoul to go.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you… how was… uh, the cities?”
She looks up at you, finally, at the random words spilling from your mouth in some vain attempt to maintain some semblance of normalcy. She’s stunning - even without an ounce of makeup or the small platoon of makeup artists and hairstylists that make her look the way she does on those screens and advertisements - but today she looks tired, and uninterested, and done with it.
Done with you.
“They were good,” she answers, finally. Her attention returns to her drink to the sugar, water, and caffeine concoction on the table between you, as though it were a third participant in this awful, painful conversation. Silence returns, for too long.
“Sana, I-”
“Listen,” she says, at a volume and with a tone that rattles you. “We both know why we’re here.”
You don’t say anything. How could you?
“We can’t do this anymore,” she says. Her eyes falter for a moment - just a moment - before she wrestles them back in line. “It was fun. But it was a dream. Time to wake up. It’s over.”
Your words fail you. Two years - two years you’d spent with this woman - and they’re all gone, all over, just like that - a dream to be woken up from, a toy to be discarded.
You want to say something. Want to tell her the past few years have been the best of your life, that you’d seen cities and done things and had experiences that you’d long thought only existed in movies or k-dramas or fanfiction - and that she was at the center of all that, the source of it, the only reason why you were able to experience it all and that you will thank her, with every second of the rest of your life, that she picked you out of the thousands of men at that concert two years, eight months, three days and sixteen hours ago---
“Sana-” you begin, but no words follow.
“I don’t need a manager that will just get up and leave me randomly,” she states, the words somehow sharp and cold at the same time. “I need someone I can depend on. Whenever, wherever. You’re not that person. Not anymore.”
She lets the words lie there in the space between you for a moment that felt much longer than it actually was. Something painful flares in your chest.
“The company will send you the rest of your pay,” she continues. “And the non-disclosure agreement, of course.” The glasses and mask come back on, covering up those gorgeous features of hers. Her eyes catch yours before the glasses cover them up and there’s something there that hurts you - the indifference, the nonchalance, the arrogance of this woman for tossing you aside like some unwanted trinket she’d grown bored of.
But it’s fleeting. The lenses are opaque and dark and you wonder if you’ll ever see those eyes this closely again. She gathers her things.
“Bye,” she says, and for a moment you imagine there’s regret, or sadness, or something soft and fragile in her voice - but then you realize it was probably your imagination, your heart protecting itself from being shattered into a million pieces right there on the floor of some fucking chain coffee shop.
She leaves.
Her drink sits on the table, barely-touched, left behind.
---
“We miss you, bro.”
Pikachu was a good guy. He was on the other side of the world, but the wonders of modern technology meant you could still pick out the genuine tone in his words and the worry behind them.
“Thanks, dude. I miss you guys too. How’s Buzz?”
“Aw, you know,” Pikachu answers. “It is what it is. You know she’s… she’s dating someone else now, right?”
You don’t have to ask who he means by ‘she’. It was common knowledge now, and had been plastered all over the k-pop blogs when news of it broke. The ‘ideal couple,’ they were called, because they both looked like marble statues of the fucking Olympians brought to life.
Buzz, on the other hand, was a little short and scrawny; but admittedly, most men looked scrawny next to her new boyfriend.
“Tell him to keep his head up,” you answer. “He’s a good guy. I heard he’s getting into acting after the tour is done?”
“He is,” Pikachu replies. “The other managers want him to stay on, but I think he wants a break from it all. He accepted a role last week. It starts filming at the end of the year.”
There’s a moment of sad silence between you, a melancholy, an acknowledgement that the brotherhood that had formed between the three of you was reaching its natural end, and there was nothing any of you could do to stop it. It was fleeting, momentary - three men brought together under the most ridiculous circumstances - but you treasured it, cherished it all the same. You shared some of the best of years of your life with them, and now that time was coming to an end.
A dream to wake up from.
“How’s your mom?” Pikachu asks, and you answer - she’s doing fine, the doctors have run the tests and prescribed the drugs, but she’ll need a little more time in the hospital to recover. Pikachu is thoughtful and genuine, and makes a promise to come visit her, and you, someday.
“And how’s…” he hesitates for a moment, knowing he was approaching sore, still-bleeding territory. “How are things with you and Sana?”
You gather yourself for a moment. The wound was still fresh. You’re still trying to get over the way she did it, the way she threw you left you behind like that fucking drink she left on the table. Anger flares for a moment. You hide it.
“We’re done,” you answer, and the words leave a lump in your throat as they pass. “She… she broke things off after I came back home for mom. I saw her last week in person on her way back to Seoul. Said she needed someone that wasn’t going to just leave at random times. You know how she is - needy as fuck. Threw me aside like a piece of trash but hey, at least she did it to my face.”
You manage a sad chuckle. Pikachu is supportive. He’s a bro, he knows what to do. He tells you she was a bitch to break things off with you the way she did, when she did. He tells you she’s a spoiled brat, that she’s used to people doting on her 24/7/365 and couldn’t handle someone who had other priorities. He goes off on how needy she always is, and how she’s constantly seeking the attention and approval of everyone around her, and how exhausting that is for everyone.
He says the right things, and you knew him well enough to know that he meant them.
The call nears its end. Pikachu has a team meeting to attend in ten minutes, where the managers and the crew will be discussing the wrap-up of the European leg and begin preparations for the finales in Seoul. He mentions, offhandedly, that Momo and Chaeyoung have been at odds in the past few weeks, and that management wants him to take care of it before the finales start.
For a moment, you consider telling him something - a secret you’d long held. Something he should know.
“Take care of yourself, bro. I’ll talk to you soon, alright?” he says, before you can formulate the words.
“Yeah,” you answer. The secret dies on your lips.Talking about her was the last thing you wanted to do. “Soon, bro.”
---
At the hospital, your sister tells you to go home - she’d gotten some time off work and could watch your mom for a while. You often fought with your sister in the way siblings do, but you loved her, and she loved you, and her insistence that you “go home and shower the depression off” was her way of showing it.
Your apartment wasn’t as kind to you as you’d hoped it would be.
Relics of the past few years are everywhere - tour merch, clothes and trinkets and souvenirs from the cities you’d visited on tour, photos of you and some combination of Pikachu or Buzz or even a few of the girls at some bar in Mexico City, a coffee shop in Prague, in front of the Space Needle in Seattle. Nayeon and Jeongyeon looking like an old married couple as they posed in front of the Eiffel Tower. Mina looking ethereal on the foggy streets of Berlin. Chaeyoung in Amsterdam at a thrift shop, smiling brightly at Pikachu, standing next to her with arms full with a pile of clothes she was going to try on.
And then, a framed picture - you and Sana somewhere in Tokyo, before the tour. Chaeyoung had snapped it with one of those silly vintage film cameras of hers, and it’s suitably artsy - a little out of focus, a little more candid than either of you were expecting. But your arm is around her, and you’re both a little tipsy from the half-empty wine bottle on the table beside you, and she’s smiling at you like-
You swear. You grasp the frame and hurl it across the room. You don’t hear the crash it makes as it slams into the wall. You bury your face in your hands.
The shattered glass glitters like stars on your living room carpet.
The past floods back, merciless.
---
“It fucking sucks.”
“I know it does,” you answer. “But they don’t know, Sana. They don’t know.”
She sighs, her breath a warm rush of air against your collarbone. She nuzzles closer into your neck, and her hair fills your nostrils with her scent - she smells like springtime, like something new, something bright.
“It’s all they see,” she continues, her voice weak in a way none of her fans have ever heard. “They see the ads, the fashion shows. I’m just a mannequin. The lipstick. The sports bra. My tits pushed up to my chin on stage-”
“They’re great tits,” you answer, softly, a nervous smile wobbly on your lips - one that you’re relieved to find is mirrored on her own.
“They’re great tits,” she repeats, playfully, and she straightens her back slightly and gives them a little shake. They’re small, modest, and on stage they’re more bra than breast - not that you gave a damn, not when they’re there, in front of you, and they’re naked and bare, nipples still tight and taut. After you’ve looked your fill she settles back against you, wrapping an arm around your torso and a warm, naked thigh over yours. You can feel the heat between her legs, and the neat patch of hair above her cunt on your hip. A trickle of something warm drips onto your hip.
“I just wish they saw more,” she continues.
You lie there with her in a long but not uncomfortable silence. She makes a pillow of your shoulder and chest. Your left hand weaves through her hair, the silken strands falling between your fingers at the end of each stroke.
“I don’t,” you say.
She looks up at you, those doe eyes of hers wide.
“You don’t?” she asks, surprised.
“No,” you answer. Your free hand reaches up to the side of her face, brushing a few strands of hair aside and behind her ear. “I don’t want anyone else to see what I see.”
She scoffs, hisses through her teeth in the way she does when you do something silly, which was often. “You’re just saying that because you’re the one that gets to fuck me, and you’re a selfish shit.”
“Maybe,” you answer, “but I don’t think the whole world needs to see the Sana that I see.”
She props her chin up on your chest. Her eyes are wide and her cheeks full and she looks like something someone drew for a manga.
“I don’t want to the world to see the girl that cries over cheesy slice-of-life animes,” you continue. “I don’t want them to know that you hate olives, or that you think Sailor Venus was the best sailor scout. I don’t want them to know what sound you make when you cum, or the way your forehead wrinkles when you’re thinking too hard.”
Her forehead wrinkles. You reach up and forcefully smooth the skin down, and she smiles.
“You’re a real sweet talker. But you’ve already got me naked and in your arms and I’m dripping your cum on the sheets. You can cut the sweet stuff.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
She kisses you, and her lips are soft and sweet in the way your words try to be.
“Let them see the mannequin,” you say, softly. “Let them see the idol, the model. They don’t need to see what’s beneath. They don’t deserve it.”
Her eyes are glassy, watery. “The important people deserve the real Sana,” you continue. “Save the real Sana for the girls. For your family and friends.”
You almost add ‘for me.’ Two simple words, and they’re right there, right there on the tip of your tongue and it would take just a slight rush of air, a small vibration of your vocal chords and they would be there, out in the open, between you and her - a declaration, a statement, a demand.
But the words don’t come. She’s here, in your arms, and her eyes tell you she’s waiting for them, but they don’t come.
The moment passes. She nuzzles back into your neck and you feel something moist hit your chest beneath her eyes.
“You’re too good to me,” she says, and it’s an accusation and a warning.
You ignore both.
---
You’re angry again when you wake up. Did you dream it all? It was all so vivid, so real, that it felt like you were inhabiting your past self for a few moments.
You can almost feel her warm body on top of yours, almost feel her tears on your chest.
But she’s gone, and you’re alone, and the past doesn’t matter anymore, because the past is past, and she’s still gone, and you’re still alone.
The glass still glitters on your carpet - traitorous, mocking shards of light.
---
She liked to dance. Half-naked. Drunk.
You’re in a hotel room somewhere in Europe, a ridiculously expensive one that had a nightly rate that probably approached half or more of your paycheque. You’re a few weeks removed from that quiet night together, when she confessed her discontent with how she was seen by the world. You’re also a few hours removed from when she was on stage, dancing and singing and looking for all the world like the perfect idol, the perfect model - performing for people that saw her as just that and nothing else.
You’d been ready to call it a night and head to sleep after a long day - concert days were always utterly exhausting - but Sana had called, and you’d heeded it. You always did. The other girls were busy, or off doing their own thing, she’d said, and she was bored and wanted someone to drink with.
You knew for a fact that the girls were either off with Pikachu and/or Buzz, or off having their own after-party at some bar in the city - and that Sana wasn’t invited to either. But you keep that to yourself.
She’s gorgeous, all perfect skin and long limbs and long, flowing hair that’s free and unbound, without hairclips or ties or the myriad of ridiculous sprays and products that her stylists use to have her hair fall just so.
She’s wearing a simple thong that does little to hide the curve of that cute little ass of hers - and a sports bra from that brand she hates, the one that presented her like she was a gym rat when in reality she hated even the idea of working out. It pushes her tits together and up, almost to her chin, the way she hates, but right now she doesn’t care. She’s too busy dancing.
She’s dancing to the group’s latest song, the one about having a strategy. It’s a choreography you’ve seen a hundred times, but not while she’s drunk and has a near-empty bottle of some local beer with a name you can’t pronounce in one hand, not while she’s in her underwear, and certainly not for an audience of one - yourself.
“Step four, got you on the floor
Make you say, “More, more, more!”
She sways and flails her arms around in a mockery of the actual choreography, before giving up altogether and taking a long swig from her bottle that drains it. She wipes her mouth clean with the back of a hand, before giving you a wicked smile.
The song continues in the background, playing in shrill, piercing notes from her phone, but all you hear are the words leaving her mouth - each slowed and slurred by alcohol. The drinks blur the sharp edges of the world, and make her more gorgeous than you’d ever seen her.
“Say it,” she says, the words leaving her mouth in a tipsy mumble. “Say the words.”
From the hotel room couch, you stare at her, puzzled and enraptured all at once.
“What words?”
“From the song. ‘More, more, more.’ Say it.”
You smile at her. She’s swaying - drunk, swaying, more beautiful than she was on stage mere hours before, when she was in front of thousands.
She gently tosses the empty bottle at you, which you catch. Her hands go to the hem of her sports bra.
“Say it,” she says playfully, the cutesy voice snapping back like a mask she’d slipped on - trying and failing to sound threatening, her silly smile and blushing cheeks betraying her futile attempt to seem so. “Say it, and I’ll strip for you.”
“Sana,” you say. “You’re drunk. I’m drunk.”
“Say it!” she says, her voice lower now, closer to a growl, but it’s playful, and not at all threatening.
You slouch on the couch, defeated. Your mouth opens. “More, more, more,” you say, out of tune.
The bra comes off. She pulls it over those small, round breasts of hers, over her head and her long, luxurious hair. She lets it dangle from her fingers, before she tosses it at your face.
Before you can even process it she’s on you - straddling you on the couch, hands in your hair, mouth crushing yours. Her lips are eager and hot and slick and you kiss her back, your tongue finding hers, your hands wrapping themselves around her body. Your fingers claw at her, dig at her soft, warm skin, squeezing a firm ass cheek, caressing the dip of her spine.
“You want me, don’t you?” she says, the words a harsh tumble, a breathy gasp between kisses. She’s kissing you hard, pressing your lips almost painfully against your teeth. “Say you want me,” she says - her tone a demand now, a low tone, a far cry from the cutesy tone of moments before.
“I want you, Sana,” you answer, the words coming from somewhere raw and primal inside you, a place of instinct and old desire.
She breaks the kiss. Her face hovers just a few inches from yours. Her cheeks are flush with the alcohol, but her eyes are clear - bright, shining, glimmering in a way that you’ve seen nowhere else in your life.
“You want me, right? Me. Me.”
“Yes,” you answer, on instinct. “Yes, Sana. You.”
She kisses you again. It’s rough and almost painful as her teeth graze your lips - but she soothes it with a swipe of her tongue. She captures your upper lip between both of hers and sucks. Your hands land on her ass and you squeeze each cheek, making her break the kiss to moan softly into your mouth.
You kiss a trail - down her cute little chin, down that slender, swan-like neck of hers, to her upper chest. Your tongue drags along her collarbone. Then you dip your head, find the tight, taut nipple atop her left breast, and latch onto it with your lips. You suckle.
She gasps. She swears. She writhes.
“Fuck,” she gasps into your ear, the word leaving her lips like a growl, sounding very much unlike the idol, very much unlike the mannequin that brands dress in their clothes and trot out in front of the cameras. “Fuck, it feels so good when you do that.”
Your tongue works its magic on her. Months of fucking this woman have shown you what to do, taught you how to wrest a gasp or moan from those sweet lips of hers. The tip of your tongue swirls around her nipple, first clockwise then counter-clockwise, pressure constant, maintaining suction with your lips.
She’s trembling now, her hands digging painful furrows into your scalp. She’s hot and drunk and bothered and she needs more, so you give it to her.
You switch to her right breast, lathering it with the same attention you gave her first. Your hand leaves her ass to squeeze her free breast, streaked now with your saliva. You capture her nipple between your index finger and thumb and give the tight bud a pinch. She moans and gasps. You grunt, deep and raw, against her nipple as she begins to gyrate atop your painfully hard cock, still trapped beneath your sweats.
“Ohh, you like that, do you?” she hisses in your ear, a question with an obvious answer - one that leaves your mouth in an involuntary groan.
“You like fucking me, don’t you? Love having the hottest, most popular girl in the group - in Korea - on your cock.”
“Fuck, Sana, just-”
“You love knowing the girl from the stage, the girl in all the ads, the girl on everyone’s phone - you love that she’s gonna ride your cock until you fill her with your cum, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sana. I do. Just fucking put it in-”
“What would the fans think? What would they say, if they found out their perfect angel from the MVs and variety shows and makeup ads loves begging for her fucktoy’s cock?”
“Sana-”
“-like a fucking dirty little whore.”
“You’re not, you’re not just a-”
“Say it, Woody,” she says, your pet name leaving her lips in a hot, sexy hiss directly into your ear. “Say it again, toy.”
She grinds on your cock - and you can feel her hot wetness, even through her soaked thong and your moistened sweats - from the base of your cock to its tip.
“More-” you hiss through your teeth. “-more, more.”
One hand grasps the back of your scalp, pulls your head backward so her eyes can look directly into yours. They’re dark, those eyes - half-lidded, dark, filled with something dark and dangerous.
There’s something else in them, too. Something that looks like insecurity. Something that looks like sadness.
The other hand reaches between you. They grasp the waistband of your sweats and pull them down, freeing your painfully stiff cock.
“Such a good little toy,” she spits. “Suck a nice cock for me to fuck myself on. A good fuck. That’s all you want, isn’t it? A good fuck. That’s all you ever wanted from me.”
Silence - for a split second. Something flickers in her eyes.
“Sana-”
She frees your sore scalp from her hand, uses it to reach between you and pull her flimsy little thong aside. With her other hand she guides your tip to her cunt and in that split second before she slides down your shaft you can feel the heat of her on your tip.
A drop of her juices drips from her lips and onto your shaft. She slides down your cock.
The breath leaves your lungs and hers. You’d had this woman probably hundreds of times in the last two years, and this moment never failed to take your breath away - or hers. You’d had her in every way imaginable, in every place, sometimes with other men or women sharing the experience. But you never tired of the excitement, the intensity, and the pleasure of this moment.
She doesn’t waste her time. Not tonight. Not when she was needy and full of your cock and more than a little drunk - on alcohol, on the adoration of her fans, on you.
She rides you. The alcohol lends her passion but takes her coordination in exchange, and she’s sloppy and her rhythm isn’t what it is when she’s sober. It’s rough and messy. Her pace falters, then quickens when she realizes she’s slacking, then slows again when your tip hits a particular spot inside her.
For a few moments you’re paralyzed by the sight and feel of her. She’s gorgeous and naked and sweaty and you watch as a drop of sweat makes its way down her neck and upper chest and onto your tongue, where you lick it off her slick skin. She’s hot and tight and wet. She’s moaning and sighing and gasping. She’s everything and it’s already almost two much, just a few minutes in.
Your hands tighten around her hips as they grind up and down on your lap, taking your cock in and out of her body with each movement. Her own hands brace herself on your shoulders. She’s sober enough to remember what you like. She’s lucid enough to remember that you loved it when she moved her hips in those small little circular motions - a motion that grinds her slick, taut clit against your crotch with each movement.
Those small, round breasts of hers sway in front of you, nipples taut. The sports bra she hated so much left sore red marks on her skin where they confined and shaped her torso into something it wasn’t. You bend and drag your tongue along the horizontal line beneath her breasts that its ribbing left behind. One of her hands grasps the back of your skull again, and pulls it towards her left breast. You suckle from her nipple again.
“Such a good fucking toy for me,” she says, the words leaving her lips in a messy, half-slurred tumble. Your mouth on her nipple draws a gasp from her throat before she continues. “You feel so big inside me, baby.”
You switch to her other breast, taking her nipple between your mouth and sucking hard. She moans in response. Her back arches, giving you more of her. Her pace quickens.
“Fuck, fuck,” she gasps. “Love your- ah - love your mouth on my tits.”
You want to respond, but couldn’t tear your lips away from her sweat-slick nipple long enough to say anything.
“They’re so small,” she says, softer now, a little quieter. “Not - oh, fuck, yeah right there - not as… as big without the bra. The fucking… the fucking fanboys want the big tits, though-”
That’s when your mouth leaves her. Your eyes find hers.
“You’re perfect-”
Your words are cut off when her hand finds your scalp again, nails digging deep into your scalp this time. She ceases her movements, leaving you hilt deep inside you. Her eyes find yours. They’re red and glassy - from the beer and the pleasure and something else. She’s angry and upset and somehow fragile, all at the same time.
“Shut the fuck up,” she snaps. “Shut up. Just shut up and fuck me.”
She releases your scalp. She resumes her pace. Your cock slides in and out of her slick, hot little cunt. You want to say something, want to stop, even - but she’s one of the most gorgeous women in the world, quite literally your dream girl, and that stupid, all-consuming, primal need for pleasure overcomes your concern for her wellbeing. The animal part of you wins. It often did.
You grasp her hips instead. That same animal part that renders you unable to think of anything else drives you, gives you that irresistible need to claim her, make her yours. You drive up with your hips as best you can despite your position and her weight on your lap, spearing your cock into her slick cunt, timing each thrust to meet the moment she grinds down on you.
She gasps, moans, screams at one point when you hit a spot inside her that makes her see stars. She whispers filth - about her body, about her ownership of you, about what you’re doing to her cunt.
But you hear none of it. You hear something else - something she’s not saying.
I’m lonely, she says. I’m afraid they love me for my body and for my face and not for my heart.
Her head, which had been thrown back after a particularly deep and throaty moan, bends forward to find yours. Her hair falls around her face, framing it in waves the color of chocolate. Her eyes look for and find and lock on to yours.
“Gonna… fuck, I’m gonna cum.”
“Do it, Sana. Show me.”
“You want it, don’t you? Want this hot cunt to cum on your cock. Want this fucking whore from the ads to- to-”
“I want you, Sana-”
“Fuck, fuck, oh god, fuck!”
Her body surrenders to something deep and primal within her. Her torso locks up; her thighs quiver as they tighten as best they can around your hips; her spine arches as she throws her head back and lets a broken, throaty moan leave her spit-slick lips. Her cunt squeezes and pulsates around your cock, almost painfully.
It takes her a while to recover. She collapses into your arms, breathing heavily. She’s buried her face in your neck. You stroke her hair with one hand, trace the elegant line of her spine with the other. You feel a trickle of her juices slide down the base of your shaft and down your balls.
Eventually, she gathers herself. She brings her mouth to your ear, and with a voice that is a far cry from the cutesy, airy tone she uses in front of the cameras, she whispers.
“Your turn.”
You grasp her torso, press it to yours, and turn her onto her back on the couch. She lets out a soft little yelp, and her breasts give the most adorable little bounce. Her lips curl into a surprised smile. You smile back. You stay there for a second, on top of her, your cock still buried inside her and a drunk, silly smile on both of your faces. It’s short, fleeting, but it was there.
Then you start fucking her.
She gasps and moans and cries. The same mouth that was making cutesy noises and talking to her fans is swearing now, spilling filth and obscenities with each thrust you make into her tight little cunt.
“Fuck! Fuck, fuck me harder, god, just fucking use me-”
Her pleas are cut short when you hook your arms under her knees and push them against her chest. She’s folded in half now, her legs near horizontal against her own chest. She’s defenseless. You start drilling her into the mattress. She can’t do much else than just take each hard, deep thrust - not that she would want to.
You fuck her so hard into the mattress that you’re grunting with each thrust, heavy exhalations of air with each movement, as though you were powering through a set at the gym. She’s quiet now - the voice fucked out of her - her mouth open in a frozen O, her eyes curling towards the back of her head. There’s only the hot, repeated slap of skin, the protests of the couch beneath the two of you, and the slick, wet sound of your cock slamming in and out of Minatozaki Sana’s tight little cunt.
“You like that, Sana?” you manage to spit through gritted teeth. “Like how I fuck you?”
“Y-yes-” she answers, just barely. Her fingers claw at your biceps, seeking something to ground herself amidst the assault your fucking is placing on her body. It’s almost too much, and her body screams at her to beg you to stop - but the thought doesn’t even enter her mind. Not when it’s too good, you’re too deep, and you’re pushing her closer and closer to-
“You’re so fucking tight, Sana,” you spit as you lean down to kiss her deeply. She moans into your mouth. You’re fucking her all the while. Her knees bounce up and down in your peripheral vision, and her feet dangle helplessly above your head. “So fucking tight. I love using this pussy. Love using you-”
You almost regret saying the words as they leave your mouth. It’s almost too much. It reduces her to something less than what she is. It reduces her to a toy. It makes her a-
“Yes! Fuck, fuck yes - ah, oh god - just use me. Use my body. Cum inside me, breed me, just fucking use me!”
You fuck her harder. Your cock pistons in and out of her body and you forget any semblance of care for her or her wellbeing, physical or mental. She’s just a cunt now, just a warm wet hole - one that’s tight and pulsating and squeezing around you and she’s hissing now, begging in your ear, begging to be used just as you currently are, begging to be bred and filled with cum-
“Fuck, Sana I’m cumming, gonna cum inside you-”
“Do it, yes, use me. Use this fucking body. Use this cunt. Cum inside it!”
You bury yourself inside her. Her legs are pressed almost flat against her torso as you drive as deep as you can inside her tight, grasping cunt. You let go, and you fill her with thick, warm cum - long ropes of semen that paint her cunt white.
“Oh fuck, there’s so much - I can feel it. So warm. So thick. You’re filling me up, breeding me, fuck-”
You bury your face into her neck. It takes a long time for your senses to return to a functional state. You breathe deeply. Every inhale carries her scent - sweat, sex, something sweet, something Sana.
You let her legs fall from your arms. She keeps them tight around your hips. You give her small, grinding thrusts with your softening cock as you push your cum as deep inside her as it can go. She lets small whimpers leave her throat with each movement you make. They’re light, airy sounds. Wordless, but passionate.
You eventually gather the strength to raise yourself from her neck. Her face is one you’ll never tire of seeing - blissful, blushed, fucked-out and satisfied.
But her eyes are glassy. They look fragile. There’s something there-
-and it’s gone. A mask - that of the sly, sexy vixen she likes to occasionally wear with you and a select few others - snaps into place.
“Fuck, that was good,” she says, a wicked smile curling her lips - one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You fuck me so good, baby.”
You bend to kiss her. She kisses you back, her lips saying things that her voice never could.
She thinks she has you fooled, thinks you can’t see the version of her that is soft and vulnerable and more than a little insecure with her belief that no one would want to see it. She thinks her masks are too thick, her walls too high, and that all the world wants from Minatozaki Sana is the pretty mask and the pristine wall - but she’s wrong, even if she doesn’t know it.
Tomorrow the two of you will get on a flight to the next tour stop, right along with her group members and the dozens of other crew that are needed for such productions. Tomorrow night she’ll sing and dance and laugh and smile at thousands of fans, and for just a few hours, mask in place, she’ll belong to them.
But the Sana behind the masks and the walls belongs only to you, only if she only appears from behind them for a few seconds at a time.
---
“They don’t know what it is,” your sister says on the phone - six words that no one around the world wants to hear, followed up by three more: “They’re running tests.”
“Jesus Christ,” you swear, running a hand through your hair, damp with sweat. You’re suddenly sick. You hold your hand over your mouth for a moment, as though you were keeping this morning’s breakfast in your stomach.
“She doesn’t… she doesn’t look well,” she continues. “She says she’s fine, tells me not to worry, but-”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“No, it’s fine. For now. You shouldn’t come until we know what it is. Where are you, anyway?”
Your sister knew little about your job - enough to know that you did “backstage work” for some k-pop group and were often travelling, but that was the extent of it.
“Barcelona,” you answer, but it’s irrelevant now. “I’ll… I’ll talk to my boss, get some time off and-”
Your sister says your name. She says it in the tone she uses when she wants you to listen to her - the same one your mother used when she wanted the same.
“It’s fine,” she says. “Really. I’ll let you know as soon as the doctors talk to me. Then you can come visit if you can. But there’s no use in you taking time off work just to come home and realize this is all appendicitis or something stupid like that.”
You let a sigh out through your nose.
“Alright,” you relent, watching as Pikachu and Buzz struggle with a particularly large container of the girls’ stage costumes and other gear. Buzz motions for you to help. “You’ll let me know the second you hear anything?”
“Of course. Take care of yourself, you dipshit.”
“You too, shitface.”
You end the call, tossing your phone into your pocket. You hustle over to the guys and help them with the container. It takes all three of you to successfully heave the large black travel container into the back of the waiting truck.
“Woody!”
Each of your heads snap to the venue door, where Sana has poked her head out. She waves frantically to you, motioning you over. She’d probably lost her phone or her airpods or her camera again and needed help finding it - or rather, needed someone to find it for her.
Pikachu gives you a tap on the shoulder as you turn to head back to Sana.
“Everything good, bud? Call looked serious.”
“Yeah,” you answer. “Nothing crazy. Just some stuff from back home.”
“Need help with anything?” Buzz asks, genuine. You glance over at the venue door. Sana is standing there with arms crossed, foot tapping.
“No, not right now. I’m good. It’s just my mom, she’s going through some health stuff. That was my sister… she said they don’t know what it is yet, but that they’re gonna run some tests-”
“Woody!” she calls, again, a little more impatient this time.
You give Pikachu and Buzz an apologetic look.
“Hope the pussy’s worth it, bro,” Buzz says with a sigh, before turning towards the rest of the containers that were awaiting loading. Pikachu shoots you an apologetic look of his own before joining him.
You hurry over to Sana.
---
A lesser man would have been more distracted. Or would a lesser man have been less distracted? It’s hard to say. Your moral compass had been somewhat warped by the last two years and the ridiculous rollercoaster of events you’d found yourself on.
Moral quandaries aside, you had to admit - you were a little distracted by the news from home, even given what was happening in front of you.
The hot, wet slap of your hips against Sana’s ass was steady and grounding, in a way, giving you something to latch on to amidst the swirl of emotions and worries and general catastrophizing going on in your head. The usual chorus of moans and sighs that accompanied the slap of your hips against her ass was muffled somewhat, replaced by the occasional wet, slick gurgle and gasp that managed to escape her lips past the thick shaft filling her mouth.
You and Pikachu fall into a familiar rhythm as you take Sana from both ends, spitroasting her at a pace that threaded the line between being too rough and being just right. It was far from the first time you’d taken Sana with someone and it spoke of her own familiarity and ease with the arrangement that she was currently taking you both without a hint of discomfort.
“Fuck, she’s so good at this,” Pikachu hisses between gritted teeth. His hand glides through the dark chocolate strands of Sana’s hair, grasping the back of her skull as he thrusts into her mouth. “So good at taking cocks. One of the best in the group at taking more than one, honestly.”
“Yeah,” you agree, after a moment. As much as it shamed you to say it, your mind was elsewhere, despite being balls deep inside one of the most gorgeous women on earth. “She’s… she’s such a good slut for us,” you manage.
The praise sends a shiver down Sana’s spine - and results in her cunt squeezing just a little tighter around your cock as it pumps in and out of her. She lets something like a moan out around Pikachu’s shaft and it wrests a groan of pleasure from his throat, too.
She lets his cock slip from between her lips.
“Fuck,” she hisses. Saliva and pre-cum drip from the corners of her mouth and down that tiny little chin of hers. She nuzzles Pikachu’s cock, slathering her own, spit onto her pretty cheek, making it glisten in the low light of the hotel room. She looks back over her shoulder at you, and the intensity in her eyes grasps your full attention for a moment. “Fuck, you like using me, don’t you, boys?”
A reply forms on your lips. You knew this dance well, knew that she liked being praised for being a dirty little fucktoy even as she’s used like one. But the words don’t come. Thankfully, Pikachu had no such hesitations, nor your preoccupations.
“Fuck yes, Sana,” he snaps. “You’re being such a good fucktoy for us. So good at taking both cocks at once.”
“Then keep fucking me,” Sana sighs, eyes locking onto his. “Fuck me until you both cum inside me.”
She slips his cock back into his mouth. All the while you’re been fucking her, sliding in and out of her tight little cunt. The spitroast continues. The bed protests, singing its own song of squeaking springs and a wobbly frame as it supports the rough movements of the three people atop it.
Sana moans and Pikachu groans and you do your best to fuck her, to keep your mind in the present, but it’s not. Your body responds, though, thankfully, even if your mind and heart didn’t.
“Fuck, gonna cum,” Pikachu spits. He grasps Sana’s head with both hands and his pace quickens. Sana lets a wet gurgle of a moan out of her throat even as Pikachu uses it.
The telltale pleasure at the base of your spine builds. “Me too,” you manage, and for a moment the pleasure is all that exists, all other worry momentarily forced out by the sheer satisfaction of watching this woman, this woman from all the screens and ads and concerts, being used by you and one of your best friends.
“Fuck!” Pikachu hisses, and suddenly he’s holding Sana’s scalp against his crotch as he fills her throat with cum - and the sight of it triggers your own, and your grasping her hips tight enough to leave bruises as you bury yourself inside her cunt and let go.
Sana’s hands fly to Pikachu’s hips, nails digging into his thighs as she’s filled with hot, thick cum from both ends. The sensation of it triggers her own orgasm, and for a few wonderful moments the three of you are locked in a pleasure so deep and all-consuming that it burns away anything else resembling a coherent thought.
Sana eventually wrests her head from Pikachu’s grasp, his slick cock slipping from between her lips. Some of his cum dribbles from her lips, but most of it is still in her mouth and the back of her throat, and you watch as she locks eyes with Pikachu before swallowing it all down.
You pull out of her, slowly, delighting in the sight of her well-fucked cunt quickly dripping your semen, appearing from her lips as a thick white mess before falling in heavy drops onto the ruined sheets.
Sana drops onto her side. Well-fucked, slick with sweat, chest heaving. Cum drips from her cunt and the corner of her mouth.
She locks eyes with you, but the look in her eyes is empty.
---
“You were distracted.”
She’s on her side, facing away from you, sheets drawn up to her chest - something she only did when she was upset with you. Everything about it was an accusation. You reach out and trace an idle pattern on her shoulder. Pikachu had left soon after the fucking had ended, mumbling something about catching up with Chaeyoung, leaving the two of you alone in a Barcelona hotel room that felt heavy with something unsaid.
“I wasn’t,” you lie. “I was just…”
“Just what?”
“Just… I don’t know. I’m tired. Been a long day.”
She finally turns her head to look at you. Brow furrowed, and eyebrows curled in a look of disbelief. She doesn’t say anything, just holds your eyes for a second before turning back to her side.
“Sure,” she says. “Whatever.”
“Sana-”
“You’ve been somewhere else since before the concert tonight,” she says.
It’s quiet for a moment. It was true; your sister’s call and your mother’s condition had been at the very top of your mind, even throughout the entirety of the concert and the post-concert sex that usually followed each event.
“I… just some stuff from back home,” you admit. “I might need to take some time away.”
Even with her back turned, the effect of your words is obvious. She tenses up, curls a little more into her pillow.
“Then go. Leave.”
Her words hit you with a little more force than you were ready for.
“Sana, you don’t understand. I don’t want to leave, it’s just-”
“Just what?” she says, turning onto her back. The sheet slips from her chest, leaving her breasts bare - but she doesn’t move to cover herself. “Now that you’ve fucked me all over the world you don’t need me anymore, is that it?”
“That’s not what I said, Sana.”
“It’s what you want to say,” she says. She turns onto her side again. “Go. Leave. I’ll tell the other managers you quit.”
The word upsets you - the idea that you would willingly leave this life is so ridiculous to you that it takes you a few moments to gather the words for a response.
“Sana, I’m not going to quit. I just need some time away, that’s all.”
“Whatever,” she says. “I can always find another man. Pick another toy out of the next fucking crowd.”
Her words hit hard, cause a lump of something unpleasant to form in your chest.
“Sana, please. You’re being unreasonable.”
“It’s fine. Go, leave. Quit. I’m used to being alone.”
“Alone? You have the girls-”
Sana lets out an indignant breath through her nose. “Please. They all hate me.”
“What?”
“They all hate me,” she repeats. “They barely want to work with me. You must know it by now. All that OT9, friends forever bullshit. Just a fucking act.”
“But … Momo and Mina? Your unit-”
“They hate me the most,” she answers, voice soft and vulnerable in a way you’d never heard it. “They all do. They think I’m some spoiled, attention-seeking brat. Nayeon tolerates me, and that’s because I do what she wants. You’re the only one that-... the only one who-”
She stops herself. She curls a little more into the side of the bed, as though she were protecting herself.
Silence reigns. She was right - the past few years of working with the girls had made it clear that the closeness they showed in front of the camera had been a well-orchestrated act, a perfectly-crafted mask, one put in place by the label to sell albums on the idea of a tight-knit, unbreakable bond between the girls. In truth they were like any other group of people - some got along, some didn’t, some were loved and some were hated.
You want to tell her about the call from your sister. You want to tell her about your mother. But you can’t, because you never could tell Minatozaki Sana the truth. From the moment she extended her hand and pointed at you at that concert two years ago her wish had been your command, and the very thought of upsetting her was anathema to you. The guys and some of the girls had teased you about it - about how you were more whipped than the others, more slave than fucktoy.
The truth was Sana had changed your life two years ago at that concert, and through her you’d been able to experience things that you could’ve never imagined in your wildest dreams - the sex, the travel, the money. The others saw it as slavish devotion, but in truth it was thankfulness. If being at her every beck and call was what you had to do to express even a modicum of the thankfulness she deserved for the life she had given you, then you did it gladly.
Some days, you thought that what you were feeling was something akin to love, and you deluded yourself into thinking that perhaps the great Minatozaki Sana might share in your feelings. You saw it sometimes in the way she nuzzled into your neck after sex, the way she smiled at you as she passed by you in a concert venue, the way she told you things she’d never tell the others - not even the girls. You spent most of your days together. Somedays, your face was the only familiar one she saw. You knew her better than you’d known anyone else in your life.
Your life revolved around her. She was at the center of it all. She was everything. She was, in many ways, the most important person in your world.
Your family was the only thing more important.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” you say, because it’s all you can say in that moment.
“No, you won’t,” Sana says. “You’re going to leave me. You’ve spent two years fucking the idol, making her your whore, and you don’t need her anymore.”
“Sana-”
“Leave,” she says, in a way that brooks no argument, even if her voice begins to waver. “Leave. Quit your position, or I’ll tell the managers to fire you. Either way, you’re done with us. With the company. With me.”
She doesn’t turn to face you. Not even when you leave the room.
---
The next week is a blur. The very next day you got a call from someone at the JYP head office, informing you your contract with the company had been terminated at the request of someone in the group. You were on a plane back home the day after that.
Pikachu and Buzz did their best to intervene, but in this company the word of the girls was law. The second Sana expressed a desire to get rid of you, the company moved quickly. Before the week was out the whirlwind of the last two years had suddenly and painfully drawn to a close, and you found yourself back home in an apartment that felt very little like home.
---
The month that followed seemed surreal - in the way that normal life seems when you’d spent the last two years living a high that you still weren’t sure was actually real.
But spending too many hours next to a hospital bed had made everything depressingly, soberingly real.
Sana had spared the time to drop by your home city on her way back to Seoul from the final show in Europe. It was on the way, she’d said, and she had some other business in the city to attend to. Probably some appearance at a fashion show, or some brand hiring her to put on their jewelry or dress and look pretty for a few hours. You had no idea. You weren’t privy to her schedule, not any more.
And so she dropped by, broke your heart in a coffee shop, and left.
Clips from the girls’ European finale concert in London stream on your phone, its tinny speakers and tiny screen a far cry from the deep thump of the music, the rush of coordination between managers and makeup artists and stylists and backup dancers and the rest of the small army it took to put on a show.
You should have been there. You should have been running around with Pikachu to ensure Dahyun’s piano was on stage in the right place in time for her solo. Jihyo always needed reassurance that her mic was in working order and you were one of the few people she trusted enough with her equipment. Jeongyeon had a silly habit of throwing her cowboy hat into the pit between the stage and the crowd with each solo performance, and the task had fallen to you to retrieve it every night.
But you weren’t there, in London, in a packed arena amidst thousands of fans. You were in your home city, next to a hospital bed. You watch on your phone as Sana begins her solo.
She was so far away.
---
Few things in your life could measure to the relief that came when the doctor gave you and your sister your mother’s diagnosis. Her condition could be easily managed with medication, and after some recovery while her body got used to the drugs, her quality of life would be near where it was before her hospital stay. You could almost feel the giant, oppressive weight being lifted from the shoulders of you and your sister, and while you often bickered and fought the way siblings do, you’d both spent a few minutes hugging in the room after the doctor had left.
You’re getting ready for your mother’s discharge from the hospital when you and your sister approach the nursing station to inquire about the bill.
“Your mother’s good to go,” said the nurse, a middle aged woman with kind but tired eyes.
Your sister gives you a look before turning back to the nurse. “Right, so, uh, should we expect the bill in the mail? Or-”
The nurse gives a sigh as she hits a few keys on her keyboard. Something flashes up on the screen.
“No, you’re settled up.”
You stand there in silence for a while.
“I don’t understand,” you say. The nurse gives another tired sigh, not bothering to look up at either you or your sister. Her mind was clearly already on her next patient.
“Your bill’s been paid,” she states, with a tone that one uses when they want to end a conversation. She gets up off her chair, gathers a clipboard, and leaves the nursing station - off to help another patient. “Make sure you don’t leave anything behind in that room. Have a good day, dears.”
---
“Things are good,” Pikachu says between sips of his beer. “And yeah, things are… good with her.”
“That’s awesome, bro. I’m happy for you two.”
“Yeah,” Pikachu says, a small smile perking up the corners of his mouth. “I still have to pinch myself sometimes. The Son Chaeyoung? Wild. I’m living a fucking Tumblr fanfic.”
You raise your own beer in a toast. He taps his against yours and you both take a long sip.
“Bro,” you begin, choosing your words carefully. “Now that I’m out of it… I… I hope you figure things out between Chaeyoung and the girls.”
Since you’d left the company, Pikachu had been candid in sharing Chaeyoung’s issues with the rest of the group, Nayeon in particular. The last conversation you’d had with Sana about her tense relationship with the girls was still fresh in your mind, and the last thing you wanted to see was Pikachu getting caught in the group’s internal conflicts.
He sucks air through his teeth. “Yeah,” he admits, “shit’s not great between her and the rest of the group. They all have their little rivalries, their little squabbles. Some more serious than others. The other managers and the company haven't picked up on it yet, but it’s there. They hate each other. Some of them do, anyway. You know how girls are.”
“Yeah,” you agree, taking a long sip from your beer. “I do. But you should know - it goes deeper than you think. Nayeon’s sneaky. I’d watch out for that one. Same with Momo and Mina. They… have ulterior motives, I think. I… might have overheard things about them plotting to break you two up.”
Pikachu doesn’t seem surprised, which is both surprising and worrying. “That doesn’t surprise me. I… I’m going to work through it with Chaeyoung. Hopefully find a way that doesn’t involve the group imploding.”
“Good, good. How’s Buzz?”
Pikachu sighs, steering his gaze out the window of the bar and onto the streets of Hongdae. “He’s… he’s alright. He’s filming his drama, so I don’t see him as often as I used to. He’s good, otherwise. Just busy.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Yeah… anything to distract himself from her, I guess.”
You didn’t need to be told anything further. You wished you’d been there to comfort Buzz the way he’d been there to help you while you dealt with your mother’s hospital stay.
“We need to hang out before I head back home,” you say. “The three of us. I’m here until the end of the week.”
It hadn’t been that long since you’d last been in Seoul - really only two months had passed since you’d left for the European leg of the girls’ tour that had seen Sana get you fired from the company - but it already felt like a homecoming of sorts. With your mother doing much better, you’d finally had the time to head back to gather your things from the Seoul apartment the company had set you up in while you worked for the girls. Pikachu and Buzz had been helpful in getting your stuff packed and in the mail to be sent back home.
She hadn’t contacted you, despite Pikachu and Buzz telling her you were in town. No calls. Not even a text.
“For sure, bro,” Pikachu says. “Maybe we invite some of the girls? You know Jeongyeon’s always down for a drink. Tzuyu’s birthday’s coming up, and you know how wild she gets after a few. Dahyun, maybe? I’ll bring Chaeyoung... I think the other girls might be busy, though…”
No mention of her, though. Pikachu catches on to what you’re thinking.
“Hey man, I’m sorry things didn’t work out with you and her,” he continues. “She was… she is… she’s a bit of a handful. The things Chaeyoung’s told me about her…”
“Honestly,” you begin, “it’s good that she ended things with me when she did. It forced me to go back to my family. If she hadn’t gotten me fired I would’ve stayed. My mom’s okay now, but it was touch and go there for a little bit. If I hadn’t gone home, and if something shitty happened and I missed it… I never would’ve forgiven myself.”
“It all works out, I guess,” Pikachu says, but his eyes are on his bottle of beer, his fingers picking away at the label, thoughtful.
“Thankfully, the company paid for the hospital bill.”
Pikachu’s eyes shoot up to yours, and his brow furrows. “What?”
“The company. JYP. They paid for my mom’s hospital bill. It was a pretty hefty one too, considering all the tests they ran and the treatment plan they have for her. I’m dropping by the building later to thank the big guy himself, personally.”
Pikachu stares at you for a long moment, before a look of disbelief washes across his features.
“Bro, there’s no way the company’s gonna pay for some random staff member’s family hospital bill. JYP’s not a bad dude, but we’re supposed to be the girls’ secrets, remember? There’s no way JYP would pay for your mom’s hospital bill and risk having it linked back to the girls or the company - let alone go all the way over to your hometown to pay it. How would they even know what hospital your mom was at, anyway?”
“Then who… You? Buzz? You were in Europe with the girls. No one else knew about my mom. Who would-”
The two of you stare at each other for a while. Realization dawns.
The smallest of smiles appears on Pikachu’s lips as he takes another sip of his beer.
---
Just as coming back to Seoul felt like a homecoming of sorts, so too did going to the concert feel like slipping back into a life you thought you’d left behind.
The boom of the music, the staff members and security hustling around in the background and beneath the 360 stage, carrying mics and bottled water and discarded cowboy hats - it all felt intensely familiar.
But you were in the crowd, not behind the barriers. There was no earpiece in your ear with the head manager telling you to fetch a new flat of water, or to find Momo’s mic, or get in place to set up Tzuyu’s bars for her solo performance. There was just the boom of the bass and the shouts and screams of the fans next to you - fans that had no idea that the man next to them had, just a few months ago, lived a life that they would have killed to experience with the girls they were paying to see.
Pikachu had been a real bro and set you up with VIP tickets for the pit, just a few feet from the stage. And there she is - right there, her back turned as the central stage covering rises and the concert begins to thunderous applause. She hasn’t seen you yet.
It doesn’t take long. It happens right at the end of the first song, when the group formation brings her in front of you.
Minatozaki Sana sees you. Her eyes lock onto yours - the same way they did two years ago, when she smiled and pointed at you and quite literally picked you out of the crowd. Her eyes widen in surprise - and then soften. Seconds pass. Her eyes are glassy.
You smile at her. She smiles back. She raises her hand - slowly, tentatively, and points at you.
She picks you again.
---
Author’s Note: That song’s been in my head for years now and I knew I had to write a story around it. And Sana is Sana, so…
…honestly, I probably fumbled a couple of the details with the ongoing Toy storyline. That’s what happens when you go a literal year and a half between entries. I’ve been thinking about wrapping up the story and I think I’ll do that in the next couple of chapters, just so people finally get some closure on this. See you in 2030 for the eventual Toy finale ;)
Thank you all for your ongoing support, despite my now bi-annual fic drops. Kazuha fic still in the works, and maybe more Ryujin.
Be excellent to yourselves and to each other. The world needs it. <3
It's raining again. Not a light drizzle, but a steady, torrential downpour, and there's one person to blame—you know this. The fact that you're having to get up from your comfy chair, put your mug down on the table and walk the several paces over to the front door because she, once again, is at it.
You find it surprising how whenever it rains, the moment that thunder echoes across the city, there's an almost frantic knock that follows. And of course, once you finally open it, the culprit is right there on the other side.
Ning Yizhuo. Your annoying, meddling, definitely too-involved, overly-attached-and-obsessed, whatever the fuck you wanna call the relationship you share with the girl. You'd call her an ex, but you never officially ended anything. Even with an ocean between the two of you, she'd still find a way, at some point or another, to show up at the doorstep in the middle of the night,
So you sigh at her presence—yet, not because you hate seeing her. No, quite the opposite. It's only out of some kind of spite that you keep her waiting, lingering there outside your house in the rain. Like this is the universe punishing you for past transgressions.
Against your better judgment, you open the door, checking if the doorknob is hot first.
There she stands, looking too attractive in all black, thin stockings, torn somehow, a way too tight skirt hugging her waist. Low cut top, visible through a dark coat, with far too much cleavage to defend against.
And somehow, nothing looks out of place—despite having no other option but to brave the rain to see you.
"Is this your doing, I assume?"
The expression on her face drops from hopeful to annoyance in mere seconds. Ningning rolls her eyes and takes a step forward. You take a step back.
"What, the sky? Please, not even I can control the weather."
"Then why do you always show up whenever there's a storm?"
She pauses, folding her arms. "Call it a coincidence. Now, aren't you gonna invite me inside?"
You hesitate as the storm begins to worsen. Not only the rain but the booming thunder and lightning that chases it, so bad that the entire street lights up. In all honesty, you know that you don't really have another choice. It's not like she'll physically enter the house if you don't allow it, yet she's just insufferable enough to camp in the driveway until the sun comes out.
"Do you even get wet, Ning? You're practically standing in a monsoon out there, and not a spot on you."
"Depends if your pants are still on or not," she fires back, that wicked smile always wide and ready to strike.
You've made worse mistakes than this, you suppose—even though a little voice at the back of your mind urges otherwise.
"Come inside," you say, already regretting the words the moment they leave your lips, gesturing to the open door.
Ningning can't help but smirk. "If things go right tonight, that's what I'll be telling you later, baby."
And just like that, she moves past the doorframe into your place—heading inside like she owns the place.
There's no point in pretending that this isn't an impromptu visit from your not-ex. She kicks her heels off, hanging her coat on the rack beside the door and making you wonder just how many times Ningning has shown up completely dry in the midst of pouring rain.
"So, what did I interrupt that was so important that you took forever to open the door?" Ningning asks, standing around as if she didn't show up uninvited, as if you're expected to drop to your knees just because she's arrived.
"Enjoying the peace, Ning, that's what. It's late," you reply, feeling an incoming headache at having to deal with her. "Maybe if you sent a warning—"
She ignores everything. Stares as you sit back down on the couch, your tea more than a little cold now. "Typical."
You roll your eyes, fighting not to pick an argument while she surveys the place. "Typical what?"
She ignores you again. Somehow unbothered and distant, focused entirely elsewhere—just as if nothing has happened between the two of you. The absolute gall, she has.
"Well, I'm glad you're up at this hour. Even better you're alone."
Now you're the one ignoring her, leaning back down on the couch to finish the last sips of tea, a nagging feeling brewing the pit of your stomach—because there's only ever one reason why she shows up late at night, and it's not to chat over tea.
Much to your chagrin, Ningning looks directly at you, but she moves close—very close, until there's a dangerous look in her eyes while she smiles. "Have you eaten yet?
"A bit, but not really—"
Ningning shakes her head, taunting with a feigned annoyance at your response. "How is it you never have food in this damn house?"
"Don't get hungry often enough, I guess," you say, fighting to keep your eyes off of her outfit.
She nods in response, crossing her arms. "I see. Well then—"
The storm rages on outside the living room window, but your focus is stolen entirely away as Ningning approaches, positioning herself in a spot right in front of your line of sight, as if to distract. Not that it's a hard thing to do. Not when she's wearing a tiny little thing she calls a skirt, stockings that do her legs far too much of a favor, and a top that struggles to contain much of anything.
"Yes, Ning?"
There's a moment that passes by where Ningning stares long enough that you're uncomfortable, long enough to where you feel as if the moment can shatter at any second.
"Look, before I say anything else," she begins, still standing in place as those eyes stay locked on you. "Had to take the train here. Nothing was fucking available. Then a taxi—since you had to live out in bumfuck nowhere. I'm tired, and sore—I'm absolutely starving. Not for food, obviously."
"Obviously," you repeat, hardly in shock with her direct nature. She's hardly ever subtle. "Then take what you need. Don't have to ask twice."
Her lips curl up. "Thanks, sweetie. Knew there was a reason why I liked you."
Without anything further, Ningning is quick—far too quick for your liking while she climbs atop, legs on either side, straddling you—close enough so you can feel the heat on your skin. You sit idly by and soak it all in.
"This'll hurt just a little bit—" she says, before her lips press deep so she can pepper several kisses along the side of your neck. "Just keep still. I'll be quick."
"Don't be."
You don't even register the words that come out of your mouth, not fully, at least. Ningning smirks, running her fingers through your hair, smiling in satisfaction that you've somehow fallen into her trap yet again.
"Darling, I will tear you apart if you let me have my way."
You'd damn near let her.
Ningning's not the type to wait around, tilting her head back so she can bare her glistening fangs, primed and ready to devour you whole in the process. They sink in at the crook of your neck, piercing the skin with ease—almost at the exact same spot you remember from the last time.
Sharp pain shoots through your body in a matter of seconds, as blood flows out without pause, succumbing to her hunger, letting Ningning takes what she pleases. You hiss at the sensation—a strange mixture of pleasure and pain, not sure which is winning out, only able to watch her drain you, eyes locked in an almost sinister trance while she feeds.
Then, just like that, Ningning pulls her head back, lips stained with a crimson red that she wipes off with the back of her hand. She looks more vibrant, alive—eyes that pierce deep, more than satisfied for the night.
"Thanks, love. That's enough," she replies softly, running her fingers over the bite mark before planting a little kiss on your cheek. "Took a little more than usual. Hope you don't mind."
You laugh, looking up, lost in her gaze. "What am I gonna do, Ning, take it back? Don't worry."
"That'd be very inconvenient," Ningning says, smiling at that. "You should rest a bit, yeah? How do you feel?"
You shrug. "I'll manage. Little dizzy, but I'll survive."
"Because you have nothing to eat in this shithole. You sure you're good?"
You nod, smile returning to your face as you glance up. "Yeah, of course. Nothing I haven't handled before."
"Good." Those devilish fangs fully on display linger for one more moment until they retract. You'd be lying if you said you weren't a little disappointed.
"So, is this the part where you tell me why you showed up at midnight, wearing next to nothing?"
Ningning presses her body close, offering just enough cleavage for your eyes to wander. "Like it's a surprise I'm here."
You say nothing, and somehow, that's the one thing that actually bothers her a bit. Ningning rises, turning away, more annoyed than offended—a bit different than her usual arrogant nature. "Haven't seen you in a few months. Didn't think I needed an invitation."
"And maybe there's a reason for that."
Surprisingly, Ningning says nothing else for a fleeting moment. Laughing in spite of it all. "Wow. Is there another vampire bitch here giving you what I can't? Because last time I checked—"
"Of course not," you answer immediately, ignoring the tone in her voice.
"Good. Like I was saying, nobody fucks you like I do, and I don't think there's anyone else out there that can."
You sigh, attempting not to feed that overzealous ego even more. "Ning—"
"Don't Ning me," she snaps, the fangs exposed again, retracting within seconds. "You should be so damn grateful that I'm here right now."
"For what, so you can have a midnight snack?"
Ningning ignores that entirely, moving quickly to straddle you once more, wrapping a set of slender, ice cold fingers around your neck.
Her eyes burn into you, and you're too powerless to look away. "Say it. Say I fuck you the best. I won't leave. Not until you say it."
You ponder whether or not to comply, the air leaving your body bit by bit. Ningning squeezes just the right amount—just enough to leave you wanting more, leaving an ache between your legs.
"You're unbelievable."
"In bed, yeah, I am, aren't I?" she purrs, bringing her lips to yours, crashing them into you, hard. You kiss back, already done with resisting, because like it or not—you need Ning as much as she needs you.
"If you didn't look so sexy right now—"
Ningning cuts off the thought, shoving her tongue down your mouth to silence you. "When do I not? You've seen me at every point possible, at every hour, dressed up, down. Sexy is just the norm for me."
"Always so fucking cocky," you mutter under your breath, diving back in for another taste.
"It's not cocky, it's just the truth," Ningning says, sliding off your lap so she can lower to her knees before you. "Let me prove how accurate that statement is. Let's get these pants off…"
You're far too weak to say no, and not because of the blood loss. One swift movement from Ningning, and she has her fingers hooked at the waistband of your pants.
"May I?"
So polite. With a nod, she tugs them down, just far enough for what she has planned, revealing your boxers that aren't doing a very good job at hiding how aroused you are.
"Mmm, yeah," Ningning purrs, satisfied at what she sees as she begins to palm you over the fabric. "Was kinda worried, but got plenty of blood pumping here..."
There's only one thing left, to let Ningning do whatever she pleases, shove your boxers down so your cock can spring out, the tip practically oozing already.
"All this for me? Gonna milk you dry tonight."
Again, there are no words that come from you, not a single thing outside a gasp. You try and keep your focus on Ningning herself—on that depraved stare when she strokes you. And she gets right down to business, pressing her tongue against the underside of your cock, flicking it a few times before taking a long drag down.
"I really missed this, baby," Ningning admits, planting several teasing kisses from base to tip, giving such satisfying strokes that make your stiff shaft leak.
You barely catch what she's saying—too focused on her touch, one that you haven't felt in far too long, by the person that knows you best. The heat from her mouth as her kisses linger along each and every inch, every vein that her hand travels down, familiarizing herself once more.
"Missed this inside my pussy, feeling how deep you fill me. Missed sucking it, missing making you cum just from this," she murmurs, staring up through those long eyelashes at you while she presses those full lips around your sensitive head, peppering it with affectionate kisses.
You simply moan, unable to get anything else out with her wet tongue swirling all over the head, savoring the taste.
"You missed me too, didn't you?"I know you did. That's why you won't push me away, or kick me out. That's why you won't ever tell me to stop."
Before you have a moment to breathe, Ningning wraps her lips around the head of your cock, trapping it in warmth, sinking down slowly. You can't hold what comes next, another loud moan that escapes as she gives a pleased hum in response, fondling your balls while her head bobs between your legs.
"Ning—"
She descends again, satisfied with that. And keeps at it—never fully down, never allowing her throat to be too full. Just slow, steady suction and delicious warmth while her tongue teases all over, sliding along base to tip, and back down, using all her tricks to draw your bliss out.
"This beautiful cock, fuck, missed the way you taste. The way you throb, how sexy you sound when you moan, mm," Ningning says, pausing just to run her tongue down every last throbbing inch. "And so, so fucking big. Mine. All mine."
Her head lowers, so sloppy and desperate, popping off just to spit on your stiff cock, spreading it all over before that heat envelops your shaft once more. All you can do is stare, every bob of her head drawing you closer to the back of her throat, a sight far too beautiful not to watch.
"God, Ning. Your fucking mouth…"
"Feels amazing, right? Nobody can make you feel this good. Nobody takes care of you like I do, baby? "
Ningning's right—of course, she's right, just like she always is, and you couldn't fight her words even if you wanted to. Because those lips know what they're doing—know how to please you, how to make you groan so pathetically, like her mouth was made just for your cock.
"I could suck your dick all day."
And you'd let her. Let Ningning take everything she wants and more. Everything feels too good—each flick, each slurp, the heat of her mouth—everything is taking you away, especially when she holds your gaze, until she finally swallows you whole in one fluid motion, nose pressed to your stomach as her lips seal tight.
"Fucking hell—"
It's almost a mistake to watch, to watch how her lips slide to the base and back down, this constant urge to please as her throat fills with every inch, tongue out with every stroke. The wetness that covers your shaft with every pass, mouth engulfing you, and all you can do is grab the back of her head, not to guide, not to control, but to simply indulge.
"Feels so fucking good, shit, nobody can do what you do, Ning."
She just stays still, eyes wide, appreciative at your words with her hands caressing your thighs, hardly any strain on her expression to have your entire aching cock buried in her throat.
"The best part is watching you lose yourself," she murmurs, popping off as saliva connects to your tip, breaking that connection so shes can stroke your the spit-covered shaft. "Lucky for you, I have no use for breathing, so I can have that big fucking cock just where it needs to be.
You're practically trembling, so close already it won't be difficult for Ningning to finish you off. That devious look she gives when reaching down to pull up her tight skirt without her lips leaving you. And it takes all you have not to lose it once you realize she has absolutely nothing underneath, her pretty, wet cunt for your viewing pleasure.
"It's a good thing you had an appetite," she says, shifting position just enough so you can see her fingers rub at her bare pussy. "Because my cunt is about ready to devour you."
Ningning says that as she picks up the pace, one finger between her legs, other hand resting on your thigh—bobbing her head at a frantic rate, taking you down and back up like nothing, not a single gag or struggle. You can't do much more than moan and stare, mouth parted and helpless, balls so tense the longer she keeps going, until Ning mercifully pops her lips from your throbbing cock.
"Thinking about how bad I want to ride you, baby. Or maybe you should have me bend over—fill me from behind and slap my ass as you give it to me. Or get all sprawled out, wrap my legs around you so you can't pull out, pound me while I scream how bad I need you. Lots of options for you to ravage my pussy, isn't there?"
The room is practically silent except for the sloppy, hungry sounds of Ningning awaiting your response, bobbing up and down your cock, tongue gliding flicking along every wet inch.
"Upstairs," you say, all out of breath—and it's all she needs to hear.
Ningning swallows you one more time, leaving a wet kiss on your swollen tip once she pulls off, ignoring your body's pleas to stay.
"Well then, lead the way my cute little fangbanger—but do be careful, I did just drain you."
In more ways than one, that's for sure.
There's a surge in motivation as you begin the trek up the stairs, Ningning close behind. Every footstep up the stairs, each thud echoes, like a countdown to your fate that awaits. You can only think of what's about to happen, the way she will take your body, and the sinful things you're going to do to her own in turn, nothing holding either of you back.
Once you arrive at the foot of your bed, Ningning is quick to shove you back with surprising force, giggling as she watches your weakened frame stumble back and land. She steps away, positioning herself close to the window, so you can see everything illuminated in the moonlight.
Ningning is unreal. Her ethereal beauty too much to handle as she undresses, her complexion glowing, that pale skin more beautiful than anything else. Those painted nails that have dug into your flesh almost as much as her sharp fangs, and your thoughts wander, watching each piece fall until a pile of her clothes lingers on underneath her bare feet.
You nearly faint once she's fully naked and turns to face you.
Every delicious curve for your eyes only, you feast on that naked skin, those pretty nipples, hardened by the cool air, those hips, luscious legs—every single inch of her more than overwhelming you. The silhouette of her body can't compare to the real thing once she closes the distance, climbing your lap in record time, hovering dangerously close to your erection.
"Been a while since you last fucked a vampire," Ningning teases, the heat of her cunt teasing the tip of your cock.
"And just whose fault is that?"
Ningning glares, spreading her wetness over the head and doing little else. "Now you're blaming me? When you made it so difficult just for me to see you?"
Before she drops her hips, Ningning allows her fangs to extend again, almost a reminder of her advantage over you. She's grazing over your chest, not using the full force just yet, merely playing with you. Little lovebites left scattered over her favorite parts of you, as if you won't remember the deep ones on your neck from earlier.
"Fucking love you like this—vulnerable, compliant, all fucking mine," Ningning purrs, catching her breath in between bites. "Bet you'd let me do anything to you tonight."
"I'd let you do anything you want anytime," you admit, realizing what comes from that statement.
She smirks at that, at your sudden honestly. Her tongue swipes the side of your face before trailing the shell of your ear, sucking on the soft flesh of your lobe. "Aren't I the lucky one, then?"
Without anything further, Ningning continues her path of destruction, trailing kisses and licks down your body. Like she's for the right moment to strike, or at god knows what else she has planned. Her lips catch a nipple, giving a few swirls that don't allow the pleasure you need, kissing down your abdomen and grazing the flesh with those fangs—those sharp things coming dangerously close, the thought of them puncturing the skin sending an orgasmic mixture of fear and arousal.
"Don't be nervous, baby," Ningning murmurs, lips tracing lower, planting kisses right below your navel that make you gasp. "Would never hurt you or do without warning. Well, without prior permission."
There's no time to give a snarky reply, nothing witty coming from your mouth as she looks at your skin she's made so sensitive, appreciating her work.
"Not nervous, Ning."
"Oh? Then I might wanna let you do what you want for a change," she murmurs into your skin. Ningning's lips hover right above your inner thighs, her hot breath enough to make you flinch, the anticipation of the bite, the delicate tease making every muscle tense up.
"You'll let me?"
Ningning laughs at your question, tongue dancing from where she left off. "Yeah, I'm giving you a freebie tonight. Have your way with me, darling."
It's a hard bargain—you don't trust her intentions, but there's no time for negotiation.
You lift her off with little effort, almost as if your strength returns without warning. Ningning's on her back, legs spread wide, glistening folds exposed to you as she waits for your next move.
"Yeah, this'll do," you say, drinking in that gorgeous view of her pretty cunt that's about to be made yours.
Ningning just smiles at the gesture. "Always knew you were a stickler for the basics. It's cute, really."
That's what she thinks. With that, you lift her legs up, resting both on your shoulders and folding her tiny frame, each of her feet by your ears. In an instant, her face changes from one of disappointment to realization, just at that split second before the plunge.
"Okay, this is different. I've misjudged, it seems—"
You say little else as your cock buries every inch in, sinking inside that soaking mess, making sure you fill her aching pussy perfectly. The groans slip out at her tightness, the wetness that consumes you, the way that Ningning looks once the motion of your hips start.
"You're fucking mine," you growl at the next slam, while her eyes nearly roll to the back of her head, her intoxicating cunt swallowing you up and clenching to make sure you won't dare leave.
"Ah, f-fuck!" she whimpers once you start to fuck her the way she needs. The way you think she deserves, the way you know the bed is going to protest to. No time for her to adjust, Ningning's tight little cunt clamps down with each desperate thrust, making sure you bury every last inch inside her.
"You're so tight—" you grunt, sweat gathering on your forehead already. "Feel too fucking good—always feel so fucking good.
Ningning looks gorgeous when she takes your cock. Hair a tangled mess, all spread out, completely at your mercy. "And you're so deep, so much deeper this way, damn, baby."
"Don't act so surprised, Ning."
"Oh, don't think I can be surprised? As if I expected this? You're never this aggressive."
"Maybe you pulled it out of me," you admit, hips snapping, watching Ningning's expression falter with each slam to the hilt. It's addicting to see her fall apart for a change, to watch those moans escape, pummeling her cunt like there's no other way, no other alternative—like your dick belongs inside her at all times.
"God, baby, look at you go," Ningning huffs out, parting her lips at the forceful treatment you're dishing out. "Making my pussy feel so good, ah—I haven't been fucked this good in ages."
"Then allow me to remedy that situation," you start, taking pleasure in the way she crumbles, the gasp she makes when you withdraw, the frantic moan when you hilt back in.
"Fuck yes, baby—give it to me. Harder, can feel you in my guts, shit," Ning cries out, throwing her head back, content to bask in the pleasure each time your cock disappears fully into her tight little pussy. "God, I needed you so bad. Needed you to fill me up so well."
"Here I am, Ning. Not going anywhere."
There's this rare moment where she can't find any witty comeback, not when that mouth hangs wide open, no snarky comments falling, nothing but pure unadulterated bliss. She's squirming, nails digging into the sheets, lifting her hips higher to let you reach places she'll feel for days.
"Fuck! Fuck, please, god yes," she pleads, struggling to find the words, staring at you through in hopes that you'll get the memo. "Please. Fuck me deeper, wanna feel all of you, want that cock to ruin me."
And that's precisely what you do—holding that position and looking Ningning right in those pretty eyes as you sink deep, pound that wet pussy until she's clinging for dear life to the sheets. She's powerless to you, or at least, pretending to be, words lost to lust as you fill her again and again.
Knowing that for once, she isn't the one in control—there's no strings attached or manipulating factors—that Ningning, that bloodthirsty, cunning, dominating vampire who can bring anyone and anything under her power, is nothing but a toy under you now. She's yours to do whatever with.
That sets something off inside of you, makes you want to push things further, take things to the next level. You shift, spread those legs wider and lift them off you until her knees almost meet her chest, folding her in half even.
Ningning's expression is filled with approval once you do, hips thrusting wildly with no mercy on her drenched pussy, hitting deeper than even before.
And now she looks delirious with pleasure, and your knees are digging into the mattress so you can get that little extra leverage, more power behind those harsh thrusts, hips working to the max, determined to ruin Ning—if it were even possible.
"That's it, destroy me, baby, make my pussy yours. Isn't it funny—you've got me in this, what do you humans call it? A mating press? And it's almost a shame that you can't breed me—makes me wish you could. Give all that hot, yummy cum something to do besides make my pussy gush."
"That's the last thing we need, another Ning. One of you is more than enough."
"You wish you had two. One to suck your hard cock in the morning and another to sit on your face. Yeah, you'd love that."
Your mind can't seem to even grasp the reality of that, picturing it all for a brief moment, only to continue hammering Ningning's tiny wet cunt. The urge, the carnal need to bring her to her brink and beyond consumes you—your hips working without rest, giving the girl no chance to recover, fucking her over and over in that delicate position with no way out of it.
Her body can't keep up with the intensity, and you can't almost either. Pinned against the mattress with nowhere to go, all that attention focused on her soaking cunt—too sensitive, too wet, too inescapable, each thrust becoming impossible to handle. For both of you.
You take pleasure watching her fall to pieces with each thrust that fills her, savoring every gasp that you cause, each plea for you to keep on driving in deep and hard.
"You, baby, keep pounding me like that—fucking my pussy and ruining it. Giving it to me so hard because you know I can take it, I can handle everything you give. Keep it going, keep going and give me what I deserve, empty those balls inside me like you own this pussy."
Hard not to when she's so convincing—staring at you, demanding your load, pleading to keep hammering that greedy cunt, your balls smacking against her asshole more than ready to dump it all in her.
"Get ready then," you say, hips losing all control—that pussy just won't relent, sucking and squeezing all around and making it harder than ever to keep going any longer.
"Oh, baby, please—I was ready to be pumped full of cum the moment you invited me in. You're gonna cum so hard, I know, fill me, make my pussy so messy. Get that hot load nice and deep in me," Ning pleads, bracing for the inevitable, too far gone for anything else.
"Don't you fucking worry, Ning, this tight pussy is getting everything," you say, sheathing yourself deep in that wetness for as long as you can stand.
"Good, then you know what to do—cum inside me."
You groan out—more than compliant with those demands, no longer fighting against the pressure boiling deep inside. No fight left from that tightness you can't escape from, so you give in, unloading as your cock empties into Ningning. The relief is heavenly, each violent throb, each hot spurt that floods her insides, her cunt clenching to demand it all, keeping you captive while you fuck it all deep.
Ningning follows not a second later, struggling to keep her composure as her own orgasm hits, face contorting in pleasure at her reward, toes curling, walls tightening even more as the sticky mess mixes with her own juices together in her hot depths.
And before you can even finishing pumping it all inside her, your fresh load leaks out that sopping, ruined cunt, pooling underneath your pleasure-stricken bodies.
"That's it, fuck… can always count on you to fill my pussy up, baby, just how I need," Ning groans, a tired smile creeping up on her face as she embraces her own bliss. "So fucking hot."
You linger in your high, and do little other than fall against her body and embrace the relief, cock slipping out enough as your cum begins to spill out and ruin the sheets further, something Ningning wears in such satisfaction.
"See?" Ning asks, a bit of smugness returning her voice, playing with your hair. "Aren't you glad you kept that sexy ass mine? "
Your body shifts, so you can focus your gaze on her beautiful complexion. Even if things may end messy again, you have no regrets. For now, all that matters is being right in the arms of the person who's never been more certain.
"You know how much I missed you, Ning," you respond, watching the way her breasts heave with the breaths that follow.
Ningning glances down at you, like that's an obvious conclusion. "Typical."
Too tired to even roll your eyes, too tired to put up with Ningning's usual antics. "Alright, sounds like its time to go back home, and—"
She wraps her legs around you, preventing movement. "And why do you think that is?"
"You got what you wanted, you drained my blood and my balls. Now you can go."
Ningning's quiet as she ponders, just long enough for a mischievous smile. "No, I don't think so. It's late—let me sleep on your sofa."
"Sleep? You don't sleep until morning."
Ningning just giggles, peppering you with kisses that break down your protests. "Then you get to entertain me until then. Deal?"
"And what if I want to sleep?"
She squeezes tighter with her legs around your waist, keeping you firmly in place. "Then you let the wrong girl inside. Do you think I'm done with you?"
Well, no, you certainly don't. That's something she'll make abundantly clear.
"Okay, fine, I'll stay up—but let me take a shower. You really made a fucking mess."
"Me? You were the one that dumped all that cum in me."
You simply stare at Ning, glaring right back at you. The more you stare, the more you both burst out into a fit of laughter, any attempts at acting serious not lasting more than a few seconds.
"No, I think your pussy deserves some blame. It had my cock trapped pretty tight—"
"But you had me all folded like a goddamn chair. Pinned and begging for your cum, that's on you."
Her eyes narrow and Ningning raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow in disbelief. You just remain there, hands lingering atop her waist. "Oh, my apologies for how rough I got with your pussy. Wasn't aware my precious Ningning was so delicate."
Ningning scoffs, using her strength to move your hands off. "I'm a goddamn vampire, don't talk to me about delicate. You can't hurt me no matter how hard you fuck."
"Is that a challenge?"
Her glare continues. "Don't get fucking cocky, love. You'll hurt yourself more than me."
"Hm, sounds like a challenge to me."
"You're such an idiot. You could literally use both hands to choke me with no mercy and I'll just laugh at how pathetic you look. Nothing you can do."
You tilt your head. "Does that mean you'd enjoy the idea?"
"I didn't say I was against it. Just won't do anything, is the point."
There's little sense in debating the merits of that claim. And you're so exhausted that you wouldn't even try. For tonight at least, you can let Ning have this victory.
The rain eventually calms down, enough for the two of you to head outside the balcony and enjoy the weather without risk. Freshly showered, with Ningning in nothing but a stolen shirt from your closet. It's late—so late, but you don't really care.
"Are you planning to make a habit of this?" you ask, knowing what you're asking might be dangerous territory.
Ningning's head turns, the grin on her face looking devilish from so close as she leans over the balcony railing. "Would it upset you if I did?"
An hour ago and you'd have a very different answer—now you aren't so sure. "No, not really. I mean, not like I can ever stop you."
Ningning just takes in your reaction, her own expression not changing a bit. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you missed me."
You sigh, staring up at the night sky as she inches a little bit closer. "A pretty girl shows up at my door and lets me do whatever I want, lets me fuck her hard against the shower wall—yeah, maybe a little."
Ningning laughs, her hand creeping around to find yours, fingers interlocking and thumb rubbing slowly against your flesh. "Is that all it takes? For me to show up, suck your dick and let you empty your balls into me, then I'm suddenly a good person?"
"Hey, I never said that—"
"Darling," she says, tightening her grip, bringing her head right next to yours, warm breath ghosting over your ear. "I'd bend over and do every dirty little thing you ask without complaint. I'd worship your cock just for the sake of making you happy. All I need is for you to say you want that. That you want me."
That gets your attention. You can't say that this night has been anything but wonderful, despite your trepidation in at the beginning. Your fingers squeeze tightly around hers, eyes focused on Ningning's pretty face in the dark, moon illuminating her features.
"God, what am I getting myself into.."
She laughs, flashing that bright smile before turning back to face the city skyline. "Hopefully me again, love."
You snake your arms over around her small waist until she's tight against you. With no shame whatsoever, you slide your hands underneath, squeezing Ningning's bare ass and pulling her into a kiss.
"But what if I wanted to do all kinds of crazy things to you, Ning? Or wanted you to do them to me?"
Ningning struggles not to smile, doing all she can to not succumb to the giddy laughter that tries to emerge. "Just tell me a time and date then. So I can catch that goddamn train."
Not letting up, you steal her lips, tasting them, savoring how soft they feel against yours, running your hands all over her cold, bare skin.
"Why catch a train when I have a perfectly good sofa for you to crash on?" you ask between kisses, trying to spend as much time pressed up against her body as possible.
"Darling," she interrupts, almost annoyed, staring directly into your eyes. "Please be serious right now. Don't treat me like I'm some random hookup."
You raise an eyebrow, confused. "I wasn't. I'm offering you a place to stay."
Ningning breaks out into a little laugh. She stops herself when you show no sign of joking.
"Wait, you're actually serious? Really? Stay?"
You interrupt her with another kiss. "Isn't that what I said? Not gonna make you sit on some shitty train for hours just to get dicked down at some ungodly hour. Stay with me. Tonight. Tomorrow night. Whenever you want."
She doesn't know what to say to that, only that her smile is spreading from ear to ear. "Of course I'll stay—thought you'd never ask. I'll happily get dicked down any time I come. Suck your dick the moment you wake up. Make breakfast, talk dirty to you while you stroke and cum on my tits, all kinds of crazy, naughty things—"
"Ning, you already have an invite, you don't need to try so hard."
She laughs it off. "What can I say, I get excited by the idea of seeing that cock at any hour."
"Christ. Is that the only reason you want to live here? Just so you can drain me dry every hour on the hour?"
The little giggle that Ningning gives is enough of an answer, knowing she can't deny the fact that it's a strong motivating force behind her plans. "No, of course not, baby. I also need you around so I can take your blood whenever I need it."
You scoff at that, threatening to leave the balcony altogether. Ningning, laughing again, wraps her arms tight around yours, refusing to let you out of her grasp. "I'm not a buffet, Ning."
"Mm," she hums, nuzzling into your neck. "You're whatever I need you to be. Your cock certainly is. Your thick, juicy, delicious—"
"Ning—"
"Yes, darling?"
"Come inside. It's freezing and the rain is starting up again. And you're not wearing anything to speak of."
Ningning laughs, clinging to your side. "Or what, I might die? Vampire, love. I could do this all night."
Another sigh escapes, pulling away only to lift her up into your arms, getting a good grip under her ass so the resounding sound of her squeal fills your ears once you carry her back inside.
"Someone is eager to go again," Ningning says, more than happy with where things are heading. You pretend that the thought doesn't cross your mind.
"No, I'm freezing and wanna go to sleep. I have work tomorrow," you say, depositing her ass right onto the cushions of the sofa before she can put up a fuss.
"It's the weekend, love," she reminds, pulling you down on the couch with her, legs already wrapping around and taking the fight out of you. "Which means you're stuck with me until Monday."
Nothing you can do but laugh at her persistence. You kiss her, once, and then pull away. Staring into her eyes, taking in her beauty, wondering if it would always be this difficult for you to escape.
"Should have listened. When people say you shouldn't feed strays. Because they always keep coming back."
Ningning's expression changes, lips turning into a far more offended pout. "Are you calling me a stray? What the fuck—"
"You always show up on my doorstep, wanting scraps and a place to rest. Is that not far off the mark?" you tease, only to be cut off by her lips.
"Rude," she mumbles between each kiss. "There are plenty of places I could be. Men to see. Bars to visit. Places to collect victims. Yet, here I am. Guess where I've chosen."
"Just sounds like you don't have anywhere else to go if you ask—"
Ningning's kisses stop abruptly, grabbing your head and guiding it down between her legs. "I didn't ask, thanks. Now if you don't mind, be a good boy and eat my pussy before I need to feed again."
There's no argument there, nothing that would ever stop you. All comfortable on your stomach before Ningning, her creamy thighs about to consume your entire existence. You might spend the entire weekend here, you think. And maybe forever.
"It’s fifty-fifty. It either happens or it doesn’t."
You set your glass down on the table so hard it nearly cracks. "It is not fifty-fifty."
She shrugs—Chaewon’s quintessential uncaring attitude about anything you say—as she falls down into the couch. "But it is, though." She pops open another beer like she hasn’t had enough to drink already.
She always does this. Chooses some ridiculously wrong position to dig her heels in. Like if she just believes it to be true, the universe will bend to her will out of sheer exasperation. You should just ignore it, and just let her believe what she wants to believe. There really is no point to it with her. You drag a hand down your face, because you've been here before. You’re always here. There is a universe where you’ve been having this argument since the dawn of time. Monty Hall sits upon his cosmic throne and watches you suffer.
"You pick a door," she says, holding up one finger like she's making a serious mathematical point and not actively committing a war crime against logic. "And then Monty—whoever the fuck he is—opens another door. And now there’s two left. So, you know. Fifty-fifty. You either win the prize or you don’t win shit."
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
And she still doesn’t care. If anything, she revels in your frustration, grinning and taking a lazy sip from her beer.
“I thought you liked your girls a little stupid,” she muses. You like Chaewon. Always have; since before her rejection and until now.
She might be onto something.
“That’s what I saw earlier at the club, anyway,” she mumbles, and it’s pointed, a sharp dagger concealed by a hushed voice.
You pay it no mind. It’s just Chaewon being Chaewon. Doing everything in her power to annoy the fuck out of you. You shake your head. “I like my girls with a basic understanding of probability.”
She hums, her gaze dragging over you, and it lingers. Long. Too long. So long it’s causing the alcohol induced haze to retreat from your brain. Then she just smiles again, takes another sip, and the buzz is back.
Chaewon stretches, arms flexed into a peak above her head, sliding against the backrest of the couch, her head landing against the armrest of the couch opposite of where you're sitting. Her legs stretch out off of the floor, her dress riding up, clinging to and stretching on her hips.
It’s a performance, designed to squeeze out resistance from any sap that would dare defy her. It’s impossible to tell if this is just Chaewon’s purest form, her instincts kicking in to naturally make any man submit, or if it’s a carefully crafted weapon, deliberately utilised and aimed with immaculate precision. Either way, it’s fucking lethal.
Lace-trimmed thigh-high covered feet land in your lap, crossed. You glance down at them. Stifle a thought of fucking the exposed part of skin right below her dress and above her socks. Breathe out through your nose, annoyed.
She sees. She was waiting for you to see, to be more exact.
“What?” she asks, but she knows the answer. Feigning innocence, but the chances of it convincing you are slim. “Is the view not to your liking?”
You flick your eyes up to meet hers. Flat. Unamused. Stern. “Jesus, Chaewon.”
She cocks a half smile, hands up in the air like she’s being put under arrest but confident she can flirt her way out of it. “Relax. It’s just a joke.‘
Right. Just a joke. One she’s been playing at for far too long now. One you’re absolutely not in the mood for tonight. One that is quintessentially Chaewon. Mean. Sloppy. Reckless.
That’s what alcohol does to her. She gets all handsy and touchy and feely, disregarding any feelings or reservations you’d have about being touched meaninglessly by the girl that didn’t want you.
And the joke is not exclusive to you either. You’ve seen her like this before, with other guys. Hands on their shoulders and theirs on her hips, leaning in too close, laughing too loud. It’s just her usual mess. It doesn’t mean anything.
She’s warm, just warm enough that you can feel her through your clothes. But warm enough to make you fear the sparks could ignite something that shouldn’t be. Before you can have any more prohibited thoughts, you shift, trying to nudge her legs off of you.
She doesn’t budge. Deliberately. Straight up refuses to even acknowledge the attempt.
You sigh. “Get your legs off of me.”
Chaewon blinks at you, lashes fluttering faster than your heart can beat, her lips pouting— a poor substitute for saying she can’t believe you’d say that to someone this cute. She chuckles, transforms it into a smirk, and tilts her head.
“Make me.”
She presses the arch of her foot against your crotch. It’s right on target. Light. Testing. Provocating.
It’s impossible not to react. You could sit here, not do anything, let her rub your hardening cock through your pants a bit, enjoy the feeling of her getting you worked up. But that’s not what this is about. You know this pattern. As soon as you acknowledge it, it stops, and even if it didn’t, it would all be meaningless.
So you react. You grab her ankle, and shove her legs off of you.
She lets out a soft “oh,” before laughing, low and amused. She works herself back up right, shifting her legs underneath her, but she doesn’t look the slightest bit deterred.
“Wow,” she mocks. “Sensitive.”
You roll your eyes, reaching for your drink. It’s water. Unlike Chaewon, you know when to quit, much to her annoyance. “Stop being weird and focus.”
“I am focused!” she retorts, all tension and energy. “Are you focused?” she says finally, slow, saccharine, like honey that's taking its sweet time to drip from a spoon into your mouth. “Not too distracted by how fuckable I look in this dress?”
You don’t acknowledge it. Again, no point. You set your glass down with a deliberate clink— any noise to replace what she just asked—then reach for three random objects on the coffee table; her phone, a book, and a coaster.
“We’re settling this tonight.”
She puts her beer back on the table, folds her hands in her lap, and sits with her whole body pointed at you. She shakes her body loose with slight movements. Then, slowly, she smiles.
“Please,” she says, voice sultry and teasing. “Teach me a lesson, professor.”
You’ve probably explained the theory to Chaewon more times than there are episodes of the show that inspired the discussion. It’s time for a practical run-through. You grab the three nearest things you can find and leave standing upright to function as make-shift doors—your phone, your glass of water, and a book Chaewon has been quipping from for the past month, How to Date Men When You Hate Men—and you form a neat row of three. “Let’s drill it into your skull. Three doors. One has a prize. Pick one.”
And for all the effort you put in, she barely looks. Eyes on you, finger pointing in a different direction. “The book.”
“Right, and that was a random choice out of three, meaning—”
“That I was either right or I was wrong. Fifty-fifty.” She shrugs, and shuts the door on this method of having her understand.
She’s perfectly frustrating. “it’s not fifty-fifty—”
She shifts the opposite way from her previous slide, her head landing in your lap. Her cheek rests against your thigh, and her provocation pokes at your heart. She gazes up at you, lashes fluttering a hypnotic rhythm. “This is more comfortable. Keep going.”
How could you?
“Chaewon.”
She hums, but she doesn’t acknowledge your protest. “What? Does having a cute girl’s face this close to your dick make you nervous?”
Ignore it. If you acknowledge it, it only gets worse. You push it down, she’ll eventually grow bored, and as long as the boulder doesn’t slip from your hands, you’ll be done with this forever. “Okay, so now, Monty—”
“You’re looking a little serious,” she muses, herself looking anything but. “Would you look like that while getting head? All furrowed brows, all focused?” Her lips curve deviously like the curveballs she’s throwing you. “Or would you be more relaxed? I can go deep, you know. No need to worry about me.”
Every cell in your body is telling you to push back, take her up on what she’s offering, and let her ruin this night. But you know. You’d get your hopes up, but she’d just call it a silly joke. Keep ignoring it. She’ll get bored.
You take a slow breath. Slow down your rhythm. “Are you done? Monty opens a door that isn’t the prize. That leaves two doors with potential. Your first pick was only right one-third of the time, so if you switch—”
“Aaaah.” Her mouth opens, tongue peeking out like a landing strip, eyes fluttering shut like she’s waiting for you to shove your cock inside.
That’s it.
You shove her off, not rough, but firm, standing up from the couch you might have sunk in immediately. “Can you cut it the fuck out?”
She’s back upright, giggling, back landing against the couch, legs curled beneath her. “What’s wrong? Blood rushing away from your head?”
“Do you ever stop?”
Her arms stretch over her head again, and you’re starting to see a pattern with the way her dress is stretching against her hips. “Not when I’m having fun.”
It’s maddening. Talking with Chaewon is selecting a door, continuing to talk with her is being shown the wrong door and choosing to take it willingly. “You really don’t care how frustrating you make the Monty Hall problem, do you?”
She smirks. She must think she has it all figured out. “I already told you. Either something happens, or it doesn’t. Fifty-fifty, dude.”
“That’s really not how probability works.”
“That’s how life works.”
You shake your head, and accompany it with an equally disappointed sigh. “You just don’t want to admit when you’ve made the wrong choice.”
She stills, and it’s eerie. It shouldn’t have happened. Then, like a mask slipping back, she recovers with a sly grin. “Or maybe I just like my way better.”
Before you can argue, she makes her move, getting up, pressing against your arm, chest squishy, warm and deliberate against you. “But you can explain it to me as many times as you want.”
She’s impossible. “Chaewon—”
And she leaves no room for response. “Go on,” she purrs, pushing her tits smush against your bicep, molding around the way your muscles tense. “Teach me.”
Your patience and her dress have one thing in common. They’re both razor-thin. “I mean it.”
She hums, and she smiles, and she’s convinced you’re going to give in any second now. “Not a fan anymore of me touching you?” Her voice drops, all warmth and provocation. “Would you rather reverse the roles, have you touch me? Be careful. I’m sensitive.”
Your fingers wrap around her wrist, pulling it high with a firm and stern motion. “Cut it out.”
She clicks her tongue, and scowls in return. The joke is over, and you ruined her fun. “You liked it plenty when that slut at the club was all over you.”
“That’s different,” you say, your jaw tightening up. She knows it is, and it’s not fair. Does she think she can get away with it just because you’ve got a thing for her? Or, used to have, you try to convince yourself.
She’s so clearly unimpressed it’s almost hurtful. It wasn’t a lie though. It was different, that girl at the club never tore your heart out. But none of that matters when Chaewon wants to have her fun. She scoffs. “Must’ve been nice. You didn’t even flinch when she touched you. Just leaned into her, didn’t push her away like you do with me.”
You don’t answer. You let go of her wrist, sit back down, unsure what to make if anything yourself. You could have gone home with ‘that slut’. Had a great evening. Instead, you’re here, keeping your promise to Chaewon that you’d make sure she got home safe, wasting another night on a girl that should have long been in your past already.
That same girl plants both her knees next to yours on the couch, dress creeping above her hips, exposing the slightest hint of black and lace panties straddling your lap, settling against you.
You hate how right she feels here.
She rocks her hips down, just slightly, just testing the waters. And like an experienced professional, the joke’s back on. “You sure you don’t want to have a little fun?”
Your hands clamp around her waist—not pulling her closer. Pushing her off.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist. Just concedes as the distance grows.
“Come on,” she murmurs, trying to make sense of it all. “You used to love looking at me.”
Your arm extends fully, pushing her as far as your body allows. “That was a long time ago.”
She lets out a small scoff, more hurt than the lost one, finally relenting and shifting off your lap. The joke is no longer fun for anyone in this room.
You just have to bite the bullet. Separate her from yourself, let the alcohol fade from her system and figure out what to do after that. “Go to bed,” you exhale sharply, a forced sense of finality in your voice. “I’ll sleep here, and be gone before you wake up.”
Chaewon stares at you like you just suggested the unthinkable. Her eye twitches, a habit you’ve long learned to associate with her being so upset that something is going to break. Then, she exhales sharper than you did, standing up. “Fine. Whatever.”
She turns, stomping toward her bedroom, her pumps exploding with sound every step of the way. “It’s still fucking fifty-fifty, by the way!” she yells, right before she slams the door.
It’s suddenly silent. Silent enough to hear your heartbeat going crazy.
She’ll calm down soon enough. Hopefully.
The heat of her body still burns against you, scorching where she was pressed against you. But if you ran after her now, you’d get burned alive. You rub your hands down your face, sinking into the couch, staring into the ceiling as you mentally prepare for what’s bound to be a sleepless night. There’s no escaping those as long as Chaewon is a part of your life.
----------------------------------------
Sleep doesn’t come.
You want to blame it on the horrible way this couch is digging into your back. Or the sounds of the city being ever present. Or the dim glow of some street lights seeping into the living room through Chaewon’s curtains that never managed to fully close. But comfort isn’t the issue.
It’s your damn mind, that can’t shut the fuck up.
Too many thoughts, all tangled together like a string of memories that wrapped around itself far too many times. Her hands, her voice, her weight in your lap. Her unusually prickly temper, and her enhanced sloppiness.
It all feels too fucking familiar, and the moment you admit that, there’s no holding it back.
It started as a night much like this one. You and Chaewon, at her place, sitting too close for friends but too far apart for lovers. Laughing at everything and nothing. Drinking just enough to make the lines blur. You had thought—maybe. Hopefully.
And for a moment, you know, you had been right. It seemed like the kind of night you’d eventually be able to tell your kids about. An edited version, to cut out the once-in-a-lifetime pounding you intended to give her, but still, magical in its own way.
The way she let you kiss her. The way she kissed you back. The way her eyelashes fluttered to pull you into the kiss. How her left thigh rode up yours. The way her fingers locked behind the nape of your neck. The way you told her you liked her.
Then the way she pulled back. The hesitation in her eyes. The way her voice broke when she said “I don’t think we should do this.”
The way a crack formed on your heart, barely being pushed together by the rest of your more logical organs as you forced yourself to nod and agree, to act like it was fine. Like you were fine. Like you hadn’t just managed to secure the right door, only to be forced to step into the wrong one.
And the way your heart formed a second crack when you saw her again. She was still the same. Still Chaewon. Like nothing had happened.
But something did happen to you.
Your phone buzzes.
It’s not easy to ignore. Chaewon is an addiction to you, the next hit of this sweet obsession entering your veins as your screen lights up.
Chaewon: You awake??
You know you should just be failing at sleeping again. This can only lead to misery.
You: Yeah.
It’s quiet for a bit, but a new message makes its way to you all the same.
Chaewon: Cant sleep
If only she knew how she cursed you with the same fate. If not for her you’d be sound asleep in your own bed right now, or even better, in the bed of that chick you met at the club. What did she say her name was again? Kazuha? Instead, you’re here, repeating old patterns with exhausted probability.
You: That sucks.
Your answers are curt. Too perfect with punctuation for your usual back and forth. She doesn’t respond right away. She might be stubborn and annoying about things she’s convinced she’s right about, but she’s never been oblivious.
Then:
Chaewon: Are we okay?
You’re upset, but not heartless. It tugs.
You: We’re fine, Chaewon
Chaewon: Thats not a yes…
You might just scream out of frustration, your phone dropping on your chest, but obviously you can’t. She’d hear. She’s impossible. So fucking stupidly impossible. And yet, you find yourself typing anyway.
You: Do you want me to lie?
The pause is longer this time. Should you feel bad or just so tired that it doesn’t matter anymore?
Chaewon: No
Chaewon: Idk
Chaewon: I just get nervous when ur like this
You: Like what??
Chaewon: Distant
Chaewon: Careful
Chaewon: Upset with me
Your fingers hover over the keyboard without action. She’s not wrong. You are being careful. It’s her fault. She’d break your heart a second time in less time it took for it to beat. That’s dangerous.
You: Idk what you want me to say Chaewon
Chaewon: Idk either…
Chaewon: But I miss how we used to talk
The memories flood in of the two of you just shooting the shit, countless evenings. Still…
You: We’re talking now.
Chaewon: U know thats not what i meant
And she’s right. You do know, but this is just easier. For you, for her. For the both of you.
Chaewon: Cant you just come over here and talk w me?
Chaewon: I miss you…
And before you can even overthink it—
You move.
----------------------------------------
There is a thought that creeps into your mind as the door creaks open and you step into her room. Something about a lion’s den, and then another one following it up about it actually being the lionesses that do the hunting. There’s no point to it. They all fade in an instant. She’s no huntress right now. She’s vulnerable, like prey, enticing you to be the hunter, looking so ready to be pounced on; curled up beneath her blankets, only the soft shape of her against the sheets to lure you in.
“Hey.” It’s a solid way to start a conversation, but you can’t help but expect more from her after calling you in.
You nod, eyes fleeing from hers, shifting awkwardly by the door. “Hey.”
It takes a while before you move. The same goes for her. She’s squinting, her eyes getting used to the darkness. She’s always been stubborn about letting you help her get a blue light filter on her phone.
She finally stops, and for a moment, your eyes meet hers. She carries a soft smile, the kind that made you fall for her in the first place. But there’s a difference in it; barely perceptible; most definitely flown under the radar by people not so obsessed with her face. There’s precaution sewn into it. The sides of her smile are constantly shifting and trembling, like she doesn’t know whether to keep it there or to switch to a more neutral expression. Then, she shifts, her left arm pulling out from under the cover and tapping the sheets next to her, an unspoken invitation.
You sit down with a sigh, back turned towards her. You’re not far, but you’re not close either. A safe distance, you think to yourself. The mood isn’t tense, but also not comfortable. Just… unsure.
You can hear her laps part, exhale, almost say something, and then close again a couple of times. It’s not until you finally turn to face her that she speaks.
“Do you remember that summer at the beach?”
Your eyebrows raise on instinct, disbelief unmistakably painted across your face, impossible not to notice, not even in this darkness. “How could I forget?”
The muscles on her face relax as her eyes drift away from your eyes, seemingly getting lost into her pillow, which she clutches tight. “You remember how you were so worried about me you gave me a piggyback ride back to the house?”
“No,” you scoff, “I remember you guilt tripping me into carrying your soaking wet ass across the sand.” Your face turns away from her again, hands clutching the side of the bed as your eyes veer off into the distance past the window; letting the glass serve as a canvas to project your memories onto.
You hear the sheets rustle behind you as she works herself upright, before reminding you exactly why you helped her back then in the first place. “You weren’t complaining back then! You were way too busy copping a feel of my ass.”
“Okay, now that’s not fair,” you snap back much too fast, much too flustered. “I wasn’t copping a feel, I was keeping you from falling. And besides, you weren’t helping either! Just hanging there all limp, mumbling you’d never be able to walk again.”
“I mean, it just hurt so bad. That jellyfish really fucked me up,” she chuckles back, and you can feel the pressure of her back leaning against yours.
There’s a soft silence, the one drenched in feelings you’d much rather stay in, instead of moving on to an uncomfortable reality. So you keep painting, hoping the window holds your memory-scape just a little longer.
“Do you remember what we kept talking about? To keep your mind off of the pain?”
You can tell she knows in the way she responds with an “Oh my god.”
Both of you say it at the same time.
“The fucking Monty Hall problem!”
There’s a beat of silence. First it’s a chuckle. It turns into laughter, and it quickly grows uncontrolled, unstoppable. The kind that makes the memories seem brighter, makes your body feel lighter, the kind that makes you throw your head back as she does hers. You both open your eyes staring at the roof, now sharing the same canvas to display footage of past days.
“God,” you breathe, your head locked in place but your eyes drifting over towards her face. “I miss those days.”
She giggles, nose scrunching. “I don’t miss what that jellyfish did to me.”
The laughter fades, and you think that maybe, just maybe you could forget about earlier and go to bed without feeling like shit. You shift, and she does too, turning towards her as she moves back to her original spot, leaning against the headrest, crawling underneath the blankets with her legs.
Your breath catches as you look at her. Your stomach turns. “Chaewon.”
She blinks, glancing up at you. “Hmm?”
“Did you—” You inhale sharply, but you can’t afford to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Did you seriously invite me in here just to talk un-dressed like that?”
Her brows furrow. Then she follows your gaze, shifting slightly, and—
Fuck.
Black lace, delicate, thin. Your favorite.
She freezes. "Oh."
Oh? Fucking oh?
“Why the fuck are you like this?” you explode.
Her eyes widen. "No! I—" She scrambles, tugging the blanket back up over herself. “I wasn’t—”
“You said you wanted to talk, Chaewon.”
“I do!” Her voice pitches up. She’s pulling the sheets up hurriedly, using them as a shield from you, all you can see is her cheeks changing color ever so slightly. This time because of the embarrassment instead of the alcohol. “I promise… I do…”
It’s hard to believe that. It’s all so familiar, and all so fucking frustrating. “You know, this is just like you to do,” you ramble, and it’s hard to stop once you get going. “Always so fucking obsessed with getting a reaction out of me, never stopping to think for a second about how I feel!”
Her face softens, and the way she looks at you makes you sick. Like she thinks you’re right. “That’s not—”
“Isn’t it?”
“I swear!” She shouts, looking panicked and it’s enough to finally get you to shut up. “I was still out of it all, too mad and too drunk when I got back here. I just wanted to sleep. I didn’t—” and a big, shallow breath interrupts her, the kind that just appears and leaves you with less air than before. “I wasn’t thinking, okay?”
You want to believe her. But tonight has been too much. Too many provocations, too many lines blurring that she would turn back from, and in turn, you would let form scars.
Then you sigh, sitting back down. “Okay.”
“Are you…” her voice trembles as she tries to figure out the specifics of your answer. “You’re shaking. Are you mad?”
Your mind is still trying to slow down, and answering gets forgotten. She takes that as an answer, obviously. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not so mad that I’d be shaking, you idiot.” Your voice is quiet. “It’s just way too fucking cold in here. And I was thinking.”
There’s no hesitation, because that’s just how Chaewon is as she shifts, making room. “Get under the covers.”
“Chaewon, please—” you start, but she’s not having it.
“I won’t try anything, okay? I promise,” she interrupts you, sounding calmer already. There’s a touch of pleading in it, but not the whiny kind she uses to get you worked up. It’s more desperate, more real. “Just give me a chance to prove I’m being serious.”
You don’t move at first. Stubbornness is inherent to both of you, after all. She tugs on the sheets impatiently. You sigh, but it’s obviously performative, a last jab at her to let her know you’re only doing this just because you’re cold. And she wasn’t lying. She properly keeps her distance, just sharing the warmth of the bed. It’s immediate and comforting, but you don’t allow yourself to sink into it.
“See?” she murmurs. “Not a trap.”
Not yet. You don’t dare say it, but you don’t have to. She sees the thoughts in your eyes. So she shuffles, turning away from you.
The silence stretches so long you start focusing on the noises it can’t beat into submission. Your breathing. Her breathing. The creaking and crumpling sound of the bed and the sheets as you move.
“I wanted to talk, and we talked so… that’s—that’s good. I guess,” she whispers. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind talking some more.” She lets a little space in between for you to insert yourself into. You never do. “But if you’d rather pretend like I’m not here, I get that too. I’ll shut up.”
It’s endearing, and your response is a little mean, letting her wait in silence for just a little longer before replying.
“I’m not pretending. I need somebody to blame the lack of space I have in this bed.”
She smiles, soft. You can’t see it, obviously, but you feel it. Somehow. She shifts under the blanket, closer but not touching. She’s apprehensive. And she meant what she said.
“Is this the first time we’ve slept in the same bed?” she asks, but she masks her tone enough that she could play it off as talking to herself if you decided to not respond.
“Nope,” you correct her. “There was that one time in sophomore year. You showed up at my door at, like, three in the morning. Absolutely shitfaced, mind you.”
She lets out a small, embarrassed groan, and you know you’re on the right track.
“I remember that,” she mumbles. “Barely.”
“You couldn’t figure out how to get to your dorm. Said not even Monty Hall could help you find the right door.”
“How do you remember all that?” Chaewon questions, like you had no right to have that memory.
“Are you kidding me? How could I forget? I told you to take my bed, and that I was gonna crash on the couch,” you continue explaining, your lips curling upwards.
“But I didn’t let you?”
“Nope. You didn’t trust my roommate worth shit. Which, fair.”
She doesn’t say anything. You keep going though, less for her alone or you alone, both for you both.
“You grabbed my wrist when I tried to walk away. Looked me dead in the eye and said, and I quote, ‘Don’t leave me alone with that guy here, he smells like crusty socks and assault.’”
Chaewon lets out a strangled sound that’s half mortified laugh, half groan. “Oh my God.”
“So I gave in. Got in bed next to you. Fully clothed. On top of the covers. Like a gentleman.”
“You didn’t sleep for a second that night, did you?”
“Of course not. You starfished. One arm across my chest, one leg thrown over me like a fucking seatbelt. You had me trapped, dead to rights. Didn’t help you made me paranoid that my roommate was actually going to do something.”
She laughs—really laughs. Warm, unguarded. Then she rolls onto her side, facing you again. Her eyes search yours. "It was easier, wasn’t it? Back then. In college. At the beach. You carrying me like an idiot, me acting like I couldn’t walk, and you trying to turn probability into a personality trait."
You laugh, but it’s not really a laugh. More like one of those nose breaths that accompanies an abbreviated text. “Because it was.”
Her smile fades. “You never needed me to ask. You always just… stayed.”
You shift slightly, your fingers brushing the edge of the blanket. Her eyes drop there, then rise again.
“I think I’m a leaver,” she says. No warning. No lead-in. Like she had to say it fast before she lost the nerve.
“What?” It leaves your mouth before you can even blink.
But Chaewon swallows, her eyes retreating downwards. “I think that’s just who I am. Some people stay, and some people leave. You’re the kind of person that stays, and I’m a person that leaves. Because if I go first, I don’t have to wait until you become a leaver just like me.”
She looks at you like she’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like she’s already bracing for the recoil.
“I know it’s selfish,” she adds quickly. “But that night… when you kissed me, and then said you really liked me—I panicked. I did what I always do. You were giving me a choice, and that scared the hell out of me. So I picked the choice I always make.”
She breathes in. Exhales slow. Really takes her time, her eyes drifting slightly upwards now.
“And for a while, I told myself it was just another fifty-fifty. You know? Just a game of chance I lost. You either leave or get left. You either lose something or end up lost. And I thought—" she breaks off, swallowing again, part of her voice getting swallowed with it, "—that it would go away like the rest. That I’d forget. That it’d stop mattering."
You stay quiet.
“But it didn’t. It stuck. You stuck.”
She shifts again, knee brushing against yours beneath the blanket. Her voice cracks a little.
“And I started noticing things,” she says. "Little things. Like the first time you didn’t wait for me to text goodnight. Or when you were with someone else and you had that smile that I thought was reserved for me. Or when you stopped arguing with me about dumb shit just to keep talking."
Her voice wavers.
“And then I realized I didn’t just pick wrong. I watched the right door shut. And then I heard it lock. And that’s why I know your stupid fucking Monty Hall problem is wrong. I should’ve had another shot. Another choice. But life didn’t open a wrong door—it just took the right one away. And that’s why I know it’s just fifty-fifty. And I lost my coin toss at happiness.”
There’s a second of silence where your brain short circuits.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” you mutter.
She blinks, but it helps her to finally look at you. “Ouch?”
You sit up, tossing the blanket off like it offended you. “No, I’m serious. You think my door shut? You fucking locked it.”
She opens her mouth, but you cut her off, your pace quickening. “The fact that I stayed around all this time is proof enough that my door is still unlocked. It wasn’t up to me to reopen that door.”
“I—”
“But you had to try.”
Chaewon’s eyes flicker—not away, but deeper. Her breath hitches, and you swear it’s the first real sound she’s made in a while that didn’t have a smirk behind it. She shifts forward just slightly, only enough that her leg brushes against yours again, like she’s testing if the signal’s still green.
“You’re saying… it’s still open?”
You drag a hand through your hair, eyes rolling ceilingward before locking onto her again. “It was never fucking closed.”
Her lips part. They’re trembling now. She’s not teasing this time. “Then why—why didn’t you ever—”
“Because I’m not gonna beg,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I’m not gonna crawl through the fucking keyhole when you slammed the door in my face.”
She flinches. Just barely. But enough.
“I didn’t need you to beg, just…” she says, softer, like she’s going over the math again in her head. “I don’t know… I—” Her voice dips, trails, then steadies. “I’m here now. I’m trying.”
You look at her. Clear as day in the middle of the night. She's curled up next to you, defensive and ashamed and stubborn all at once. Her eyes are too glossy, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the comforter like they’re looking for somewhere to hide.
And then she breathes, and her voice breaks.
“I just wanted you to want me still.”
And that? That fucking cracks something open.
You reach for her—no grand gestures, no cinematic swoop—just firm, necessary motion. You cradle her jaw, fingers sweeping her hair back, and when you speak, it’s low and final and absolutely everything you’ve been holding back.
“I never fucking stopped.”
There’s no pause this time.
No “but what if—”
No “are you sure—”
No more fucking Monty Hall.
Just her lips crashing into yours, messily, hungrily, like the apology she couldn’t say and the forgiveness you weren’t ready to offer have decided to cancel each other out with tongue.
It’s not careful. It’s not gentle.
It’s honest.
She’s on your lap again, only this time it’s not a joke. Her knees bracket your thighs and she grinds down with purpose, gasping when she feels you through your boxers. Her hands slide beneath your shirt, nails catching skin, and you curse under your breath as heat swells in your gut, undeniable and urgent.
You break the kiss, forehead against hers. “Still cold?”
Her laugh is shallow, much too distracted with making sure she can properly share in your body heat. “Yeah. Make me warm.”
“And here I was thinking you were hot enough as is.”
She smirks, and it’s real this time. Like the one you saw when you barely knew her, but knew enough already. Not a mask. Not a trap. Just her.
And she whispers, “Don’t stop this time.”
Like you could. Besides, you’re not even sure it’s only meant for you. With the way she’s tugging and removing your clothes, kissing your shoulders and pulling you tighter, it’s like she’s making up for lost time. For every second spent being careful. Your hands trace her body, taking your time to really make sure every curve and beauty mark is stuck in your mind forever.
“God,” you mumble under your breath, pressing your lips to her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, working your way down until you’re kissing the edge of a black lace bra that was almost the reason you stormed off earlier. “I can’t believe how beautiful you really are.”
Her breath hitches. “I know.”
And you’ve missed that, too. Her confidence. The way she can say things like that without irony, because she knows exactly what she’s worth—she just never thought she’d be worth it to you once more.
You kiss her through the black lace, and she shivers when you nip at the edge of her bra, as close to her nipple as you can get. She doesn’t waste any time herself flicking open the button of your jeans. You’ve always thought she needed a helping hand, both of yours pushing your pants further down. They’re not even off properly when she pauses, eyes blown wide, honing in on the tent in your boxers leaving little to imagination.
“Wow,” she says, and it’s almost weird to hear her say it without sarcasm.
“Wow?” your voice is rough, coming out in a single breath.
She nods, and her lips part as she yanks your boxers down, eyes almost dazed as she takes you in. “Wow.”
It’s a reverent look. It’s a look that suits her as long as it’s directed towards you, you think. Her fingers reach out like she’s about to wrap them around you, but she stops right before she makes contact, and the look in her eyes changes. Smug now. Knowing.
“I need a moment,” she says, and you know she’s up to no good. “You can’t just swing that in a girl's face and expect me to make it easy for you.”
A throb shoots through your cock, hips twitching without your consent. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
But she just smirks.
“Chaewon.”
“Shhh,” she says as she shuts down any and all protest, and her voice is the perfect combination of exasperating and enticing. “I’ve got my own Monty Hall problem lined up for you.”
You groan, but it’s more of a plea for mercy than a protest. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m serious,” she purrs, fingers grazing the base of your cock before pulling back again, making you hiss.
“Three doors,” she says, and the way she looks at you is obscene. “My front door, my back door, and my... ehm... mouth door?”
You’re gone. You’re fucking gone. “You are so lucky you're fucking hot.”
She keeps going, relentless. Her grin is pure mischief. “Which one have I imagined you fucking me with the most?” She rolls her hips, testing you. “Pick right, and you get to fuck it.”
“And if I guess wrong?” Your voice is rough, needy, everything you never let her hear before tonight.
Her eyes burn. “Then you eat me out first.”
It’s a rigged game and you both know it, but you play along anyway, letting her set the rules and stack the deck and deal each card. You lean forward, drag your lips up the line of her jaw. “That’s an impossible choice. You want all of them.”
She moans, a hiccup of laughter and want, and the weight of her shifts in your lap, urgent. “You wish. You only get one.”
But her hips are grinding now, a rolling, deliberate pressure that tells you exactly what her body needs. The answer is and always has been: every option, at once, and all of them leading back to you.
You palm her ass, fingers splaying underneath the lace edge, and the way she shivers tells you she wasn’t expecting you to touch her with that kind of certainty. For all her bravado and gamesmanship, this is how you win: you move first, and you don’t hesitate.
“Let’s see,” you murmur, mouth against the shell of her ear, making her gasp. “Back door—” a squeeze, a knead that pulls a little yelp from her, “—doesn’t seem like your style. At least not as a first move.”
“Don’t count me out,” she breathes, and you hear the competitive edge in her voice, the same edge that made her stay up all night just to prove you wrong about some irrelevant, beautiful, dumb thing.
You laugh, slow and low, and she shakes against you. “Mouth door,” you say, and you can’t help but grin at the way she’s already licking her lips, hungry, needing to prove something. “Obvious contender. But I think you want it right here.” Your hand finds the heat between her legs, cups her through those ridiculous panties, and her eyes go wide, her breath gone.
You wait a beat. She’s never been great at waiting, but she’s trembling now, lips parted, waiting for your verdict.
“And if I told you it’s definitely not the back door? Does your answer change?” she pants.
You consider your odds. “I think—” you start, but she interrupts.
“Actually,” she says, and the way her voice drips with satisfaction is almost enough to make you lose. “I don’t give a fuck. I want your cock. Right here.”
She grinds against you, and you can’t help but think you’re never spending another day without that feeling.
“Fuck,” you groan, because she won this round, and she knows it. “You don’t play fair.”
She bites her lip, smiling, then reaches between you, fingers wrapping around you with a perfect, firm pressure. “And that’s why you love me.”
She’s right. She’s wrong about so many fucking things, but she’s right about this.
You thrust up into her hand, and she moans, her body arching, her hair falling down her back. You reach for her hips, hooking your thumbs under the lace, and she lifts herself up, letting you pull it down, off, away. She doesn’t care where it lands; she’s already lowering herself back onto you, and you’re closing the distance, guiding your cock to her needy cunt.
“Fuck you,” you breathe, so close to her you can taste it, the subtext of admission against her skin. “I’m not saying it first. I’ll force you to.”
She rocks her hips, taking you deeper, her breath catching with a shudder. “Yeah? You think you can make me?”
You grit your teeth, the friction of her tight around you making it almost impossible to think. “I know I can.”
“Big words,” she gasps, riding you faster, harder. “Think you can back them up?”
You reach between you, your thumb finding her clit, and she cries out, her whole body shaking, her walls clenching around you. “You first,” you growl, and you can tell she’s sensitive. “Say it.”
Her eyes roll back, her lower lip caught between her teeth. You know it, you have her dead to rights, this is your win, and then—”Nuh-uh.”
You thrust up into her, relentless, and the pressure builds, mounting, and she’s so fucking tight around you, and you want her to say it, need her to say it.
She grinds down harder, her nails dragging your shoulder blades, and it’s too much. Too good. Too fucking hot. “You’re gonna say it,” you gasp, your thumb circling her clit faster. “I know you.”
“And I know you,” she pants, her head falling back as she rides you with abandon, her whole body trembling, her breath hitching with every thrust. “I know—oh fuck—you.”
You watch her face as she rocks against you, her lips parting, her eyes wide and desperate and defiant. She’s so close. So close you can feel it, the way she’s fighting it, wanting to hold out, wanting to win.
“Say it,” you growl, thrusting up into her again, harder, not easing up on her clit.
She gasps, and this has to be it. She’s trembling, tightening, drowning in ecstasy and she’s— “I’m—Fuck, I’m cumming, you fucker,” she manages to choke out, and she cums hard. Her head drops forward, no further admission, still no winner as her whole body shudders, her walls clenching around you like she’s weaponizing her orgasm against you, trying to pull the words from you.
You swear, a rough sound that’s almost a surrender, and she laughs, breathless, smug, still shaking in your lap. “You first.”
Your grip tightens on her hips, and you’re so fucking close, but you hold on, hold out, your breath ragged. “I’m not going to give up,” you groan, thrusting up into her in a wild frenzy, loud clapping of flesh colliding now strangling the room. She lets out a strangled sound, and her eyes go wide letting you know she didn’t expect this.
Didn’t expect you to only go harder, to keep fucking her through her orgasm, keep pushing her over the edge again and again and again until she might pass out. You thrust harder, deeper, and her voice breaks, her body wild against yours.
You hold on, and she holds on longer. She’s so tight, so wet, and the heat is building, and you feel her clench around you, feel her mold to your shape. Her mouth opens, and you can’t tell if she’s about to say it or if she’s too far gone, and then—
She pulls off of you. You watch, stunned, as she drops to her knees and wraps her mouth around your cock, and the sight alone is enough to make you lose it. You groan, a deep, ragged sound, and she moans around you, the vibration pushing you over the edge. Your hands tangle in her hair as you come, hot and hard, spilling ropes of cum into her mouth.
“Fuck, Chaewon,” you choke out, the last of your breath leaving your body as every drop of cum you had does the same, her lips still tight around you.
Then she pulls back, and her eyes are on you, wide and bright and triumphant. She cups a hand beneath her chin, opens her mouth, and—
“I love you,” she says, letting your cum spill out over her lips, and there’s a laugh behind it, a tremor of amusement, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Like she knows she just won all over again. She wipes her mouth, cum streaking her chin, her neck, her chest, and she looks so absurdly beautiful you can’t even be mad.
“Chaewon,” you breathe. It’s exasperation and wonder, the way you’ve said her name so many times before. “You’re fucking impossible.”
“Really?” She bats her lashes with a coy look, licking her lips like she’s savoring every last drop of the chaos she’s caused. “Aren’t you supposed to say it back?”
You grab her by the waist, pulling her back up to straddle you past your softened cock, and she giggles, squirming in your lap. “You’re such a fucking brat.”
“And you can’t get enough of it,” she teases, her smile widening,
You stare at her, chest heaving, the words settling into the spaces that were empty for so long. Then you let out a breathless, helpless laugh, pulling her face up to yours, kissing her despite all the filth she let drip out to cover her sweetness.
“Fuck you,” you say between kisses, but there’s no heat behind it, just the weight of relief and joy and everything else you’ve been holding back. “How do you win even when you lose?”
She smiles against your mouth, and you feel it in every part of you. “I guess I’m just smarter than you.”
You do. You say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like you’ve spent the last year waiting for your chance.
“I love you, you idiot.”
She makes a soft sound, and for a second you think she might cry, but it’s just a laugh, bright and giddy and so fucking happy. “I’m glad you do.”
“You’re a fucking nightmare,” you say as you shake your head, trying to hide the cartoonishly large smile she forced upon your face.
“And you’re stuck with me,” she says, kissing you again, her body melting into yours, all softness and satisfaction. Her voice dips, teasing, warm. “Or did you forget?”
“Never,” you murmur, and you mean it. Hell, you’d bet on it.
Her body shifts in response, her being melting into you, her skin sticky but hot against yours. “So,” she says, and it’s light and breezy like that summer day still stuck in your memory, like you’re somehow back in a familiar rhythm, but new nonetheless. “You really think you can handle me?”
You laugh, wrapping your arms around her. “I’ve been handling you for years without the benefit of getting to fuck you.”
She pinches your side, but it’s playful, and you can tell she’s trying not to smile. “Asshole.”
“Yeah,” you say, kissing her forehead. “But I’m your asshole, now.”
She nods, and that alone was worth all the suffering. Because it’s honest.
“Shit,” Chaewon breathes, your skin stuck together with dried cum, pulling loose from you. “We’re a fucking mess.”
“Yeah, well, it’s your fault for trying to be funny,” you say like you’re not covered in it too.
She shakes her head, and it’s like she’s saying it’s your fault for not being the first to say you love her. “We can’t go to bed like this,” she proclaims, trying her best not to get too much filth on her sheets. “C’mon. Shower.”
“Together?” you ask, and she just rolls her eyes like that was the stupidest fucking question you’ve ever asked.
You follow her to the bathroom, the air chilly and the tile cool underfoot. She turns on the water of her shower, letting it heat up as she looks back over at you, one eyebrow lifting like she’s pondering if she should just keep it to showering or not.
“Get in,” she says, pushing you towards the shower. “I’m not letting you sleep until you’re clean.”
She’s already stepping toward the shower when she realizes you’re still standing there. Her eyes narrow, but her lips curve. “What? You’re dawdling now?”
You shrug, and she laughs. It’s not the sound she makes when she’s trying to get under your skin, but the one you’d almost forgotten she could make. Uncomplicated. Real.
She starts taking off the only thing she still has on—her thigh high socks that were the main culprit in why you failed to pick up a girl earlier tonight. You were way too busy admiring how good Chaewon looked, and it didn’t go unnoticed.
“Don’t tell me you’re expecting me to do it for—”
You catch her hand, stop her from peeling them off. She freezes, looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.
“Let’s pretend I lost your three doors challenge,” you murmur, and you hear her breath catch. “It’d be a shame not to eat you out with how good you look in those.”
“So you were staring! I fucking knew it,” she shouts gleefully.
You don’t give it a response. You just hoist her up, and she wraps her legs around you like it’s instinct, gasping, more eager than surprised, as you let her ass meet the bathroom counter. You spread her thighs open to admire, sink to your knees in between them, and look up, getting lost in the way she looks down.
“Oh my god,” she sighs out. “Are you really—”
You don’t let her finish. You drag your tongue up her slit, and her head falls back, the sound of the shower almost drowning out her moan. Almost, but not quite.
“Fuck,” she gasps, the first of many. “Right there. Oh, right—”
You swirl your tongue around her clit, and her hips buck, her whole body trembling. She’s close already, too close, and you know you could end this in seconds, but you don’t. Not yet.
Your hand slides up her thigh, and she shudders as you press a finger against her asshole, teasing, gentle. Her breath catches, and you feel her body tense, then relax, opening for you.
“Shit,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”
You don’t stop. You don’t even slow down. You work her with your tongue and your fingers and your everything, and she’s shaking.
“Holy fuck,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “You’re—shit—you’re better at this than explaining math problems.”
You groan, a low, rough sound, and the vibration makes her shudder. “Careful, I might bite.”
She laughs, knowing you’re all bark, and her fingers tangle in your hair, not quite pulling you closer, but not allowing escape either. “Don’t stop,” she begs, and she wears it so well that ideas flood your mind. “I’m so fucking close.”
feel her body tense, tight and perfect around you. “Right there. Oh—” You curl your finger, the final bit of tension she needed to release, clenching hard, her hands in your hair, her body on fire. “Oh God, oh—”
She cums hard, her body arching, her legs closing around your head as she cries out, the sound raw and desperate and so fucking good. Your finger slips out but keep your mouth on her, not letting up until she’s shuddering, breathless, her hands tensed up tugging at you.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasps, and you feel the last tremors of her orgasm as they ripple through her. “How did you—I can’t—” She’s lost for words, and it’s ammunition for next time you fight over something stupid.
You don’t move until she tugs at you weakly, pulling you up, and the look in her eyes is almost enough to make you drop to your knees again.
You grab her hand, pulling her toward the shower, but she doesn’t budge. Instead, she drops to her knees, fingers splayed on your thighs. “I’ll admit, you’re pretty fucking good,” she says, her eyes gleaming with challenge. Everything’s a competition with this girl. “But I’m better.”
You don’t have time to respond. Her mouth is on you, hot and wet and perfect, and you groan, your head falling back. She works you with a skill you didn’t think she had, her tongue swirling, her lips tight, and all you can do is hold on.
She pulls back, and the sudden loss makes you gasp. “Feel free to cum wherever you want,” she muses, and your mind floods with options. All too enticing.
Her pace is relentless, precise, and you feel her smile around you, a smug curve against your skin. She’s rapidly proving her point.
“Chaewon,” you groan, and you’re not sure if you’re leading into begging or commanding. “Fuck, that feels—”
She hums, a low, teasing sound, and the vibration makes you curse. Her fingers slide down, cupping your balls, and you feel yourself throb against her tongue.
You’re close, too close, and she knows it. You can tell by the way she pulls back again, her lips glistening, her eyes wild. “I’m not done with you,” she says, and you swear you might die.
“Fuck my face,” she says, and you tremble, your whole body going tight.
“Chaewon,” you gasp, but she’s already got you begging for more, her hands on your thighs, guiding you inside.
You thrust, and she takes it, takes you, her mouth so fucking good you can’t believe this is real. She moans and gags around you, and it’s a sound you’ll hear in your dreams for the rest of your life.
She looks up, her mouth full, and the sight is obscene, incredible. She’s not stopping, not giving you a second to catch your breath, just letting you use her, and it’s all too fucking much.
You’re so close, the heat building, your control slipping. You fuck her face, your hands tight in her hair, and she’s caught between you and the counter, letting you use her, letting you lose yourself.
“Oh God, Chaewon,” you groan, your thrusts erratic, desperate. “I’m gonna—”
She pulls back, and you gasp, her lips getting pressed against the tip of your dick. She strokes you, her lips swollen and wet, and—
“Do it,” she commands, tilting her head back, presenting her face and her tits and her abs and every target you could choose, her eyes pleading to cover not one but all. “Come all over me.”
That’s it. That’s fucking it. You cum hard, your whole body tensing, and she moans as your release hits her face, her lips, her cheek, her chest.
“Fuck,” you groan, and she smiles, licking her lips, and you’re so spent you almost collapse right there.
Then she’s pulling you down, kissing you, and you taste yourself on her tongue.
“At least I was worth the wait, right?” she murmurs, and you pull back just far enough to see the way she’s grinning, the way she’s looking at you like she thinks she won. If only she saw herself right now, you’re clearly the winner.
“Think I’m ready for that shower now,” you say, and you can’t help but smile back, because you’re a mess, and she’s a mess, and you came into this room specifically to be less of a mess; and you love it. You love her.
The water is still running, heating up the room, and you both stand up. She pulls you with her, and the water makes quick work of the art you just made. What a waste, but a waste you love to spend with her.
She notices your face change as the cum disappears from her visage, and chuckles lightly. “You’ll get plenty of other chances.”
You wash her and she washes you back, and it’s slow and easy and comfortable. Like you never thought it could be again. But better. No rush, no desperation. She works the shampoo into your hair, but you can’t stand to not annoy her for another second, pulling her under the spray and rinsing her off.
“Hey,” she protests, but she’s smiling, her eyes bright.
“Hey yourself,” you say, dragging your thumb across her cheek, her lips, her collarbone. “Think I like you like this.”
“Wet?” she asks, and she’s teasing, but there’s a softness behind it.
“That too. But no. Mine,” you say, and her expression shifts, her eyes going soft, her hands coming to rest on your chest.
“You know,” she says, her voice quiet, thoughtful, “That makes you equally mine.”
You tilt her chin up, kissing her, and she melts into it, into you. “I guess that means we both won today.”
She laughs, and it’s the best sound, the best feeling, the best everything. “Guess I can get used to it if it’s with you.”
Eventually you turn off the tap, and she shivers as you wrap her in a towel, pulling her close. “Bed?” you ask, and she nods, simple and easy.
She helps you dry off, and you help her, and you just can’t let each other be right now. She tugs at you, at your hand, constantly leading you, hair still wild and just damp enough to be okay going to bed with. She slips beneath the covers fully naked, but it’s too cold to worry about any of that, so you follow.
You pull her against you, or she pushes herself into you. It’s hard to tell who’s more desperate. Point is, her back is against your chest, and it fits perfectly. Like she was made for it.
“So,” she says, her voice a sleepy mumble, “are you gonna lose your shit if I say it’s fifty-fifty again?”
You groan, exasperated and affectionate, and she giggles, burying her face in your neck.
“Chaewon,” you say, and she turns just enough to look at you.
“Hmm?”
You wrap your arms around her, holding her, holding everything. “You’re fucking annoying. Never change.”
She smiles, soft and genuine, and you know this is the real win. Not the game, not the challenge, not the give and take of a thousand heated mathematical arguments—but this. Her. You. Together.
“Promise,” she whispers, and you feel her breath slow, feel her body relax, feel the unlikeliest odds settle in your favor.
You hold her tighter, and the silence this time is comfortable, a weightless, blissful quiet that lulls you both toward sleep. You barely hear her next words, but they seep into you, the last sweet, stubborn thing you need to know.
It's finally out! This was a bit hard for me to write because I had to minimize scene cuts and lessen the plot (this is literally porn what plot) but I hope you enjoy nonetheless. One more iz girl to go :')
Girls like Chaewon don’t belong here. They belong on Vogue covers, runways, stages before roaring audiences who clamor for her attention.
But it’s exactly what happens. And it changed your life for the worse.
That’s the only explanation for you meeting Chaewon at a party, because otherwise, it would be at risk of being labeled as fate—and boy, are those dangerous waters to explore.
And now, she’s ruffling her hair like nothing happened, having just taken a shot of something strong enough to get her ears red. You don’t know which; the party’s buzzing with probably each type of vice, liquor, and sin. You don’t usually attend parties for that reason. You don’t need a bad influence in your life when it’s so easy to get hooked onto the wrong thing.
Yet when your eyes find hers in this pool of bodies, you realize you’re just relapsing into an old dirty habit.
It’s written all over her easy smile, the way the fringe falls over her forehead. Chaewon turns up her chin and says, “Why don’t I know you?”
The audacity of this girl, really. Her voice is saccharine sweet. Her words sound like the lyrics to a siren’s song. You’re already six feet deep into the waters and she’s holding you down.
Yunjin rolls her eyes. She’s your best friend, but she’s also Chaewon’s best friend, which means she knows exactly how this is going to play out. It’s an old story. Chaewon does that seductress act, preying onto some poor guy, and the next thing she knows, they’re making out in the master bedroom.
“Oh my god, don’t tell me you’re already flirting with him.”
“I’m not flirting with him,” says Chaewon, but she’s not even looking at Yunjin, her hand already ending up on your forearm. “What do you take me for, Jennifer? A slut?”
Yunjin thoughtfully places her fingertip on her chin. “Well—”
Chaewon bursts into laughter and tells her to shut up. God, even her smile is gorgeous. She’s a goddess up close—not a pore or a blemish anywhere on that flawless skin. Her scent is faint and sweet, some fragrance you can’t buy for four digits anywhere. You hate that you notice it. It just makes you think how far behind you are to Chaewon. Girls like her don’t look at guys like you.
Hanni catches Yunjin’s attention, dressed in a heart-shaped little top and fairy boots, looking like a butterfly. She squeals when she sees Yunjin, and their reunion leaves you and Chaewon to yourselves. The tension between you grows thicker. It’s impossible to breathe.
“Don’t listen to her. She’s just jealous I get to have you.” She tilts her pretty head and squints thoughtfully. “What was your name again?”
You can’t believe she’s talking to you, out of everyone in this house party. But you tell her your name anyway, and you can already tell it’s something her mouth will keep to memory. She’s circling you like you’re prey.
Don’t you want to fight back? Don’t you want to puff out your chest and say you know exactly how girls like her work? You’re just standing there, trapped by that golden voice and deadly silhouette. You’re not even pretending you want her to fuck off.
“It’s a nice party,” continues Chaewon. “Kazuha did her big one with it. Invited all the rich guys, the buff ones, the hot ones…” She pauses her stroking on your flesh to finally look you in the eye. “Tell me, are you any of those? Because if not, I’m packing my stuff.”
“I—I’m sort of—”
The serious look is immediately shattered from her face with a gorgeous laugh. “I’m just messing with you,” Chaewon assures you. It’s a cruel thing to joke about but she’s so pretty that forgiveness is instant. “I’m here to take my mind off things like you are. I’m not trying to do anything.”
But you should know by now that Kim Chaewon is a liar. From the very first second, she lied to Yunjin, lied to you about just messing with you. Her hand brushes yours as she reaches for a drink. Then it’s on your arm. Then it’s under your chin as she talks her way into a bedroom.
You don’t stop her.
The yellow lamplight casts shadows over Chaewon, contouring her figure into a tiny silhouette on the wall. That tiny dress that reveals her back looks better in the dark. All you’re thinking is that this only ends one way, and how it shouldn’t because she’s trouble and you’ve already got problems without Kim Chaewon on your mind. What more are you looking to add?
She’s talking about her friends as she sits on the bed. And she’s got a lot of them—Yunjin, the girl she’s forever linked with; Kazuha, the biggest party girl with somehow the most innocent face, and; Sakura, who’s pretty much an introvert. She likes to stay home and crochet. It’s more fun that way, she had argued, and Chaewon rolled her eyes. This time though, she agreed to wait down in the lobby just in case anybody needed a designated driver.
“But if you ask me,” she says (you didn’t), “Eunchae dresses best among all of us. I think it’s the sort of Gen Z fashion the older girls can’t master. Knows how to do her makeup, don’t you think?”
You realize here that Chaewon is kind of full of herself, only masking it behind asking your opinions then building another story about herself from that. Every word is a plot device leading to her, the main character. It’s something you find in too many people. They think that everyone and everything orbits around them.
It’s actually a pet peeve of yours but you have to give it to her: Kim Chaewon has every right to be narcissistic. Pretty face, great body, a great bank account to back her vices. She’s the girl every guy wants and every girl wants to be. It’s probably a statement made about girls less attractive and magnetic than her, but you know at the end of the day, it’s a title that only becomes true when given to her. She’s a carnal desire, something you cry about when you confess it to a priest.
“I guess I wasn’t really looking at her,” you admit.
“Oh?” Chaewon sets her drink down. Her voice drops even lower. “Who were you looking at then?”
It’s a trap. It’s a fucking trap. But before you could tell her you’re leaving, Chaewon’s already kissing you.
She tastes like vodka and sin and everything you shouldn’t be indulging in. But you do anyway.
She gets on her knees like she’s done it plenty of times for you. You get an idea of how an angel would react when they get a taste of sin when she cums around your cock. Her eyes shut, her body curls around you like it’s the only thing in the world she can hold onto. She looks fucking perfect.
Girls like Chaewon give you heaven for a night then leave you forever. They leave you wanting more but never give it to you even if you get on your knees and pray.
But Chaewon obviously likes something about you. And come on—she’s no fucking angel anyway. You both can go to hell.
-
You have a place of your own, but most of your time nowadays is spent in Chaewon’s luxurious Gangnam apartment. You raise this concern to her as she does her makeup in the living room mirror. The lipgloss makes her lips look plusher, the mascara enlarging those pretty eyes. You raised concern over her vanity as well, but she dismissed it. You love it when I look pretty for you anyway.
(And you hated to say that she’s right. You love when she puts on lipstick that ends up all over your neck. You love when she wears the sexiest dresses of all so you can take them off. So you zipped your mouth shut and waited another hour for her to doll up.)
“Friends share, don’t they?” she replies. Her ass looks great in those cycling shorts. She said she’s going to the gym, but if she sticks her ass out at you one more time, she’d have to delay.
You laugh. “Even friends with benefits?”
“It’s in the name, baby. Friends with benefits. Your benefit is staying in this chic place with me, while my benefit is that cock of yours.”
At least she’s clear with the fact that she’s using you. Sure, she likes that you’re easy to talk to and that there are no strings attached. But the feeling of your cock in her is too good to let pass.
And right now, Chaewon’s eyeing you like she’s up to no good.
You know that look. “Now?”
“What, you think I’m just horny 24/7?”
Chaewon walks and talks like she’s willing to go against each word. Those toned, perfect legs stride over to you. Her voice is sultry enough to stir a heat inside of you that, ironically, only she can put out.
She adds fuel to the fire by sliding onto your lap, her favorite seat. The curve of her cheeks perfectly aim at your bulge. You groan as Chaewon starts to circle her hips around you, all while she looks back at you with a bite of her lip.
You close your hands around her waist. “Thought you were driving to the gym?”
“I could do a different type of exercise here instead.”
“The membership is like, a fortune per month, Chae.”
You’re struggling to get your words out already. Damn those stupid shorts. Chaewon’s practically humping you. The feel of fabric upon fabric and her plump flesh pressed against yours is dizzying.
“Doesn’t matter,” Chaewon says. Her breaths shorten but she doesn’t stop moving. The sports bra cups her tits that bounce with each rotation. “I can think of certain ways to pay it back.”
“And what could that be?”
She’s already giving you a hint with the hypnotizing sway of her hips.
The graze of your clothed cock against her clit makes Chaewon gasp. You haven’t even gotten inside her, nor have you taken off that bra that pushes up her bouncy chest. But the feel of her gyrating against you, knowing exactly how you like it, is enough to make you go over the edge.
Not yet.
Chaewon rises from your lap. You almost groan if not for the show she’s offering you this time. She makes a show of stretching upwards, drawing your eyes to her tight midriff, before turning her back to you. Her fingers hook around the hugging material of her shorts to hike them slowly down her thighs. That bubble butt almost pops out of the fabric.
Only a thong. No wonder the wetness soaked through.
She bends over a little as she shakes her cute little ass to you. You can see how wet she is, arousal sticking to the tiny thong snug between her cheeks. You quickly remove your pants as well because you know how this goes with Chaewon. She’s fucking insatiable. She never takes no for an answer.
And you never give no as an answer either. You’re a match made in hell.
“I was thinking…” Her knees dent the sofa beside your hips. With her palms on your chest, she works your cock, grinding her swollen clit on the head. Both of you gasp.
“That’s new.”
“God, shut up.” Chaewon’s whimpering now. “Y-you know how we fuck like animals, right?”
She sinks onto the first few inches, her walls pulsing and fluttering around you. You let out a deep sigh. The sight of your cock disappearing into Chaewon’s tight little pussy never gets old.
She warms your member for a few delicious seconds, her walls pulsating around you. Chaewon bites her lip and throws her head back.
“Kind of stating the obvious here, Chae.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” she says in that irresistibly cute voice. It doesn’t seem too cute anymore when you compare it to how she begins to ride you, her hips rolling forward as if she’s trying to feed her cunt more of your cock. “But who’s to say we can’t use it to our advantage?”
She isn’t even explaining herself yet but already it sounds like all sorts of bad ideas. Chaewon herself is a bad idea. You told yourself that at the party, but she ends up on your cock anyway.
Like right now: her clever hips snap downwards, and there’s that timeless feeling of her walls clenching around you. You lay back on the sofa and try to take deep breaths. Chaewon’s done this before, more than you could tally, but the way she fixes herself onto your cock feels new each time. You have to reacquaint yourself with how tight she actually is.
The toned line of Chaewon’s back arches beautifully. You can’t take your eyes off it. Your abs tighten up as her ass bounces on your cock.
“Let’s see: we’re both pretty fucking hot—” You laugh, the sound drowned out by a moan of your own. Chaewon bites her lip. “And we both have a pretty hard time keeping our hands off each other. Imagine the money we could make off that.”
Chaewon’s going faster now. Her strangled groans collide with the sound of her thighs slapping against yours.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” you ask, because the more Chaewon bounces on you, the more you can’t think of a reason it should be a bad idea.
Her melodic moans strike every chord. How she could even get words out from how hard she’s riding you, you’ve no idea. Chaewon is a strategist anyway. She knows how to make do. So she rises from your lap, letting each pulsing inch leave her cunt, before ramming them all back inside her.
You groan. Chaewon laughs, but in spite of it, her languid movements never stop. When she gyrates to and fro, you start thinking about how this is probably a ploy to get you to agree. Look, her body seems to talk to you, in all its little motions and curves, look how good it is to see me stuffed with your fat cock. Look how good you make me feel. Wouldn’t you want to see it all on camera?
You both know what the answer is.
Chaewon’s smirking. “I’m saying we should make a movie.” She starts rubbing her clit, and her breath hitches between her sultry words. “And god, baby, we don’t even have to have a script or anything. It could just be me and you, doing what we do best.”
Her voice gets higher. Her hips start to move faster, more frantically than you could handle. And lord knows you’re the only one who could handle Chaewon. If it weren’t for you, who was going to keep her satisfied?
“And you know the camera’s my best friend. I’d look good getting stuffed by that hard cock from any angle. Anyone can watch you fuck me, but they know they could never be as good as you. They could never own me like you do.”
This has to be illegal. It’s the way she’s egging you on, knowing exactly what to say to ruin you, combined with the orgasmic choreography of her hips that renders you defenseless against her. And what harm could be done? Chaewon looks great on camera, even greater when it immortalizes into pixels how her face looks when she cums. It could be something you’d look back at when you’re worked up and she isn’t there (although that rarely happens), or sell with a reminder taped onto the plastic case that she’s yours. They can watch her get her little pussy destroyed but ultimately, at the end of the day, your bed is where she ends up.
You hate to say it, but all in all it sounds like a pretty fucking good idea.
“Fuck, Chaewon…”
“Is that a yes?” she asks eagerly. The lethal grip of her pussy starts to feel overwhelming. “It’s a win-win situation… please, won’t you say yes? Please, please, please—”
You could never say no to her, honestly. Not when she turns to look back at you with those sparkling doll eyes, and definitely not when she’s milking you.
You watch your cum drip outside of her like a waterfall. It’s hard to take your eyes off it, but then there’s Chaewon’s face, sweaty and lost to bliss. Yeah, she would look great on camera. And you did remember thinking back then, when you first met Chaewon, that she was never the type of girl to not be captured by a camera lens. You admit that your idea was pictorials and Vogue covers, not porn videos.
But later on, after Chaewon goes for a shower again to clean your mess up and actually works out, you find yourself setting up an account. Of course, there needs to be a discussion of some kind of how far you actually want to go with this.
“Do you want to be like… a full-on pornstar?” you ask. The question makes your ears burn. It’s not something you’d ask the average person, but you’ve been through this a million times; Kim Chaewon is not an average girl.
It’s late afternoon and you’re on a videocall with her as she drives home. The gorgeous interior of the Mustang looks almost mediocre when put next to Chaewon’s gorgeous face.
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “I’m not made for Pornhub, sorry to disappoint.”
“How is that disappointing?” you ask in disbelief.
“I dunno. A lot of people wanna see me do porn, but it’s just gonna be a side hustle for me.”
Nod as you get the verification code from her email. You realize that you share everything with Chaewon. You know all her passwords and she knows yours. Your bank accounts are intertwined with each other. It’s a bad idea, seeing as there isn’t a clear definition on what’s going on between you.
But right now, you’re literally creating an account to do porn together. It can’t get worse than that.
You pick Chaewon’s prettiest photo for the avatar—one of her in that tight Diesel top with her fingers through her hair. It parallels with the small rectangle in the corner of your screen.
“It’s asking for your age,” you tell her.
Chaewon rolls her eyes, hands tightening on the wheel. “You know the names of all the positions we’ve tried but not my birthday?”
Cowgirl at Eunbi’s house as you try to be quiet, 69 at that suite after your promotion—okay fine, maybe she has a point.
“I do know your birthday. I just can’t do math.”
“You’re an idiot,” she says. There’s sweat rolling down the sides of her face. It shines on her chest and drips down the fabric of her sports bra. You can’t stop thinking of how her skin looks so good, flushed and stretched.
Do a little mental math, eyes up to the spiralling ceiling fan. “Was I still an idiot when I made you cum thrice last night?”
Chaewon’s face burns red. The memory’s still fresh in that pretty little head of hers. “Shut up. Just fix my account and I’ll call Minju to give us advice later.”
“Park Minju or—”
“Please use your head for once. Is there another Minju who’s both a friend of mine and a pornstar?”
Alright, so she’s talking about Kim Minju. Pretty face, cute voice, thighs that could crush you. The girl’s a socialite who only does all the indie films for fun—the talent fees mean nothing to her.
That’s probably why she does the whole porn thing so well. Top creator minjugato.__. earns millions a month from just a camera, her bed, and another girl. She’s fulfiled a whole niche: not too famous to get into an actual scandal, not too invisible for the common guy to recognize her from a small platform movie and think hey, I don’t mind paying for this.
You look at her slim, composed figure fixed on the edge of your own bed. “How long have you been doing this?”
Minju smiles. “Not long enough,” she says teasingly, leaning over the PC. She’s typing in a caption for your first livestream. So far she’s helped you get a fair amount of followers with a helpful promotion post.
minjugato.__.: hi all!!! any weekend plans? :3
mine is to watch my best friend ssamuwon’s new movie later tonight. maybe you should come by!! it’s pretty explicit but i don’t think that would be a problem 👀
The stats rise by the minute. Five thousand people await Chaewon’s debut to start. Everytime you look away the number seems to get higher. There’s clear demand for Chaewon, the hottest girl in Gangnam, perhaps even the whole of South Korea itself.
No need for second-guessing. Chaewon’s in your lap, wearing the tiniest tube top known to man. You’ve seen her in less clothes and without them completely but this one’s just explicit. It accentuates her waist and lets a little skin show before her black shorts—somehow even tinier—hug her hips.
It’s no wonder at all she managed to convince you to fuck her for work. They’ve said to avoid capitalizing off your hobbies, but let the record show that you won’t ever get tired of fucking Chaewon.
Minju makes a final click on your keyboard. “You’re live in five minutes. I set up a few ground rules in the corner just in case they get wild.” She fires you a wink.
Chaewon reads the box of rules sent in the chat, pinned to the top of the stream. It’s all pretty basic. No scat, no invasion of privacy, just the usual. Minju conveniently added that requests paired with high donations are prioritized. You shudder. What would the viewers make you do to Chaewon? There’s too many fantasies to pick from.
“Thanks for helping me slut myself out, Minju,” says Chaewon with a smile too sweet for what she just said.
It doesn’t faze Minju at all. She actually laughs, the crease of her eyes making her look like a sly fox. “You know what they say: you have to learn from the best.”
Oh, the best, alright: Minju’s videos speak for themselves. They’ve gotten billions of views, spread across every social media platform to the point she had to commission someone for a watermark. It’s all good publicity anyway. More people watching meant more traction and discovery of her account.
The air in your room is thick with excitement. The ringlight casts a perfect shadow over Chaewon’s body. There she is, much smaller than you while your shadow alone could overpower here.
And of course, Minju’s hourglass shape is there as well. It doesn’t look like she’s leaving anytime soon. You honestly don’t mind it.
One minute to showtime. Chaewon holds your face in her hands. She’s as flawless as the day you met: perfect skin, thick lashes, eyes that could kill. There’s an evil smile sewn on those glossed lips.
“You ready, baby?” she asks. You’ve often wondered how she does that: she could speak in her usual high, cheerful voice most of the time but when the world dissolves to nothing more than you and these sheets, it drops to this ridiculously sexy low note. She’s insane. She’s unpredictable. But she’s also the sexiest woman you know.
If you had to be honest—
“Never been more ready.”
Chaewon is actually the perfect girl for this job.
When it comes to porn, it has to be specific. Every detail should be. The average viewer looks for something that they can’t get anywhere and it’s her job to be that. When every comment’s assumption about her is different, she has to put on a multitude of faces, all to keep their interest.
And it comes as nothing to her.
anonymous_lurk_79: she’s way too cute to be on here
NumberOneMinjuLuver replied: it’s the cute ones that are the freakiest
i said the same thing about minju
The red light blinks beside the lens. So does Chaewon, getting on her knees before the camera and batting her lashes. She’s whatever they want to be.
“Hello, is this thing on?” Chaewon smiles sweetly, as if she isn’t discussing being fucked for an audience of seven thousand and counting. “It’s my first time doing this stuff. I hope you all go easy on me.”
She looks up at you then at your growing erection. She giggles. “But I hope this one here goes as hard as he likes.”
Minju giggles, too. Chaewon was a natural.
“Shall we start?” she asks. “How do you want me?”
mingmingult: she looks a lot like the girl in minjugato’s videos
whenidiethr0wmyphoneintheocean donated $****: suck his cock first like a good girl
Four digits already?
Chaewon does as she’s told. She wraps her small hand around your cock, giving it a few hypnotic strokes. Feels like your heart is beating right there in her palm, too. She could feel every hot throb of arousal.
She then wraps her luscious lips around your cock and starts to suck. She suckles on the first few inches, letting her tongue dance around the sensitive bits, before she moves on to take more. You can see her shorts ride further down her ass as she pushes her face on your cock.
You pick up the camera and generously give the viewers a POV shot. Chaewon blinks slowly at the camera, breaking the fourth wall, and sits on her heels so they could see some of her cleavage. She looks even more enticing and tight in this angle. Try to keep your breaths controlled so it doesn’t drown out the sloppy sounds of Chaewon making out with your cock.
“Such a good little slut,” you murmur. Use your other hand to grab Chaewon’s short hair. She moans happily. Her seductive chuckle vibrates and sends ripples of electricity throughout your body.
1800hotnfun donated $****
Chaewon sloppily presses more of your length down her throat. Her breaths arrive shorter. You have no idea if she’s looking at you or the camera. You get the advantage either way; the juxtaposition of those large innocent eyes and the way she’s blowing you could make any man cum in seconds.
nsfwizone donated $**
69__jonginkang donated $*****: what a fucking tease
ANTIFRAGILENTHUSIAST donated $******: need to see this pretty little whore’s mouth filled w my cum
That would answer your rent for the next few months, with money on the side to really get this gig going. Plus, Minju did say that large donation requests should be prioritized.
And if whoever this guy was wanted to see Chaewon with cum overflowing from her lips, then so be it.
Your grip on Chaewon’s hair borders on painful. You pull it back, angling her chin upwards. Film from the side and the viewers could see how your cock dents Chaewon’s throat, rapidly filling it up again and again. Her nipples are already hard. Her lips provide a tight suction, her hands on your waist an anchor for balance.
You’re really giving it to her now. Chaewon’s helpless little whimpers do things to you, and apparently to the other eight thousand viewers wishing they were in your shoes. The chat is filled with obscenities. The donations rank up higher. Everyone’s waited far too long to see Kim Chaewon get her face fucked.
If it hurts, Chaewon doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even push you away or tap out. She lies there with her knees red and grazed, taking every shot you eventually pour into her waiting mouth. Each swift plunge makes her tits bounce in that tight top. Your cum fills her soft cheeks to the brim.
The flash makes the tears in Chaewon’s eyes sparkle. “Did you get every drop?” you ask.
Chaewon nods.
“Show me.”
She looks directly at the camera as she opens her mouth. As expected, you’re given a view of the pool of semen she kept for herself. She swallows it all obediently.
pipipi: fuck that was so hot
Bunnybaby: we have a new supreme
You look at Minju for approval. It’s tens across the board for her—she looks flushed, squirming on the chair. There’s a lazy smile on her face.
“Was I a good girl?’’ Chaewon asks. The chat responds quickly. It’s flooded with emojis, donations, and dirty remarks. “Shouldn’t I get a reward for swallowing your cum?”
What reward? There’s a million things you want to do to her. You could bend her over the bed, creampie her, then fuck her ass until her cheeks are red. The possibilities are endless.
You look at the stream for suggestions. One particularly dirty comment points out how hard Chaewon’s nipples are, poking through the tube top in need of attention.
Chaewon reads it, too. Her fingers run up the shape of her figure coyly. “Can Chaewonie touch herself, please?”
She cups her boobs, slowly placing her fingers over the soft flesh. A groan immediately leaves her used mouth. She makes sure to look at the camera when she bites her lip.
She pushes the top down until it bunches just below her perfect breasts. The fabric pushes up her tits even more, as if coaxing the spotlight to focus on them.
She starts to pinch her nipples, tweaking and pulling them like they were made to be. You can see her getting worked up already. Each roll of her fingers over the hard nubs makes her soak through her lace panties. The little sounds she makes could kill you.
“Please?” Chaewon pouts. “I’m so, sooo sensitive. Can you help me out, daddy?”
You don’t have to say anything for her to know your answer. Your job is to be silent after all. It’s Chaewon they’re paying for, not you.
You set the camera back in its place and gently push Chaewon to the mattress. You tower over her. You’re taller, bigger, stronger; and it’s even clearer when there’s the lack of proximity between the two of you. She could barely reach your shoulders. It’s the little things like that the audience looks for.
It’s the little things like that which set you off.
Chaewon looks good in any angle. She constantly proves that with her Instagram photos, where even closeups make her look like a goddess. But she looks the best when she’s underneath you, writhing for your touch.
You don’t stall more than you need to. The hot kisses on her neck are just foreplay. You attach your lips to a stiff nipple. She arches her back, but you keep her pinned to the soft cloud that is your mattress—she’s not going anywhere yet. You make sure of that by pinching the other nipple, giving both sensitive breasts equal attention.
“F-fuck…” Chaewon’s whimper is nearly inaudible. The rise and fall of her chest is hypnotic. She pushes her tits into your hand as you lick and suck. “You’re so good at that.”
You’re not selling yourself short, but these easy reactions are easily drawn from the fact that she’s sensitive. Dangerously so. The trail of your hand across her body leaves one of goosebumps. The thrill of getting her face fucked still runs high, and you discovered early on that the easiest way to make Chaewon melt was play with her tits.
You squeeze her hard enough to make her whine. But your other hand’s grown tired of kneading her breast. It’s more interested in the soaked patch of arousal in the center of Chaewon’s shorts. Her legs immediately lock around your wrist, making you finish what you started. You can’t just play with her nipples then leave her to fend for herself.
“Don’t stop,” Chaewon gasps. Your digits start to work between her legs. Her thighs tremble and her breath hitch in that particular way that drives you wild. The tight fabric of the shorts makes it difficult for you to intensify your movements, but you make do. Chaewon deserves to get fucked within an inch of her life. It’s what she so desperately wants anyway.
It shows in how she’s pushing herself up against you, tangling her fingers in your hair, hoisting her hips up so you could go deeper. The wet squelch of your fingers driving into her cunt is deafening. It makes her blush, but she’s got no reason to be ashamed. The viewers love it. They’re throwing money at her and betting on how fast she can cum.
Chaewon finally makes a mess on your fingers and screams at the top of her lungs, shaking and whining. When the bliss overtakes her features, you suddenly become sure of something:
You’re about to be the richest guy on the planet.
-
“Jesus.” Minju claps her hands together, looking very impressed. “You two are naturals.”
It’s been three days since Chaewon’s debut, but the profit you made could fit five months. Chaewon’s doll eyes go wide seeing the numbers on the screen. You’re surprised as well at the followers you got in so little time. Other creators needed months of work to get this kind of traction.
“This is insane,” you say. Hand Minju a cup of tea while Chaewon measures the damage she did on the internet. Mini tabloids are going crazy. And of course, people on your street are starting to look at her differently. They know too much about what goes on inside Chaewon’s luxury apartment, but they can’t tell the world how they found out.
Minju accepts the cup gracefully. For someone who’s been doing this for so long, she’s massively impressed by the quick success. Chaewon’s follower count will match hers in little time.
“I knew we were gonna do well, but not like this,” you tell her. “Thanks for all the help, Minju.”
Chaewon giggles. “Not that we needed any.”
“Little brat can’t even be grateful,” you say disapprovingly. Chaewon pouts, but doesn’t look regretful in the slightest.
Minju’s laugh is as charming as she is. “She’s not wrong. I don’t think getting money would be a problem, but you have to keep the hype going. You don’t want to peak so early.”
She sounds like a PR manager for all the beautifully fucked up films you’re going to make with Chaewon. You trust her word, though. This was a woman who knows what she’s talking about.
Chaewon studies her nails, painted hot pink and only long enough to scratch your back. “Maybe we could open up requests.”
“That’s a good idea,” Minju agrees. “People would pay a lot to see you live out their fantasies.” She sits back on your couch. A look of amusement crosses her face. “One time a guy paid me five hundred for feet pics.”
You raise your brows. “Feet pics?”
Minju doesn’t recognize the implication and only shrugs it off. You couldn’t believe people were actually into feet. It sounds pretty mild to Minju. She’s probably been made to do worse. “It’s easy money. He could’ve gotten videos with that amount.”
Chaewon thinks of that for a second. It doesn’t sound too bad. It would take less effort than setting up a camera and managing through violent orgasms. But she thinks she likes the latter more anyway.
She used to hear older people give her advice when she was a student. They said to make money off what she liked to do, and she’d never have to work a day in her life. She smirks. How would they react if she told them how she made her money now?
“You could paywall the more intense stuff,” Minju’s suggesting now. “Don’t ever downplay how good you’re doing. If people want to pay for it and would pay for it, let them. But don’t post too often. You want to keep them wanting more.”
“Biweekly sound fine?” Chaewon asks. Oh, she’s serious about this. You wonder how you’ll survive the next week.
“Perfect, actually.”
You butt in the conversation for a moment. “What about equipment?” Sure, you had a ringlight and a PC, but there’s nothing more. You imagine that this would take a lot of work and stuff, like a professional camera and neon lights.
Chaewon was wondering about that as well. She looks at Minju, who shakes her head, much to your surprise.
“You won’t have to worry about that. The average person isn’t going to Pornhub anymore to get off. They want something unscripted now.”
Minju’s fox eyes dart pointedly at the two of you. “They want something real,” she stresses.
Her gaze is sharp with accusation. Chaewon laughs and rests her head on your shoulder. You don’t say a word to deny it.
-
Just in case anybody clutches their pearls over it, you’ll clarify here that you still have pretty normal jobs. You’re not totally prostituting yourselves for money, although you hate to use that term and you’re not desperate for the extra income.
You work a corporate job and volunteer at your nearest charity when you have time on your hands. (Taking note of the latter is advice you have to take yourself because it seems you live off sin 24/7.) It allows you to split the rent with Chaewon and buy food.
As for Chaewon, she also works a regular job. You think? Wait, you realized that you have no idea what she does for a living. You simply assumed that with all her vices and expensive clothes, she must have a job keeping her busy somewhere.
Come to think of it, you’ve never heard her complain about work. It’s been a while since you moved in and got to know each other, but all the sticky notes about deadlines on the fridge are yours.
“Chaewon, I have something I want to ask you.”
She turns to you, her legs swinging off the seat at the bar. You gulp. All of her beautiful legs are on display thanks to that tiny brown dress. The only things that bother saving anything to the imagination are her boots.
That stitched cowboy hat too, if it counts. And it does the opposite of what it should. It makes you think of how well it matches her dress, and the way it makes her look like a cowgirl who could ride—
“Yes?” she says, still bopping her head to the music.
“Where the hell do you get all your money?”
Chaewon ponders over this for some time, then takes a sip of her margarita. “Oh, I don’t know.” Seeing the surprise on her face nearly makes her spit her drink out from laughing. “Seriously, I don’t know! I think it just shows up in my bank account. I guess our little collaboration helps, too.”
She winks at you. Your breaths shorten.
Nope. Just because she’s the hottest girl alive doesn’t mean she can lie to you. “Liar.”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“What was I supposed to think, Chae?” you say as diplomatically as you can. You gesture to your surroundings. “We’re in one of the most expensive bars in Hongdae where the fucking senators’ kids create scandals. You’re wearing another designer set.”
You had a point. Chaewon shrugs off the offense she took. “My fault for assuming you’d think about anything other than me in this dress.”
She stands up and twirls around. The skirt floats around her thighs. Those safety shorts are way too tiny to be considered safe. Chaewon gets a hit out of teasing you though, grinning when the realization registers on your face.
“Don’t you want to take pics of me?” asks Chaewon with a pout. She doesn’t wait for your answer and hands you her phone. It’s the latest one, pink and sleek. “So we have content to upload later!”
While you have qualms about taking pictures of Chaewon in her ridiculously provocative outfit, she’s right. It’s been a few days since your last upload. Minju said it was important not to post too often, but too long in between posts could throw your followers off.
So here you are again, playing the role of a photographer. You snap several photos of her within minutes. Chaewon switches between poses like they’re nothing. You have one where she’s bent slightly over the bar, a finger on her lips as she looks coyly at her short skirt. There’s one in the bathroom where she looks at the mirror instead of the lens. She’s holding the cowboy hat on her head and winking.
All that skin, that shameless seductiveness… it feels like you’re getting drunk off of these sexy photos instead of the alcohol. Chaewon is too hot for you to handle.
You return to your private booth to upload them. What would she do without you? You’re her fuckbuddy, best friend, and social media manager all at the same time.
anyone know where i can find a ride? ❣️🤠
It’s difficult to think of a good caption. Choosing which photos to post is ruining you. Not to mention the filtering to bring out the brown of her eyes and the sunlight. It makes you stall. You have to keep staring. You have to take note of every detail, every delicious curve of her body. Images of Chaewon posing, winking, and showing off are burned forever into your mind.
Your hands shake as you hit post. Turn your phone off. Focus on having a good time and dancing and singing and whatever you do, do not take another look at those pictures.
“Oh, you poor thing.”
Oh no.
Chaewon sounds smug as ever as she takes a seat on your lap. “Hard already? We aren’t even in the bedroom.”
You don’t need this right now. Getting an erection could not come at a more inconvenient time. You can’t say anything provided that you can’t even meet her eyes.
“Don’t worry,” she purrs. “I’m gonna take care of that.”
There’s a hunger in Chaewon that needs to be satiated today. You can see the fire in her eyes as she pulls you out and wraps a fist around your stiff cock. The sight of her small, dainty hand compared to your shaft is provocative by itself. Those large, deceptively innocent eyes stay on yours while she drags her delicious touch up and down, preparing you for her.
“Been needing you so bad lately…”
Chaewon lifts her hips slightly. She allows your cock to rub between her slick folds, teasing at her entrance but never quite giving her what she needs. Her breath hitches when you hit her clit.
“Promise to fill me all the way up,” she whines. “Don’t leave a single drop.”
You wouldn’t dare. There hasn’t been any penetration yet the wetness of her puffy lips feels like heaven. In your hands, her core works her waist into circles. More precum ends up grinding and mixing between your sexes.
Chaewon whimpers. “Promise me.”
“Fuck, gonna fill this pussy up, Chaewon.” Her nipples poke through the thin bikini. Her grinding grows more desperate as you groan out your obscene promise. “Gonna breed this perfect pussy. Just ride my cock like the pretty little fuckdoll you are.”
She can’t take it anymore. Chaewon slams herself down on your cock in one go.
The stretch hurts so good. Her head throws back with a breathy moan. Her soft walls immediately hold onto you, throbbing and needy.
The music is a dull thump through the walls. You could feel the bass in your heart time with Chaewon’s bouncing. Her back is against the door.
“There,” she gasps. “Right there, don’t stop…”
Her eyes are dim with pleasure. You bring a hand up to pinch and roll her nipple, circling the taut peak with your thumb. Immediately Chaewon’s internal muscles clench around you like a vise.
Her hips start to lift and dance in a little choreography of an impending orgasm. You hold her down, pinning her to your lap while you thrust up in her. The tightness becomes harder to push past through. She’s so tense that you have to rub your thumb against her clit to get her to relax.
Your eyes meet. Jesus, she was a sight for sore eyes. The toasty, sunkissed color of her makeup makes her look like she’s blushing. The two of you are flushed either way. There’s forbidden excitement in knowing one of the servers could walk in here at any moment and see Chaewon riding you harshly. You shouldn’t be doing this here. There were important people who could raise this complaint to the higher-ups and get you banned forever.
You can stop the bullshit. When has hesitation saved you from getting in trouble? When has anything convinced you not to fuck Kim Chaewon?
-
You didn’t even mean to execute this request so well.
It just so happens that this is how a day in your life looks like with Kim Chaewon. While they pay to place themselves in your shoes and see it happen, you’re the one who actually gets to touch her.
A guy who went by the username hanyoooojin sent a large amount of money the moment Chaewon announced requests. Unlike the other ones who filled up the rest of the slots, he didn’t want anything overly specific.
Netflix and chill anyone? 😉
That was the caption you set for the video. It’s something enticing even with its simplicity, and come on, people would watch anything if it had Chaewon in it.
The camera records everything. It starts out with Chaewon dressed in your shirt. It’s way too big on her, and if the fabric were any more see-through, it would be clear she only had a bra on. She’s lying next to you on your bed as a movie plays on your TV.
The volume is low, almost to complete silence. It’s only static background noise to what’s going to happen.
Chaewon snuggles against you. Her body is already warm. But she does a good job of acting like she’s interested in the movie. She called it boring a million times before, and you remain convinced it was an attention span issue.
“I fucking hate when movies are slow,” she had said. She rolled her eyes. “What’s the point of making me wait thirty minutes for something exciting to happen?”
“Sounds a lot like you to hate taking things slow,” you replied easily, earning you a punch in the shoulder.
Maybe that’s why her hand slips under the blanket a little too early. You’re supposed to be a sweet domestic couple. It’s just a role you have to play for cash to come in. Chaewon’s the sweet girlfriend and you’re the boyfriend who still wants to hang out with her even when you’re exhausted. You watch a movie together, as requested, pretending you have no idea of what she’s about to do.
Her creamy thighs folded against each other hide her wetness. Chaewon’s become a master at angles. She knows to lift the blanket a little above your thighs so the camera captures her hand in your shorts.
You look down at what she’s doing and laugh. “Thought you wanted to watch a movie,” you say.
Her lazy strokes work you to full mast. You remind yourself that this was supposed to be unhurried, but there was no delaying gratification around Chaewon.
Chaewon takes her eyes briefly off the screen to smile at you. “I do.” Her voice is soft and unfazed. She looks adorable in those puppy pajamas. It really sells the fantasy. “But I can do two things at once, can’t I?”
Her thumb circles your tip with maddening precision. Chaewon kisses you with the same gentleness she uses to jack you off. You can tell she’s struggling not to pounce on you. This isn’t the kind of sex she was used to. Sex for Chaewon was trading orgasms until one of you confessed you ran short.
For this one, she has to keep herself sane. She has to be tender with it. She takes your hand, squeezes it in hers, and places it right where she needs you. The tiny pajama shorts allow easy access to her cunt.
“Just keep watching,” she whispers.
The hair at the back of your neck stands up. Your lips find Chaewon’s again. You run your fingers up and down her slick folds while she jerks you off. Aside from a few heavy breaths and twitches of her tight body, she doesn’t take her eyes off the movie. She’s equal parts engrossed by it and focused on getting you off.
Chaewon’s voice runs into a whine as you go faster. Her thighs start to get messy with her own arousal. It’s taking everything in her not to strip off this shirt and ride you. She can do that later, something even the audience can’t pay to see.
Even though you’re needy and throbbing in the soft grip of her fist, you smirk. “What’s the matter, baby? I thought you said we should focus on the movie.”
Chaewon is still intent on keeping up the pretense. But it’s clear she wants this, too, the handjob no longer the unhurried routine she initiated.
You thrust your fingers against that sweet spot she’s been aching for you to reach. Chaewon’s body curls around you tightly. Her fingernails find purchase scratching on your forearm.
She can’t do this any longer. You’re the only actor she can watch now. Her gaze seals onto yours as her movements grow more frantic, like she’s willing you to do the same. You have one common goal here, really. It’s evident from the precum leaking onto her wrist, her cunt pulsing around your digits. This could only end one way.
That’s one of the many requests you and Chaewon fulfill. Besides the need for real stamina, especially for longer videos, it’s actually not that taxing. It’s no construction job anyway, but fucking Chaewon comes easily to you. It takes no work at all when it’s as natural as improv.
Over the weeks, you get people tipping generously just for photos, and you remember what Minju said about them. People paid a lot to see a pretty girl naked and doing whatever they wanted.
“It’s up to you if you want to do them,” you remind Chaewon. It’s one of those lazy afternoons where you’d rather bask in the airconditioning than do anything productive. While you’re fully conscious, your body’s still in sleep mode, draped in the duvet and Chaewon’s form.
Chaewon rolls her eyes. You don’t really see it since she’s clicking away at her phone, but you know her so well that it’s like watching a movie you got a first look at unfold. “Look at you getting all mushy. I told you I don’t break easily.”
You know that, too. You’ve folded her in half and split her legs apart so many times, but you learned not to let her small stature fool you. In no makeup and just an oversized shirt and shorts, Chaewon’s the most antifragile person you know.
You wave a hand in the air. “Of course you won’t break down. You’re the most dick-addicted girl in the world.” Chaewon snorts at that. “But we’re doing homemade porn for a reason. This isn’t a corporate or something. You don’t have to do every request there is.”
Chaewon sees where this is leading up to. She shuts her phone and shifts on the bed, the ocean blue sheets rustling above her. Her arms rest on your stomach.
She tilts her head to the side like a puppy. There’s an amused smile on her face.
“First of all, you should stop worrying so much,” she tells you. The faux sternness in her tone shouldn’t be this cute. “And second of all, nobody’s making me do anything I don’t want to do. I’m a big girl, you don’t have to worry about me.”
Right. It should be common sense already. Chaewon’s always done things of her own accord. She’s not the malleable type of girl who takes no trouble to convince. It’s honestly one of the traits you admire about her outside of the bedroom. Maybe, if you had Chaewon’s heart of steel or one-track mind, you wouldn’t have let her fuck you at that party. You wouldn’t be in this bed with her.
But god, were you glad you’re here.
You lose yourself in these thoughts for barely five seconds and she’s already suddenly too close. One wrong move and you’d end up kissing her. There’s that warmth again, radiating from her body in what you figured to identify as a sign. You get one too many good omens from Chaewon.
“And you know what I really, really want to do?” she asks breathily. Every word is a sultry huff against your lips.
Very few could stand a chance against her. You think it’s why she likes you so much and keeps you around, regardless if she’d admit it. You’re the only guy who could look her in the eye like you are right now and reply, “Do I even have to guess?”
It doesn’t take long for it to happen. These spontaneous sessions are becoming a bad habit. But how can you help yourself when Chaewon looks like that? You’ve no defense against those lithe legs and tight midriff, much less against that even tighter pussy.
It just so happens all this looks great on camera.
You close the gap between you until it feels like your bodies are bonded together. They’re impossible to break apart. You have one hand closed around Chaewon’s wrists, the other on her hip. The pillow muffles her screams as you thrust into her mindlessly. Her ass is sore and red.
“God, all that talk was for nothing, wasn’t it?” It’s always worth it in the end. You completely own her. Her pussy was just made for your cock, clinging wetly onto your girth and doing so even tighter when you back it out. “You just wanted to rile me up so I can show you you’re my good little slut, taking my dick like you were born to do.”
Chaewon’s crying out, messy little sounds tumbling out of her drooling lips. The pillowcase bears her weight and those tears of bliss. The truth is she wouldn’t trade this for anything else. She could spend all her life on the end of your length, whining her tiny waist into your palms and her ass perked and ready for you. She wouldn’t know what to do without hearing the sound of your skin snapping against hers.
“Feels so—fucking—good!” Chaewon sobs into the pillow. Senseless words are all you could fuck out of her. She can’t think much when you have your dizzying grip on her wrists like that or when you’re completely destroying her tight hole. “I’m just your personal cumdump, I’m all yours, you’re going so fucking fast—”
She’s absolutely dripping around you. Her body responds to you so well because this is exactly how she likes being fucked. She likes being fucked as if you’re trying to get her cunt to memorize the shape of your member. Not one spot on her body is left untouched. Her pussy tightens dangerously when you drive up into her cunt and those messy moans could be heard even with the fabric against her mouth.
And it’s incredible without all the lighting and ignoring the camera blinking next to you. You’ve got a great view: Chaewon bent over and her ass up on the bed, the hourglass shape of her waist to her hips even more appealing from this angle, and her toned back shining with sweat. Her tits swing back and forth in response to the force you’re taking out on her. It could make any man go crazy.
You should’ve known to put towels on the bed, because the ending’s always the same when Chaewon feels the entirety of your control, when she’s being fed every thick inch of your cock, being handled like she’s nothing but a doll to release into—
“Oh my god!” Chaewon cries out, the lightning before the thunder, the thunder before the storm. Her scream is equal parts bliss and awe—she’s shaking all over, and the swift deep drills of your cock draw out her squirt.
Neither of you expect it. The sharp sound of it makes you slow down. She hasn’t stopped pushing her ass into you. The puddle gets on your thighs and hers, splattering on the sheets. You feel suspended in mid-air staring at the mess she’s making. It feels even more surreal knowing you did it to her.
Chaewon collapses forward, her cheek against the softness of the pillow. It’s ridiculous how good she looks in spite of the messy hair and kiss-swollen lips. Always the temptress. The camera shines light on her exhausted, satisfied simper.
And of course, there’s the evidence that will prove this happened. It will back you up even if Chaewon randomly decides not to post this video on the internet or worse, call everything off. The fresh mess she left on the blanket—the same one you had just been cuddling in a few hours earlier—is all the proof you’ll need.
Chaewon laughs breathlessly. She arches her back beautifully as she pulls away from your cock. It’s the perfect ending scene.
-
All entertainment industries are parallel to each other in a way. You could work in film (legitimate films, by the way—not whatever you and Chaewon are making), music, or K-pop but what they don’t tell you is they all work the same. They manufacture and process things that appeal to the consumer. You could play the usual tropes, tunes, or concepts. Go down the loveteam road or make another generative pop song. If you’re brave enough, you can search for a niche and make it your brand.
You can do anything—release an Oscar-winning film or write a critically acclaimed album, pick your poison. It all boils down to one thing everyone is looking for anyway:
A big break.
It will solidify your place in the industry and make sure you stay there, and if not, it makes sure you get a higher spot. A big break would earn you a loyal amount of followers and more money in your pocket. Very few get their big break. Some, although deserving, don’t get theirs at all.
In Chaewon’s situation, her big break was that video. Everyone’s talking about it and everyone’s absolutely obsessed with it. You see it posted in places you don’t expect seeing it: Instagram group chats, the NSFW side of Twitter, and the first Google result that pops up when you search Chaewon’s name. It’s gotten so much traction that you start putting a watermark of her username over the videos, along with a link to her social media profiles should they ever get crossposted again.
It’s an overnight success. You grin when you see Minju’s messages, supportive as always.
minjugato.__.:
Hi chaewon <3 you’re a star!!!! so proud of you for doing well on your own
i always knew you could do it
if you ever wanna collab w me, hmu! i’ve got a great idea thats going to break the internet
lmk if you’re up for it. for old times’ sake, right? ;)
There’s a message in a bottle, and it has your name on it. You could probably open it if you tried. You weren’t the one that hid it, all you did was find it.
Now, you could break it. Burn it. Get rid of the whole thing altogether. But you can’t bring yourself to read it.
For now, you just leave it where it is.
—
Early June, and summer is off to a head start. The sun is beating down on you relentlessly. Chaeryeong doesn’t seem to notice, skipping ahead like the earth isn’t turning fast enough for her.
“Can you slow down? It’s way too hot for you to be this energetic right now,” you call out in a failed attempt to keep her near you.
“Absolutely not. Can you speed up, instead?” she retorts, and you can’t blame her. Turning twenty-one and no longer having to sneak around to get drunk is a big milestone, after all. Nothing past your first sip the day you celebrated your birthday made it into the permanent memory bank.
Go figure she’s brimming with the same kind of anticipation, the kind that makes her shine. Blonde hair swaying in the wind like rays of the sun itself as she turns to look at you with mock anger. You. The one who promised to treat her to a drink of choice, after all.
“If I die of heatstroke, I can’t buy you anything,” you grunt.
“I could just take your wallet off of your body if you die.”
She’s always been like this. Sharp, faster and more deadly with a comeback than you could ever be—when she’s paying attention. Relentless in her teasing, and most certainly one of those weirdos that has ragebaiting as their lovelanguage.
By the time you reach the liquor store, you’re drenched in sweat. But that’s just you. Chaeryeong—unlike you—looks pristine, like she’s made out of porcelain, like sweating is below her, but still chooses to wrap her arms around one of yours like she doesn’t care about any of those observations, she’s just happy to usher you inside.
“So, what are we looking for?” you ask as you browse the seemingly endless shelves. Chaeryeong is scanning each shelf, her pace significantly slower, like she’s in no rush to decide. A joke is begging to burst out of you, but you keep it locked up, lest you speed up her process and waste precious, air-controlled minutes inside.
She hums as her eyes scan up and down, thinking it over until she brings you up to speed. “Iunno,” is all she gives, though.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” you ask, kind of incredulously.
“I don’t know. What? Can’t a girl pick her first drink based on vibes?” she asks back.
“I don’t know. I guess? I knew what I wanted my first drink to be long before I got to it.”
She stops walking, holding you in place with her as she turns her gaze away from the endless bottles towards you. “Really? What did you get, again?”
“Whiskey,” you answer with a misguided sense of pride, like it’s supposed to be a cool answer. “You know, like, a real man’s drink.”
She just stares at you, one corner of her lip curling upwards into a smirk, and she doesn’t need to waste any words on mocking you.
“I just figured I would find a nice bottle of something screaming at me,” she teases, poking you in the side with a finger, the rest of her hand still wrapped around your arm. “And if it’s expensive, that’s your problem.”
“Your plan is to let the bottle choose you?” you question, again.
“Worked out fine with you.”
That gets you. A chuckle escapes you, and she looks up at you, proud of herself. Worst part is that she’s completely right. She gave you shit for weeks for how long you waited to ask her out.
“Brat,” you sigh, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
She adjusts the black bow tied into her hair like she’s checking to see if you didn’t boorishly ruin her pristine sense of style, shrugs her shoulders when she’s satisfied with its current fit and smiles up at you. The intent is all too clear. She gracefully accepts your admission of defeat.
Finding something that suits Chaeryeong's taste might prove impossible. She’s got high standards for her likes to clear. Nothing really seemed to strike a chord with her, that is, until you reached the wine department.
“Oh. My. God. That is the one,” Chaeryeong exclaims with glee, rushing towards a black and pink bottle of rosé champagne, adorned with pink, red and lilac ribbons etched into the glass. She grabs it off the shelf, carefully turns to you and holds it up for you to inspect. “Isn’t it so fucking cute?”
It’s just north of a hundred dollars, a lot more expensive than the cheap forty dollar whiskey you celebrated your coming of age ceremony with, but that thought gets shoved down the moment you see the joy on her face.
“It suits you,” you say as you take the bottle in your hands.
“You think?” she questions back, and you just nod to answer.
Bottle in one hand, her hand in the other, you head towards the register, making good on your promise. A fine bottle of champagne for an even finer girl. She kisses you on the cheek the moment the cashier hands you back the bottle.
—
There’s an empty black and pink bottle of rosé champagne, adorned with pink, red and lilac ribbons etched into the glass. Inside, there’s a piece of paper, rolled up, and it would only make sense to have your name on it.
Chaeryeong must have left it for you to find.
Three years have you had it like this. Three years since she vanished from your life—and, as far as you can tell, hers as well.
Three years since you’ve worked together on turning that bottle from full to empty.
Looking at it makes the taste linger on your tongue.
—
"It's so fucking good," Chaeryeong practically moans. "It tastes like the world's most expensive cherry is making love to fizzy grapes on a bed of flowers, somehow?"
The shade of her favorite red lipstick paints the edge of her paper cup—courtesy of the room and wildly unfit for the quality of the drink—and she hands it to you. There’s still some champagne left at the bottom. You press your lips to the edge, already tasting a small hint of cherry from where Chaeryeong’s lips left a stain, and finally take a sip.
The fizz tickles your nose, teasing floral notes, a sharp contrast to your first drink, which could only be described as sandpaper fucking mudwater on a bed of burnt wood.
“Well?” she asks, tilting her head. She’s already claimed the center of the bed, lounging back on her elbows with a light grace that makes the room feel classier than it has any right to. “Did I pick the perfect drink or what?”
“It’s alright,” you lie, obviously, even though you’re already making a mental note to buy this exact bottle for every future celebration. You take another sip, finishing the paper cup, crinkle it in your fist and throw it in the trash can.
“Liar,” she chirps, kicking out a leg. Her foot, encased in a soft, ivory-colored wool thigh-high sock, pokes you right in the chest. “You can’t try to act nonchalant while also going for a second sip.”
You catch her ankle, the fabric soft and surprisingly warm against your palm. You don't let go. She doesn’t want you to, either. It’s obvious in the way her pupils are as big as they’re allowed to be, unwaveringly fixated on you. Every inch your hand slides up her leg causes another twitch in her calves.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. She's known ever since she wore this exact pair for the first time and you both lost your virginities. She wore these specifically because she fucking knows they turn your brain into mush, that seeing the little stretch of skin on her thigh between where the sock ends and her miniskirt begins makes you simply obsessed.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” you mutter without making eye contact, gaze fixed at her legs. Throw her a smirk, and pull her closer to the edge of the bed.
She’s won, celebrating her birthday with all the right beats. She hooks one of those wool-clad legs over your shoulder, the texture dragging against your neck, pulling you closer into her, into the mattress she reigns over.
“You’re so pathetic when I’m wearing these,” she whispers. Her tongue pushes through her lips, wets them, and leaves her mouth just slightly agape long enough for you to nearly close the distance. Those cherry covered lips should be on you, but instead they continue to taunt. “I wore them in a heatwave just to—” she huffs, smiling when your grip tightens, “—see you look at me like this. Like a dog waiting for permission to eat.”
“You’re a brat, you know that?” you growl, but you’re already leaning in, your hands sliding up the back of those socks to the soft, squeezed skin of her upper thighs. “A horny, attention-seeking brat.”
“I’m your princess,” she corrects, her eyes beaming with contradictory hunger. She reaches down, her fingers brushing against your knuckles before she pushes your hands away so she can take over. “And princesses get what they want. Right now, I want to see how much of a mess I’ve made you.”
A sly smile plays on your lips as you slide her leg off of your shoulder, and steal the bottle of champagne out of her other hand, taking control of the pace.
“Not so fast, princess. I’ve paid for three hours off this room, we can take our time,” you retort in a competitive growl. She watches you with wide, surprised eyes as you take a long, deliberate swig, letting fruits dance on your tongue. Swallowing would be a waste now.
No. You reach out and snag the black bow in her hair alongside some of her silken strands, and grab a nice fistful.
With a firm tug on it, just enough to jerk her head back, you force her gaze off of your straining bulge and onto your face. Her mouth falls open in a small gasp of shock, corners of her lips going up into a defiant smile. The distance between you two melts away with reverent intention until you press your lips against hers. You let the sparkling liquid seep into her mouth, sweet and fizzy flooding her mouth and catching her off-guard.
She scrambles for purchase on your shoulders, tongue mixing with yours as she takes all you can give, letting out a muffled and desperate sound as she swallows the mouthful you’ve gifted her.
“There,” you mutter as your lips part, your thumb swiping a stray drop of rosé from her chin. “Happy birthday. Now we can be a mess together.”
“I’m going to cry if you don’t take your pants off soon,” she moans as drops of champagne that you couldn’t quite get into her mouth spill down her chin. No time is wasted licking them up from collarbone to jaw. “I’m making you buy a new bottle and doing this every birthday I have from now on.”
That earns her a muffled laugh against her skin.
“Every birthday?”
“Every single one,” she answers without a drop of hesitation. “Even yours.”
—
There’s an empty bottle that still faintly smells of cherry, grapes and spring flowers.
It’s also the last bottle you bought her.
The note inside is still there. It’s impossible not to think about, and what it has to say, why it has your name on it.
If you open it, the memory of that June afternoon finally breaks. The memory of the wool against your skin and the cherry on your tongue will have to face whatever reality she wrote down.
For now, you just leave it where it is. Because as long as the bottle is sealed, she’s still in that love hotel room, smiling up at you, waiting for her next drink.
Despite all that, you still had to learn how to live without her.
You’re not good at it.
Not when you’re losing her over and over again. See, the thing about a person vanishing from your life without an explanation—or, in your case, an explanation you don’t think you can deal with—is that it’s not a one time thing.
Sure, you lost Chaeryeong the morning she didn’t come back to your place. Then, you lost her again the first time you saw a funny video and wanted to share it with her. Again when you found a strand of her dyed blonde hair on your winter coat.
You’ve been constantly losing her in small increments. Three years of small losses, compounding interest, your mind begging you to keep her memory intact.
It’s not as oppressive during the day. It’s the nights that are the most silent. It makes sense, those were your favorite times as a couple. You still can’t bring yourself to sit in her spot on the couch.
So, nights require distractions now. Hobbies that don’t stick, endless scrolling of short-form content to beat your brain to death with, midnight snack and alcohol runs.
Tonight isn’t one of the worst nights. Tonight is just a Tuesday in late May, and you need milk for your coffee tomorrow morning, and the only convenience store still open is a 7-Eleven on a forty minute walk away. The distance doesn’t bother you, it fills time that way. Earbuds in, a nice long walk, and check out a undoubtedly similar store to all of their other locations, but it keeps you occupied all the same.
Meditation, you call it. Obsession is what your friends call it. The way you spend every moment you’re not occupied thinking about what you’d say to her. It’s all painted on the inside of your skull, flashing before you the moment you close your eyes.
The way you wouldn’t give an inch. Ask her to explain herself. The way you’d hold yourself when you asked it, having practiced the exact beats for “where did you go” and “did it ever occur to you how I felt.”
But most importantly, you practiced not letting her know that all she had to do was ask and you’d forgive her like nothing happened.
You’re so lost in it again you almost miss her entirely.
She’s crouched at the bottom shelf of the snack aisle, picking out different cans of pringles, examining them and putting them back one by one. Her hair is black now, shielding her line of sight from you. Her lips peek through, a similar shade of midnight, not something you’ve ever seen her entertain.
You have about ten seconds to walk away and she would never know. You stand there, three years of questions disappearing in the span of two seconds.
She shifts her weight, the hem of her coat rides up, and you see the nail in your coffin.
Black lace. Same strip of skin at the top of her thigh. A floral pattern engraved. Three years clearly not enough to erase a decade of habits.
“You trying to find a snack that’s just screaming at you?”
She freezes.
Her head turns slowly, eyes finally meeting yours, trembling in place like she’s seen a ghost.
“Oh,” she breathes. Her fingers clench and then unclench around the canned snack. “It’s—hi.”
“Hey,” you respond, arms now crossed. Just like that, three years of questions, righteous anger and rehearsed confrontations evaporate into stale air.
“I didn't—" she starts, then stops to fidget with the hem of her coat. It’s a nervous habit of hers, once she’s had since she was little. You instantly pick up on it like you’d stumbled over a tripwire you’d laid for yourself years ago. “You shop here now?”
“No, I don’t,” you respond curtly. She can’t meet your eyes when you say it. “But the one we used to shop at is being renovated. And I needed some milk for my coffee tomorrow morning.”
She nods, gaze flickering between your face and the floor. “That makes sense.”
None of this makes sense if you think about it. Has she always been here? Just out of reach, less than an hour walking from your normal life? Just—what? Living her life without you?
It only raises more questions you never rehearsed. Also stretches a silence between you, filled only with the humming of refrigerators and flickering of fluorescent lights. All you manage to do is blurt out something mundane.
“You stopped dyeing your hair.”
Her hand reflexively touches the ends off her hair draped over her shoulder. “Yeah. Do you, ehm, you like it?”
Any color Chaeryeong has ever had has instantly become your favorite color, only occasionally dethroned by the shade of her lipstick. Telling her was never a problem when you were still intertwined, but what if this is just temporary? A stroke of misfortune for her, a blip on the radar, and all you’d accomplish was making her uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” is most you can start with. “I like it.”
The black color of her lips contrasting against her pale skin helps you spot the faintest of smiles, disappearing as fast as it came.
She shifts her weight around and looks down at the can in her hand like she’s forgotten why she’s even picked it up. It couldn’t be more clear, whatever brought her here tonight did not account for seeing you again.
You both go through the motions, asking how you’ve been, and you lie that you’ve been good. Maybe her “I’m doing okay,” the truth, maybe it's a lie, and both would sting just the same. Where you’re working now, if you still live in the same place, and how nothing has changed and you’re practically been frozen in time since she left.
It’s not the same for her, obviously. She looks like you could never have even begun to imagine her.
She shifts again, her coat follows the movement, and you just can’t help but catch another glimpse of those fucking black lace stockings. Some things never change. Stop yourself from wondering why that detail hasn’t. If you do, you might get a lump in your throat so big no more words could come out.
Thankfully, she breaks the mold. “Um,” she starts, then stops. Takes a breath, and her shoulders stiffen up. “Can I ask you something stupid?”
“Sure,” you answer, impossibly bracing yourself.
“Do you remember that champagne bottle we shared on my birthday?”
Of course you remember. The champagne bottle with a message in it. But she’s not asking about the message, the note.
“The rosé one? Yeah, what about it?”
She takes a deep breath, meeting your eyes properly for the first time, brow knitted together. “I was just wondering if you still had it. I liked the way it tasted.”
“I’m not sure,” you lie. “Maybe? I could check when I’m home.”
There’s something you can’t quite make out playing across her face, not with everything new about it. Is it relief? Disappointment? It’s gone before she nods again.
“No, that’s okay. You don’t have to go through the trouble,” she assures you.
You nod. There isn't much else you know to do.
“Yeah,” you say, even though there’s nothing to agree with. “If you say so.”
The silence that follows is different this time. It’s about as obvious as the void in your chest when you look at her. There’s no awkwardness or sensitivity to it. It’s merely there to kill a story.
She swaps the can from one hand to the other, forcing her focus to change, to do anything to not drown. “I should probably, y’know,” she gestures the can towards the register. “Pay for this.”
“Right,” you answer. “Yeah.”
You stand there frozen, unmoving, freezing her with you.
For a second, it’s almost like one of you is supposed to say something else. Like you’re missing the pop-up for another dialogue option, like there’s a version of this reunion that ends with you and her in each other's arms but you just can’t see the bridge that connects the now to that.
And it fades, gone as soon as it arrives, draining through your fingers like water.
She nods to herself, more than to you, and steps around you. Not too close. Not too far either. Just, around you.
Her scent gets trapped in your nose.
It’s hard to snap out of the scene, and you linger longer than you can respect yourself for. Just staring at the spot she just was now isn’t, before reluctantly moving on to what you came for.
Milk.
Stupid fucking milk, that you just grab any carton of, whichever comes first, and just rush with towards the register in the most delusional hope of catching up to her.
By the time you reach the register, she’s already left the store.
It’s when you step outside she surprises you again.
Chaeryeong hasn’t left.
She’s standing just past the automatic doors, under a particularly strong lamp, scanning the horizon. She looks at you the moment the doors hiss shut.
“Found your milk?” she asks, squeezing together her lips.
“Yep,” you blurt out without much thought spent on what to say next. She fills in the void pretty quickly.
“Which way are you headed?”
“Same as always.”
She nods slowly. Clicks her tongue, her eyes dart up and down, hoping you figure something out without having to spell it out for you. She speaks when you don’t.
“It’s really late,” she says, and the tone of her voice is the same one she used when she really wanted you to get up from the couch and go grab her a snack.
“Is your new place far from here?” you ask, and you pray you don’t come off as a creep.
“It’s not super far,” she answers in the same tone.
You sigh. “Will you make it home safe?”
“I’d feel safer if you walked me.”
You agree like you’ve always agreed to anything Chaeryeong asked of you. Old habits dying hard, or maybe it’s you forcing them alive despite the weathering of time. It’s all the same in the end, a simple excuse to talk some more to her.
“Which way are we headed?” you ask.
She tilts her head left, and you fall in beside her.
For the first couple of hundred meters, nobody says anything that made it into your practiced conversations. It used to be so easy and comfortable to be in silence together, and now it feels like you’re both asking permission for just that. Some light conversation does happen. Chaeryeong asks if you’re still working the same job, which you are. You ask the same, which she obviously isn’t, you’d have found her. She works in childcare now, and you tell her it suits her.
It takes a while for the first thing you can latch on to surfaces. Chaeryeong asking if you still have the same phone number. She asks it carefully too, like she’s bracing herself for a lie from you.
“Yeah,” is all you say.
She slows down half a step, grabbing her phone from her coat pocket. She fiddles with it, and you feel your phone buzz as she stashes her away again.
“Now you have mine,” she smiles, and skips once or twice to catch up to you.
You don’t grab your phone to read what she sent, trusting it’s not as important as just making sure you have her number. You’d rather be here, on this street, in this fragile thing, hoping she tells you she made a mistake and wants you back.
She notices. It’s obvious in the way she looks at the pocket you’ve kept your phone in since you were fifteen for a second longer than necessary, and then back at the road ahead. There’s no figuring out Chaeryeong when she has an idea or what that entailed, but it was never a secret from you whenever she had one.
That’s when the conversation starts to move. It almost tricks you, moving the way it used to, simple thoughts flowing from one into another.
But it’s not the same.
It flows the way a river flows when a natural catastrophe has changed the lay of the land, quietly rerouting, touching different banks.
You can feel yourself swim against the current, trying to close the distance with a reference only she would get—something about how she’d totally zone out any time you started talking about your day—and she smiles, she gets it, she even picks it up and runs with it for a sentence or two. But then it trails off. Lands somewhere just shy of where it would have, three years ago. Where she would have grabbed your arm, leaned into you, kept teasing you until you were so annoyed you’d stop her from talking by kissing her.
Instead, she just smiles, and looks ahead.
You do the same.
Her phone lights up in her hand. She glances at it briefly, types something without breaking stride, and pockets it again. You notice. You don’t say anything about it. It’s the second time since you left the store.
By the time you turn onto her street, you’ve both made peace with the gaps. Or you’ve both agreed, silently, to pretend you have.
The building she stops in front of is narrow and clean, a row of small potted plants lined up outside the entrance like she had a hand in that. It’s nice to believe she did.
She stops, turns to face you. Pulls her coat tighter. Her eyes shine , but it’s soft and careful, like she’s been working up to what she’s about to say a few times over.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” she says, and you believe her. That’s not the problem. “And I—“ a small pause, “—I hope we can talk again sometime. If you want.”
If you want.
The words land somewhere low in your chest and turn upside down.
Three years of losing her in pieces, of practicing what you’d say, of sitting on the side of the couch that was always yours because you couldn’t bring yourself to take hers, of carrying a bottle you can’t open because opening it means it’s real. She has the audacity to stand here, putting it in your hands. Like it was ever up to you. Like you were the one who needed convincing.
“If I want,” you repeat, and you hear the edge in your own voice before you’ve decided to put it there.
She blinks, takes a step back. “I didn’t—“
“No, I just—“ you interrupt. Stop to collect your thoughts, resurface the script you’ve practiced over and over. Start again. “I just don’t think that’s fair of you to say. Not after everything.”
She doesn’t move. Her expression has gone still in the way it does only when she doesn’t know what to say, and you know she’s not going to fight you on it, which somehow makes it worse.
Already stepping back, already putting distance between you and the bottom step and her face, which is doing something complicated that you can’t afford to look at for very long before your lungs are ready to work again. “I’m glad you’re okay. I am.” You shake your head. “I’m not.“
You don’t wait for her to respond. There’s a final “Goodnight” you throw out hastily after you turn, walking away, and the night air hits you cold and immediate and you don’t look back. Your hands find your pockets. Everything blurs, your feet keeping your pace even, controlled, the same way you’ve controlled everything since she left, and you keep walking.
You don’t stop. Not until you’re back in your building, up your stairs, through your door and in your bedroom.
She’s on your mind until exhaustion finally lets you drift away.
—
It’s the morning after seeing Chaeryeong for the first time in three years. You’ve got three messages on your phone. Chaeryeong sent them to you.
All from yesterday evening.
The first: “i hope you dont mind me having kept your number lol“
It’s unfair to open with that, as if her having kept your number isn’t cause for celebration, to open a fancy bottle of champagne. You save her to your contacts and leave the bottle closed for now.
The second, sent maybe ten minutes after the first: “thanks for walking me home btw, im not usually out this late and it makes me feel a lot more at ease to have you here“
You stare at the screen. The time gap between the second and final message proves the last one is from just after you stormed off yesterday. It reads as follows: “im not good at this. i understand if you dont reply to this“
Eventually, the screen dims. You put the phone down on your chest and look at the ceiling for a while. From where you're lying you can see the bottle on the shelf where you keep it. Black and pink, the ribbons etched into the glass catching the flat morning light. The note still inside it, rolled tight, a different kind of taunting aura now. It holds your gaze for a long time. Then you look back at your phone.
There's a version of you that opens the bottle today. That finally breaks the seal and reads whatever she couldn't say to your face and lets that be the thing that decides it.
You pick up your phone instead. Stare at the messages she sent you. Sit with the blank text field for a moment, write a couple of words that don’t feel right, delete them, stare at that stupid fucking bottle again and almost put your phone away. There’s a million questions you want to ask her, but there’s no point in even pondering them if you can’t even ask the simplest question first.
“Can I see you?”
You put the phone face-down on the mattress and go make coffee, because you need something to do with your hands, something to distract you from checking your phone every two seconds to see if she answered.
You’ve barely picked out a cup when your phone rings.
“now?”
It’s conveniently inconvenient. The timing alone is enough to spike your heartbeat for the rest of the morning. A response that’s way too fast for someone that’s supposed to be a closed door, so fucking fast that you realize you won’t be able to put your phone down the moment you figure out how to respond.
Because there’s an even more annoying question being asked back to you now. What the fuck does she mean? Just that, no further context, infuriatingly drives you to consider two totally opposite possibilities, two divergent interpretations.
But that’s the trick of it. It doesn’t matter. It’s been three years. It is that urgent. A second without her or at least a resolution longer is one too many. So you just take a chance on it being the second choice, and fire back.
“Whenever you can”
You send another text almost instantly, correcting yourself.
“Now, actually, if thats not too weird”
You hover over the send button, delete “if thats not too weird” and just send the first part.
She doesn’t take much longer to respond. Says she’ll be over in an hour, if that’s not too weird. You instantly respond to her, letting her know it isn’t.
What follows is not an hour of pacing, not an hour of relaxed waiting, casually preparing. No. It’s an hour of the worst kind of anticipation, with every minute making your heart beat faster like it still could accelerate, driving your anxiety to a point it makes you feel like you’re going to shit all your organs out on the floor and die there.
See, running into her unexpectedly is one thing, but doing the inverse—meeting with her at an agreed upon time—is far worse.
It’s an hour of cleaning everything in your apartment—or at least the part you expect to host her and her apology. Any sign that could give away a hint that you are not in control has to be eliminated. All of the conversations you planned start flowing again, and you try to force them away knowing damn well none of them will matter the moment she shows up at your door.
You buzz her in almost exactly an hour after her last text.
Yesterday’s black was not an accident. She’s still all winged liner, smoky eyes and inky black lipstick. Your eyes zip down once and spot the same poison as yesterday. A single strip of skin, with a floral pattern slightly further down. You don’t ask. You can’t manage much more than a “hi” anyways.
You let her in.
She knows your place blind. Like a cat who just returned from her evening stroll, she walks straight to the couch and sits, knees together to the side and feet half tucked under her, hand clutching her phone. It’s far too familiar how she sinks in.
Before any of the conversational explosions that have their fuses lit in your chest come out, you make your way to the kitchen, pouring both of you coffee. You speak loudly, letting her know that you happen to have some milk, if she still takes her coffee the same way she used to, which she lets you know she does.
You pour your own and join her, but on the opposite end of the couch. You fit into the memory better there, after all. Now that she’s here, you don’t even know where to start, or how to even explain without sounding desperate why you invited her over.
She puts her cup down, turns to you and says, “I want to apologize again for last night. I was—I’m really bad at this. I didn’t mean to make you feel like shit.”
You don’t turn. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize to me before.” Take another sip of your coffee, then put it down. “The sound of it is just all wrong.”
She blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, no, please stop,“ you say, your whole face tightening with cringe. “It’s like hearing a cat bark or something.“
“Shut up?“ she responds just a bit too much like she used too.
“Chaeryeong.”
“Ew?” she responds in instant and total disgust.
“What do you mean, ‘ew’?“
“Don’t say my name like that.“
“Like what? Chaeryeong?“ You turn to face her properly for the first time since you sat down.
“Please fucking stop,” she says, recoiling and scrunching her nose as if you just mentioned hating puppies. “It’s horrible.“
“I’m literally just saying your name.“
“I know, and it’s horrible, and I hate it.“ She shifts on the couch, pulling her knees tighter to her body. “You never used to say my name. I literally think the last time I heard you say my name, we might have been like, I don’t know, eleven years old?“
“Chaeryeong,“ you say with a smirk.
“I’m going to punch you.“
“For saying your name?“
“Yes! You used to call me princess.” She physically winces at the sound replaying in her head. “Hearing you say my name just makes it sound like you’re so upset with me.“
You face her head on with a smile you can’t seem to stuff down. “I am upset with you!“
“I already tried to apologize!“
“I’m upset because of you apologizing, idiot.“
“You know what, actually? Call me an idiot. That’s much better. I prefer it over you saying my name.”
You stare at her for a long moment.
“You’re actually an idiot,” you say, flatly, because some things never change.
“Thank you.”
You shake your head, pivot back toward the conversation before it escapes you entirely. “My point is—you don’t apologize to me. That’s not a thing you do. You apologized to your dance instructor for being late when your subway literally broke down. You apologize to delivery guys when they’re late because—” you raise your fingers to form air quotes. “It’s not their fault we live so far away.“
She tries to stop you, but you raise your finger like you’re scolding her and continue: “You’ve apologized to your mom for weed Chaeyeon hid in a cookie jar. I’ve watched you do it. You’ve never smoked in your life.” You gesture vaguely in her direction. “You apologize to everyone. Everyone except me. Or—“ you catch yourself, measured, “—at least, never with words.”
A beat passes. Then she laughs. Not the polite kind, not the deflective kind she’s been deploying since yesterday like a smoke screen. The real one. The one that starts low and tips forward and makes her press a hand over her mouth when it gets too loud, the one that used to make you feel like you’d won something.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she says, riding out the coattail of her chuckle, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. “I won’t apologize for yesterday if you tell me why you really invited me over. Clearly, it wasn’t to hear me say sorry.”
You take a long sip of your coffee. “I wanted to talk.”
“You wanted to talk,” she repeats, flat.
“Catch up.”
“Catch up.”
She watches you, waiting, eyes taunting you to start ‘catching up’. You set your cup down on the coffee table, link your hands together, and decide to just walk straight into it.
“Yeah, catch up,” you start carefully. “Like, for example, ask you questions like—“ you pause, roll your eyes trying to think of an easy transition into the barrage you’ve prepare, “—ever since we broke up—“
“Wait,“ she interrupts you, holding up a hand and furrowing her brow with theatrical precision. “We broke up?“
All you can do is stare. Blankly. It’s so utterly tactless, shot straight from the hip and missing its mark by a mile.
“I’m just saying,” she continues, utterly oblivious to how unable you are to laugh this joke away, “I don’t remember a breakup conversation happening. Technically.”
“Chaeryeong.”
“There it is again,” she mutters, scrunching her nose.
“You disappeared,” you say, and the word lands heavier than you intend it to. “For three years. That’s the conversation.”
“I’m sorry,” she scrunches her mouth, and looks away. “And you said my name just now so we’re even for me apologizing.“
You exhale through your nose, letting out a single chuckle in hopes of preserving some of the earlier momentum. “Idiot.“ You look back at her, and she can feel it, turning to meet your gaze. “As I was saying, ever since we broke up, have you been seeing anyone?“
It’s not the first question you wanted to ask. It mostly just slipped out, some kind of honest response to her eyes connecting with yours. It’s the question you’re stuck with now, forced to to face whatever answer she gives.
She tilts her head, wiggles her toes. “Have you?“
You should have known she would never answer before you. “You’re unbelievable,“ you say as you tilt your head towards the ceiling, hands dragging down your face.
“It’s payback. I deserve an answer first,“ she says simply, and before you can even question it—because she knows you will—she already continues, “because you called me an idiot.“
A big sigh escapes your lungs. There’s no point in arguing with her. At this point, the only outcomes are nobody answering, or you answering first, so you do. “No,“ you say. “I haven’t been seeing anyone.“
Her gaze burns on the side of your face like it always has when she’s going to ask you a barrage of questions you can’t avoid. You resist turning towards it.
“No one?” she asks.
“No one.”
A short pause. “Not even like, a one night thing? Someone you met at a bar, charmed your way into her pants and then never have to talk to her again?”
“What? No.”
“Didn’t pay anyone?” She says it carefully, measuring it. “Like, even just for—“
“No.” You say it before she can finish. “No.”
“Not even a kiss? Holding hands?“
You finally turn back to her. “Not even that. Not once. Nothing.”
She sits with that for a moment. The apartment is very still around you. You fear to move, lest the couch makes a sound and ruins this fragile moment you don’t know what to do with.
“Don’t you miss it?” she asks, and her voice has lost the teasing edge. It’s just a question now, plain and without judgement.
And the thing is, the word ‘it‘ is doing a tremendous amount of heavy lifting. She might be asking about the abstract concept of physical intimacy or the general act of human contact.
But you can’t help but be hit by a flood of ‘its‘. It’s the wool against your palm. It’s the cherry on your tongue. It’s a black bow coming loose in your fist and sifting through your fingers like sand only for strands of blonde to remain. It’s legs hooked over your shoulder like an anchor you never got tired of keeping steady. It’s the wiggle of toes anytime anything exciting happened. It’s countless nights spent whispering that you still think she’s the prettiest girl in the world.
You miss it the way you’d miss breathing.
You don’t say any of that.
You don’t say anything for long enough that the silence becomes its own kind of answer.
She watches you. Then, softly, she offers you an exit: “You probably don’t miss having a girlfriend that never apologizes, right?”
It’s a joke. It’s meant to be a joke. She’s giving you the out, the laugh, the reset.
The bad ending.
“I miss all of it,” you say, and it comes out with so little air, quiet and meek. Like something you’ve been keeping in a locked room for three years that just walked out on its own while you were still figuring out if it could stand.
She goes very still in response.
Not the kind of stillness she’d couple with contorted faces to buy her more time to think of something clever. A kind you’d never seen before. One that starts in her eyes and slowly creeps all over her body.
You catch yourself staring at her, but it’s impossible to stop. She blinks once—no, twice—and then shifts, chuckles, breaks the silence.
“All of it,“ she repeats, hollow. Like she’s not allowing herself to taste the words. She shakes her head, looks down at her cup and smiles softly. “I’m sure you could go without a lot of it.“
That’s when you see it. Clear as day, eyes wide open. The next hour, the next week, the next three years. The whole thing passing you by like the trail of a bullet that barely missed.
It goes like this: You don’t say anything meaningful to respond. She doesn’t dare push. You try one more safe attempt to reach out, and it doesn’t connect, the conversation swerving to something safer, more mundane, decidedly not dangerous. You’ll finish your coffee first, and she’ll check the time on her phone and say something along the lines of her needing to get going. You’ll walk her to the door, and she’ll say it was really good to see you, and she’ll mean it, and you’ll mean it back, and she’ll leave, and you’ll close the door, and you’ll stand in your kitchen for a while staring at her cup before eventually deciding to wash it, and you’ll sit on the couch wondering what the message inside the bottle is and not opening it, and nothing will have changed. The weeks pass. Maybe she texts, maybe you do, and it won’t matter who does, because all it will be is something simple and dismissible, a meme she thinks you’d like or a check-in when a song on the radio reminds you of her.
But the door between then and now stays shut, and the time between texts grows, and you’re losing her again like you did over the past years except this time you watch it happen and choose it anyways because the bridge looked too burned to cross.
And that’s the current trajectory of the reality you’re allowing to come to pass.
So you reject reality.
You close the distance.
It’s not graceful. It’s fucking desperate, moving too fast, the cushion shifting under you, and she turns at the movement, shifts back slightly but doesn’t move further than that, holds her breath with her mouth open, clutches her hand into a fist and you blink and—
You stop.
A centimeter. Maybe less.
That’s the full distance left between your faces the second the bottle—engraved on the inside of your eyelids—freezes you in place. What if her answer was no, and still is no?
“Why did you stop?“
You look down. You can’t look her in the eyes, because frankly, there’s not an answer you can give her after boldly lunging at her only to stop right before impact. Your eyes land where they always do. The strip of skin left untouched, like a line stopped before completion to make sure you know she still can stop wherever she wants. The floral pattern woven with near equal artistry to the squish of her thigh where the hem of the sock bites into her skin.
“Why are you wearing those?“ you ask.
She’s quiet for a moment. Long enough for you to let your eyes find hers.
“Because you like them,“ she says.
You close the distance, and your lips find hers.
It lands a little off-center, your nose bumping hers, and she makes a small sound of surprise that dissolves almost immediately. It’s compounded interest all paid back at once, your hand finding the side of her face and her hand finding the front of your shirt, and the taste of her is coffee now instead of champagne but the mechanics of it are so familiar.
You pull back just far enough to look at her. Her eyes are still closed for half a second longer than yours, and when they open they’re darker than usual, a little undone, intently focused on you. The black lipstick has migrated, a small smear at the corner of her mouth, and you have the absurd, overwhelming urge to fix it and ruin it further at the same time.
Her other hand comes up and finds your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of it, the same way she used to when she was in a particular mood, a quietly possessive habit she’d never have admitted to.
“Are you sure about this?“ Her thumb has stopped moving. Her voice quieter, barely audible over your own heartbeat.
You look at her, and she doesn’t look at you.
“I was gone for so long,“ she continues, and she tucks some hair behind her ear, then fixes it immediately. “I don’t want you to regret—“
“You’re here now.”
It’s unbelievably trite, and the Chaeryeong you knew would have wasted no time at all giving you shit for it, but it’s also completely, undeniably true and that makes the instant lack of response that much scarier.
She blinks, her surprise barely masked before she bursts into a laugh that’s mostly exhale, then leans in so her forehead rests against yours. “That’s genuinely the corniest thing you have ever said to me, and I still remember the poem you wrote for me in high school.”
“Thank god,” you respond with an embarrassed smile, “I was worried that I might have had another Chaeryeong in my home if you didn’t make fun of me for that.”
“I had to, no matter how sweet it was,” she whispers, and before you can feel any more stupid about it she’s swinging a leg over you and settling into your lap in one fluid motion, and then her lips part and so do yours again. Her mouth is on yours, open and needy, tongue’s clashing unlike the first one and beneath the coffee there is—absurdly—the faintest taste of cherry coating her.
How dare she.
You level the playing field. Hands finding her hips, planting themselves there, keeping a firm grip on her, and you can feel the way she melts into it, her spine relaxing as she sinks slightly forward. She shifts again when your hands slide up. Her waist first, then onto her ribs, accompanied by the small jump of muscle she always has when you graze a particularly sensitive spot just beneath her ribcage, your thumb pressing into flesh.
There’s a fast rise and fall to it, and you let it linger, stopping there, causing her to look down at you after breaking the kiss, hair falling over her face.
“You stopped again.“
“Look,“ you say, and it starts deadly serious. “There’s a lot we haven’t talked about yet. I know that—like, it’s bad,“ you stop, and she pulls back ever so slightly, her hands drifting. “And, I want to talk. I do.“ You stop to breathe. She holds her breath.
“But right now, I just really—really want to fuck you.“ She exhales, and you don’t stop. “Like, desperately. That’s kind of where I’m at.“
She looks weirdly relieved at that. Then she smiles, her eyes narrowing but staying focused on you.
“I don’t mind not talking right now,“ she says. “I’ve been thinking about not talking ever since you lunged at me the first time. So.“
"You sound pent up."
She doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, she turns, shifts her whole weight around in your lap like she's decided its time for you to drown in troubled waters—although they’re only thigh-high—and settles her back against your chest. Your arms close around her, and her head tilts back over your shoulder so she’s looking up at you from below, her eyes looking even more dark and enticing with the long line of her throat exposed.
She grinds her hips into you, your hands dig into her skin, and she exhales into your neck.
"You also feel pent up," you say.
"I haven’t fucked in three years," she says simply, finally answering your earlier question you’ve already long exposed yourself to. You tighten around her waist, slightly squeeze the air out of her, and pull her as close as she can possibly be. "Keep that in mind, because I am going to be—" she pauses, eyes hooded and looking up at you—"sensitive. Everywhere. I will probably cum embarrassingly quickly."
Her head tilts, and her mouth finds your neck. She speaks into your flesh. "That’s not a warning, by the way."
She lightly nibbles on your skin, teeth teasing but never with any pressure.
"No?" you ask.
She settles back against you. Completely at ease.
"I'm bragging."
You move your hands carefully around all the safe spots. It might be you savoring the moment, or maybe you’re just asking permission. Either way, she can tell, and after a moment slides her hands over yours.
“You can touch whatever you want,“ she says, and then her hands are moving yours, guiding them up and under the hem of her top. “I won’t stop you.“
She looks forward again. Shifts, making herself easier to reach, accommodating in a way that feels almost pointed. She’s exactly the same as you remember, which is to say, still a perfect handful, her hands resting atop yours, perfectly cooperative.
"You're being very good about this," you say.
"I know," she says with a smirk, like you haven’t yet figured out the price you’re going to pay for this. A soft moan escapes her as you find her nipples still fit perfectly in between your digits. "I'm very well behaved when I want to be."
"And when you want to be is—"
"Right now," she says. "Obviously." Her fingers press down lightly over yours, guiding without urgency. "You should take advantage of that."
“You’re just making excuses. I think you’re just being needy for my fingers to curl inside of you.“
She doesn’t dignify that with a verbal response just yet. Instead, her fingers interlace with yours, dragging the combination downwards. Off her ribs, past the soft give of her stomach, lower still, until the hem of her skirt glides under your fingertips, not stopping until she lets your palms rest on that strip of skin right between the hem of her socks and the—if the sensation of lace against your thumb is correct—same material panties.
She presses your hands down, makes sure you feel how much they still mold to your grip.
“Okay,“ she says with a smile, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “So what if I am needy?“
She spreads her legs a little, her hands letting go off yours. Her right arm wraps around and her hand finds an anchor point on the back of your neck, keeping her steady as she slides ever so slightly down. Her left hand bunches up the damp fabric of her underwear to the side.
“So what?“ you chuckle once with disbelief. “I told you I wanted to properly fuck you, not just give you princess treatment in my lap,“ you correct her, and push your hips forward once, letting her feel what her provocations have done to you. There’s no way she can miss it, the way your cock is straining against her ass, pressing up into her.
She grinds back, riding the pressure, exposing your own sensitivity. “You think I couldn’t tell how hard you already are?“ She rolls her hips again, slower, more precise, like she’s making a promise for later.
“I know what you want,“ she says. “I want that too, especially if you keep calling me princess.“
“I didn’t call you—“
“But I’ve imagined your hands on me again and again and again,“ she continues. “Every time I closed my eyes.“ Her hips shift. “Yesterday, too. You crossed your arms and I just—“ She moans. She fucking moans, right in your ear. “I came so fucking hard, thinking of them on everywhere. My waist. My throat.“ Her left hand finds yours again, slides it up until you can feel her pussy press against your palm. “Here.“
She’s absolutely soaked.
“Chaeryeong.“
“Don’t say my name like that,“ she protests, whiny, and bites your neck in retribution.
“Okay, princess,“ you smirk and she’s already shaking. Two of your fingers push in, slow, your palm pressed against her clit and her precious little spine curves, her lower back getting pushed away. Her hands hang on tight, like they need the stability.
“Fuck I missed—“ she pushes through an inhale, a small moan follows out, and after an exhale she manages to say the rest. “All of that.“
"You can have this one," you say, unhurried. "You're going to remind me how much after I’m done with you."
She’s writhing in your lap now, hands clutching your flesh and you’re sure she’s going to leave a mark, pulling your head to hers so she can bite your lip between words. “I told you—” she pants, and you want to tell her to go ahead, but she beats you to it—shudders, legs kicking out, and clamps around your fingers so tight you think you’ll never get them back.
“Embarrassingly fast.“
You keep going. Not nice, not considerate, not gentle. You want every ounce of her, want her to lose herself, and the more you work her, the more she gives.
Her spine curves further, impossibly. She’s so small against you like this, tucked in and shaking, and you push both fingers fully in her and she jolts, her breathing going shallow, bitemarks being made in your neck, your thighs getting battered by her heels.
“Tell me when,” you say quietly.
“When,” she says immediately, and you waste no time using the base of your palm to press down on her above her cunt, fingers trying to curl back into your hand inside of her, holding her through her tremors. You can feel it in your own chest, your ribs quaking like a second heartbeat overlapping yours. She looks beautiful. She always did, but it’s easy to miss this; the way she falls apart fully, the way she whimpers your name, the way she smiles after like a radiant goddess.
Her orgasm mellows out eventually, and she’s breathing hard, lifeless limbs hanging against you, and you keep her steady. Let her come down at her pace. You let fingers glide out slowly, slipping free, and she mewls involuntarily, whimpers something pathetic about the loss of your touch.
She lays there, slumped into you, and you’re staring at her lips.
Not just because she’s smiling, or they’re black, or that their hue is clearly infinite with how perfectly coated the still are despite the many traces she’s left on your body. No, you’re just staring because she’s got you so worked up that you’re lost in the memory of her lips wrapped around your cock, back when her lipstick was a shade of red or nude, and those never left any marks.
“You’re staring,“ she says, hopelessly out of breath.
“Just thinking that I like the color.”
“I doubt that’s the full extent of it.” There is no chance Chaeryeong lets you off the hook. “You’re staring at my mouth like you want to fuck it.“
Nobody could ever come close to knowing you like she does. Call it a side-effect of growing up together. There’s no point in denying it. It’s harder to find a way to confirm her observation without feeling like you’d waste the chance, but apparently staring at her does the trick.
“You want your dick in my mouth so bad you’re not even pretending to listen to me.“ Her hand draws tiny circles on your wrist, limp fingers brushing skin lightly.
“I’m listening, I’m just visualizing all the ways I can appreciate your lipstick. It’s a beautiful shade,“ you say, eyes drifting towards the ceiling in mock consideration.
she lifts your hand by the wrist to kiss your knuckles, the slightest stain of black remaining on you. “You want to see what it looks like on your cock?“ she asks and you look down at the disgusting sincerity she brings it with.
“Can I?“
“Sure,“ she muses. “You can mark your territory, or whatever. I don’t mind.”
She doesn’t let you consider it. That’s the thing with Chaeryeong. There’s no pleasing her if she’s not teasing you. She needs you to know that it’s her choice when she slides down out of your lap, onto the floor, splitting your legs and staying there, head tipping back at the edge of the couch to look at you as she delivers the sucker punch.
“Seems like you need it.“
You chuckle wryly, bend over forwards and plant a kiss on her forehead. "I hope you know I'm not stopping until there's a black ring around the base of my cock."
“Good.“ She smirks. You stand up, walking around the coffee table, savoring the moment. “I’d prefer you doing all the work right now.“
“You’re really going to just sit there and let me fuck your mouth?“ you tease back, stopping to loom over her.
“Are you complaining?“ she pouts, flutters her eyelashes. “It’s not my fault you fingered the fine motor controls right out of me.“
You put your hands on your hips, cock your head and bend slightly forwards, over her. “Still a brat, huh?“
“Yep!“ she responds, gleefully, proud with a smile, tilting her head. “Which means that this offer expires soon. Whip out your cock you’ve been harassing my ass with, or I’m keeping my mouth shut until I’ve cummed on your face.“
It can’t be overstated how fast you switch up and wrestle with your belt, trying to maintain a facade of composure. “I thought you were supposed to be a princess?“
She opens her eyes, shrugs, and drifts her eyes towards your belt. “Princesses have to eat.“ She lets her head hang back, opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. It’s like she’s asking you to lose control.
Your cock is out before either of you even process it, stiff and aching, veins bulging like never before, as if ready to explode.
“Jesus,“ she says with reverence bordering on worship, no intent of hiding her awe, “I forgot how hot your dick is.“ She stays perfectly still, leaning back against the couch, hands slack next to her on the carpet, the very picture of defiance and submission contradicting herself with minimal effort. “I might actually cum just from choking on it.“
“I forgot how much you talk,” you reply, and admittedly, its a bit snarky. But you know Chaeryeong, and that gambling with a line like this always has a payout.
“Then make me shut up.“
You answer by pressing your cock to her lips, pale pink to her beckoning black. She opens, wide and compliant, her tongue flat and eager, and you glide in. It’s impossible to play this cool, not with her on the floor and your pulse ticking in your ears, not when the black of her lipstick makes her mouth look like a void designed to swallow you whole.
The first pass into her is slow. Her lips slip easily over your cockhead, soft and cold on her lips and then suddenly impossible warm inside. You steady yourself with a hand on the couch cushion behind her, fully leaning over her and she—despite years of proving to you she couldn’t let a single opportunity to take control over you go unchallenged—just lays there, letting you push at your pace. She’s making sure her lips are pressed to the full circumference of your cock, every inch of skin covered, spare the sides she just can’t help but skip—courtesy of the smile pulling the corners of her mouth up.
“You look so fucking good with my dick in your mouth,“ you groan, making sure to put extra emphasis on how possessive you sound. Her eyes do a slow half-blink, satisfied.
You hold her there, cock halfway buried in her, hips already shaking, and pull out slowly. You want to watch the lipstick smear, the drag of her color a tangible scar tracing your shaft. Her eyes squint as she figures out what you’re doing, lips sucking tighter around you, and she hollows out her cheeks.
The black sticks, two perfect half-moons adorning your cock’s top- and underside, stretching in different intensities across your shaft.
“Good fucking girl,“ you hiss, twitch in her mouth, and her eyes close, her eyebrows getting that little wrinkle in pleasure. It’s hard to know whether that’s from the praise, the sight of you losing it or both. And normally, you’d find pleasure in the current state of affairs. It’d be enough, feeling your cock halfway down her throat and seeing her enjoying herself.
But right now, there’s a combination of something you can’t deny and a reckless streak that allows you to explore it. She doesn’t gag. Not yet, at least, but you want to see if you can make her; you want to see how much she’ll let you take, how far you’re allowed to conquer.
So, deeper you push; past the first point of resistance, past the point where she looks up at you with eyes that are looking for something carrying tears in the corner, past her limp hands choosing to grip the fibers of the carpet instead. It’s all too much, she’s right there with you, neither of you able to think straight each time you slide back into her mouth, fucking her face like you need it to survive, Chaeryeong totally passive and not resisting.
Not helping, just letting you help yourself.
“You can take it, right, babygirl?“ you ask, but you don’t care to let her answer. She tries to, though, bobbing her head ever so slightly, letting out a throaty, gurgling sound about as close to a yes as she can manage.
You bottom out, cock fully enveloped by her tight throat, tears running black down her cheeks, and she takes it with a focus that’s almost meditative, eyes drooped and drunk on your pleasure, drowning together with you in desperation.
And that’s when you feel it, the heat in your core, the jolt up your spine, the embarrassing and traitorous tingle of only managing one pump deep down her mouth before you too succumb to your sensitivity. You try to slow, try to savor just a couple seconds more, and she looks up at you like she’s asking if she’s doing something wrong and her throat contracts as if to push you out despite her head staying perfectly still, consciously fighting the subconscious to hold herself open for you.
How could you not comfort her, give in to what you both want by rutting into her face?
It’s inevitable at this point, and when the first shock of it hits you, you try to pull away, try to get ready to paint her face white and see how it mixes, but she holds you, moves for the first time since hitting the floor and dives deeper, nose pressed against your stomach, hands flying up to grip the back of your thighs, swallowing the first spurt like she’s starving.
“You fucking—“ you grunt, hands finding the back of her head and tangling her hair into a fist, “slut!“
You yank her off forcibly, she gasps and you hold her there. She’s got this look in her eyes like she’s won a prize off of you, easily wiped out when the second rope of cum hits her in the cheek, across her lips, then down her collarbone and finally a weak spurt dripping out of your cock onto the squish of her thighs, perfect white streaks against her tear-shed mascara, smudged lipstick and porcelain skin.
“Good to know you still cum like a firehose,“ she says, accompanied with a smirk, unbothered by the mess.
“You always knew how to bring out the worst in me.“
She pushes you down into the couch. Turns around with her stomach against the couch cushion and drapes her arms over your legs, cheek resting against your thigh. “The worst of you tastes pretty good,“ she muses, licks her lips, and brings a hand to your cock. “You want me to clean you up?“
You can barely breathe, so a nod must suffice.
She leans in, laps at the slit of your cockhead, down the shaft for any stray drops, then her own wrist, her thumb, and finally the gooey mess she scooped onto her hands from her thighs. The rest of her face stays as is, wearing your cum like jewelry.
“Mmmh, like, so fucking good,“ she moans, excessively.
“There’s something wrong with you,“ you shoot back, and it lands in her chest, a laugh joining her.
“Did you miss that too?“ she teases. She climbs up, into your lap again and burrows her nose into the crevice between your neck and your shoulder.
“All of it,“ you reaffirm with a long exhale, reality dawning back on you now that the heat of the fuck-fever subsides.
She stays that way for a while, snuggling closer to you, silently just making herself small on top of you.
“Hey,“ you whisper, fingers twirling with strands of her hair, soft strokes matching her breathing. “You’re getting cum all over my shirt.“
“Don’t care.“
It’s kind of cruel. Not what she says, no, that’s just Chaeryeong like you know her. It’s how it reminds you of the Chaeryeong you don’t know. And it shouldn’t bother you, not with the world outside collapsed into a void and her wrecked against you and the warmth you both share. It should be enough.
But there’s a message in a bottle, and it undeniably has your name on it. Or she wouldn’t have asked yesterday. And you could try to ignore it, and just throw it away when she’s not looking and act like you know no better and you never find out why she left and let it eat at you every single day and let it ruin your fucking—
“Are you going to tell me why you left?“ you ask, stopping the idle patterns you were tracing on her thigh, going dead still.
She freezes too.
“Did you read the message I left?“ she asks, voice thin.
“The one in the bottle?“
“I knew you were lying,” she answers, with only half a smile. She gets up from your lap, turns your back towards you and starts walking towards your bathroom. “Give me a minute. I’m not having this conversation with cum on my face.“
You don’t try to stop her. You just wait for her, find your pants and get somewhat dressed again, settling back into the couch when you hear the faucet stop running and the door open again.
She emerges eventually, her skin wiped clean, any trace of the revelation you just shot onto her face removed. She sits down, next to you instead of on top of you, a little further tucked into the corner than before.
“So? Did you read it?“ she asks again, staring blankly ahead, undecipherable.
You stop looking at her. Sigh, rub your eyes. “No.“
“Why not?“ she follows up, her voice breaking a little. It’s hard to stop yourself from derailing the conversation.
You think about lying, and then about the consequences of instantly being caught lying, because Chaeryeong could always tell and the truth comes out easier than you expected it to anyways. “I wasn’t sure if I could still believe you’d ever return if I read it,“ you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think I could handle that.“
You turn slightly towards her.
She nods. Pulls her knees up to her torso, and rests her cheek on them, turning towards you. “Can it stay that way?“
It’s the kind of question that needs time to think about. What exactly is the question asking, what is the full context, what happens if “it“ does not stay “that“ way?
When the silence stretches past a point she can bear, she starts to retreat.
“You know what, never mind,“ she crumbles. “That’s an insane thing to ask, obviously it can’t,“ she rambles, unfolding like she’s about to give up, obvious in the fake smile you’ve managed to see through ever since first learning about it. She unfolds slightly like she’s about to bolt for the door—the nuclear option. “You can read it, obviously you’d want to—“
“Can you just chill the fuck out for a moment?“ you intervene. You grab her wrist. It’s cliche, but you’d rather be cliche and hold her here now then let her walk out.
She stops.
“What happens if I read it?“ You look at her, grip unwavering.
She can’t meet your gaze. She tries, but she can’t. She just mumbles a couple of words. “I’ll probably cry again.“
It’s a simple reason, one that doesn’t really let you know anything specific, but when it comes to Chaeryeong, do you really need more to listen to her?
“Why?“
Her eyes manage to reach yours. “I don’t want you to see that version of me,“ she answers. “Because once you do, that’s all I’m afraid you’ll see.“
The room is very still around you. You swallow the questions coming up in your throat, the parts of you that want to pry anyway, and allow the truth to stay in her chest for now.
She trembles in your wrist, you sigh and release your grip. She doesn’t move away.
“I’m not asking you to just—let it go forever,” she says, hands clutched to her chest. “I just need it to come from me. Not who I was. When I’m ready, if you can wait for me.“
A single laugh—breathy and pushed through your nose—escapes you, and it’s almost a cosmic joke. If you can wait for her. You look at her, this idiot of a woman you've been losing in small increments for three years, who showed up in a convenience store at midnight and walked back into your life like she'd only stepped out for a moment, who is sitting here trembling with her hands clutched to her chest asking if you can wait for her like she genuinely doesn't know the answer.
“Idiot.”
She looks genuinely staggered by this. “What?“
“I have kept the one thing that could give me closure on you locked away for three years—maybe would have been locked away until the day I fucking died if you hadn’t shown up—only to be able to hope that I could see you again one day,“ you ramble, voice growing as you stand up and face her.
She blinks, searching across your face, something fragile inside of her breaking.
This could be temporary. A mistake, a pattern that might repeat itself, a karmic miscalculation that will cause you to be locked in an endless repeating chase of losing and finding and losing and finding her again. There’s a real chance hurt is waiting on the other side of the door, and there’s no way of knowing until you figure out why she even left in the first place.
But that doesn’t matter. It’s worth it, for the moments where Chaeryeong fits into your arms, however fleeting or forever.
“What makes you think I can’t wait for you to be ready to tell me, you idiot?“
She looks at you like she’s experiencing every possible emotion all at once with just a slight tinge of disbelief heavier in the mix, eyebrows pinching together upwards.
A laugh gets stifled by her, then resurfaces louder, and she lovingly calls you an asshole. Then, as if genuinely blindsided by it, her eyes fill and stray tears slowly fall down her face, blinking like she can’t quite account for where they came from, hands scurrying to her cheeks to wipe them away with yet another laugh and even more shocked “What the fuck?“
You let it all happen. The laughing, the crying, the attempts to get it under control. She succeeds, eventually. Mostly succeeds. There’s still evidence of it in both the corners of her eyes as well as the corners of her lips, and when she finally looks back up at you, she looks slightly mortified and slightly luminous, entirely a wreck.
“Don’t you dare,“ she says, her eyebrows furrowed at you and her head tilting downwards mockingly.
“Excuse me?“
“You did this.“
“I did?“
She drops her hands. Looks at you with wet eyes and the most unguarded expression you've ever seen on her face in twenty something years of knowing her.
One of your hands wraps around her waist, the other grabs her hand. You close the distance. Not urgent, not desperate, nothing like when three years came crashing down at once. Just your hands finding her, and you kissing her slowly. Like you have the time for it now. She doesn’t let you pull back the first time you try, just pushing further into your space.
When you eventually do end up separate, the first couple of minutes is just spent staring into each other's eyes, even as you move back to sitting on the couch, her making her comfortable in your lap for a third time.
She bites back a laugh and speaks first: “Okay, so, since we’re already just saying embarrassing shit,“ she says, stops, bites her bottom lip with a full smile and her eyes filled with the same joy. “I have a confession to make.“
“Okay?“ you say, hesitantly. This could go anywhere.
“I actually could have arrived here like half an hour earlier.“ She stops to twist her mouth, eyes flickering everywhere and back at you rapidly. “But when you asked to see me, I went home first. I literally changed outfits because I thought it'd be smart to wear these.“ She flexes her thighs, places her hands on them, drawing your full focus to the fabric taut on her pale thighs. “I didn’t think jeans would be of much assistance.“
You choke out a laugh. “You were already out and went back home just to change for me?“
“I saw the way you looked at me yesterday,” she retorts, but her fingers find your chin and pull you back to her mouth before you can comment.
She nips your lower lip, laugh muffled. “You’d be less assertive if I wore jeans, is what I’m saying. Probably wouldn’t find the courage to fuck my face like you did.”
You consider the counterfactual. There’s no universe where you don’t want her, but the comparison of both images in your head, side by side, has you inclined to agree.
“You might be on to something,“ you agree with a slight smirk.
“Thank god I still have what it takes to make you pathetic,“ she preens, twisting her shoulders to show off. “In fact—“ she tugs at your shirt, pulling you in until you are close enough to count her lashes, “I think we should see exactly how much these new socks help you lose composure.“
You try to kiss her, but she stops you with one finger. Instead, she stands up, not bothering to fix her skirt that’s been riding up. “I’m going to your bedroom,“ she says, walking around the coffee table swaying her hips, knowing damn well where you’d look. “I’m going to take off everything except these socks. You can join me after you’ve cleaned up here.“ She stops right before stepping into the hallway, looks over at you and speaks a final time: ”Don’t make me start by myself, because I will.”
There’s no point to bothering with the facade of taking your time or doing this of your own volition. You sweep the half-empty coffee cups, pick up your phone, trash some scattered napkins and try your best to remove any already dried up cum that made it onto your furniture.
You realize it, then. This is just part of her play. The game. You are never, ever more adored by her than when she’s dangling a reward in front of you and watching to see how fast you shower her in attention for it.
It’s intoxicating.
You make your way to your bedroom door as fast as you possibly can, leaving a trail of stripped off clothing behind, your underwear last to fall. Everything must go, because you’re not the main character in her script unless you’re showing up naked and a little bit desperate.
You swing open the door, and the room is painted in the diffused sunlight of early afternoon, a lazy brightness you’ve never really been around for, not until it snuck in here to illuminate her.
She’s sat against the headrest of your bed, propped up by a pillow, naked except for what she promised to keep on. Reapplied black lipstick and a black choker thrown in as a bonus. One hand between her legs, you can see it barely through the gap in her shins, idly teasing herself, the other hand cupping her tits and rolling them slowly. She’s playing with herself, her pride and your arousal all at the same time.
“Wow,“ she says, in that deadpan, smug way of hers, “not even going to let me undress you, huh? That eager to rail me?“
It’s not long before you are on top of her, wrists in one hand and cunt cupped in the other. “You’re going to help me get what I want,“ you say, and she looks smug, way too smug for someone with slick running down her thighs staining your bed.
She curves her spine at your touch. You drift your hands down to the hollow of her knees, soft mesh squeezing under your grip, and you press up until she’s almost folded in half, thigh’s pressed to her chest.
You’ve got her in checkmate, a press to match it and properly breed her, and you slide in so frictionless that you almost forget you’ve both spent years molding yourselves to each other.
With a single measure thrust, you bury yourself fully in her, pushing her further up the bed, and her head rocks back into the pillow with a thunk. She curses, which turns immediately into a moan.
You can feel her thighs-socked and shaking–the rough texture digging into the sides of your chest.
There’s nothing gentle about your rhythm. It’s desperate, same as her sounds. The bed creaks to complete the symphony. Her tits bounce with every thrust, black-painted nails holding and digging into them, doing the job you can’t as you hold your steady above and next to her head.
She tries to say something, but it comes out as a punched-out “fuck—!“ that loses coherence as soon as you bottom out again. You don’t bother pretending like your sounds are any better.
She breaks first—still embarrassingly sensitive—hands flying to your shoulders, nails digging in and pressing half moons into your skin, her voice cracking as she begs for more, for harder, for anything you can still give her. “Please,“ she whimpers pathetically, “Inside—“ and you realize she’s asking for something she never has before.
“Yeah? Inside?“ you taunt back through your own nearing doom.
“Mmmhm,“ she nods, giving up on words entirely.
“Want me to fill you up, princess?“ you continue, smacking into her harder, surely bruising something. All she can do is throw her head back and look at you like she’s hoping you’ve somehow learned how to read minds. “I’m going to make you walk around full of me for the rest of the day.“
She almost sobs as she cums, a sudden and sharp gasp accompanies her whole body shaking; the vibrations and the begging for you to finish with her causing you to chase her through it, losing your own composure, your strength, your vision.
You collapse on top of her, she lets her legs wrap across your waist, holding onto you as you ride out the aftershocks. Sweat sticks together, and once you think you’ve found the strength to roll off and pull out, she tightens her legs around you, keeping you in place.
“Don’t move,“ she whispers against the shell of your ear, a hand playing with the hair on your head. “Stay inside me until you’re hard again so you can fuck another load into me.“
You don’t talk about much except the feeling of your cock going soft inside her, the smell of her perfume, the lack of proper interior decoration you’ve done in the time she was gone, and then the feeling of your cock slowly stiffening up inside her again.
She rolls her hips when she feels it, speeding the process along. “I want lots of kissing this time,“ she clarifies. It’s a simple order. It’s so soft, and normal, and mundane you don’t realize nobody has even said it until after you’d let it slip.
“I love you, princess.“
Her head falls back into the pillow, she bites her fingertip, and smiles like she was waiting for that.
“I love you, too,“ she hums, kisses you with lots of tongue, and rocks her hips into you to make sure you’re as connected as physics would allow.
It’s hard not to oblige, taking her breath away as you restart with a softer pace.
—
There’s a message in a bottle, and it has your name on it. It’s gone largely ignored for a week now. You’ve made plans with Chaeryeong to throw it out—or at least, just the message inside—today.
She’s been with you every day for the past week, effortlessly slotting back into your life, and you into her new one. The make-up stays dark most days of the week, but some days she lets you see her in red.
A lot of time has been spent on making up for any of it you’ve lost, though. It’s impossible to keep your hands off of each other.
One day, she wakes you up with your cock in her mouth, hoping to have a slow morning, only to find out you can’t skip work and ends up being so frustrated for the rest of the day that she can’t stop herself from spending her entire lunch break in a disgusting bathroom sending you videos of herself dripping, making sure you know you’re expected to get even.
On another day, she texts you that she’s got her nails done, and asks if you want to see only to send a video of her playing with her pussy from the back. You showed her you still have the handcuffs she bought you that evening.
All she cares about is making sure you still are infatuated with her.
Hard to deny, considering the events. So, today, you text her the moment you leave work to let her know you’re on your way. If all is well, she’ll have taken care of things.
She’s already waiting for you when you get home to your little lover's nest. She’s got her hands behind her back, holding something.
As soon as you step inside, she plants a kiss on your cheek, and reveals her little secret.
There’s a present in her hands, with your name on it.
“I wrapped it in a way I thought you’d like,“ she says. Green, with blue ribbons on it, shaped like a bottle.
You take it from her hands and start unwrapping it–revealing a bottle of whiskey you told her about.
She stays quiet while you read the label, connecting the dots, and then she tucks herself under your arm, her favorite spot. She always did prefer watching you discover things she already knew you’d love, and says: “I found it screaming at me.”
College classes are bullshit, you thought as you stared at your phone screen, class schedule on display. Not living in the city, you took a two-hour commute — every day — just to arrive for one class that’s only for an hour. An hour. Then it’s the same stupid commute home at 8. That’s it. For the majority of the week.
For Fridays and Saturdays? Oh yeah, they’re fine, most definitely.
“Christ, 7 to 7 on Fridays and Saturdays?”, you whined out loud. You swiped a few more at the screen in disbelief, hoping it was a glitch, just a minor typographical error by some overworked coffee-for-blood intern half-asleep over the keyboard. But no. An internship at the local clinic, and four hours of a course on clinical research and ethics. 7 to 7. You heaved a sigh and tightened the straps of your backpack. Why they couldn’t put some of the classes during your weekdays is a mystery as clear as muddy water.
Finally leaving the ornamental front gate of your college campus, you trudged along a brick path that ran alongside different shops and stalls that were neatly positioned just before the train station. You pass by different hobby shops, neat textile stands, and a couple of establishments you haven’t got the time or the money to try.
You reached the last stand of food and saw beside it a newly opened cafe, complete with a jazzy new logo, neat brutalist walls, and those hip, one-word, obscure names all cafes seem to have nowadays: Fors. Its grey walls seemed to hold more life inside as you peeked into the windows beside the main entrance. Orange lights and the buzz of customers gave the cafe that inviting feeling of stepping into something new, despite its seemingly uninviting exterior. You decided to indulge in that, thinking of buying a small pastry for the road.
The cafe wasn’t all that big, situated on this gravel lot with a neat side garden facing the street, but it definitely maximized the space. Brick stepstones were inlaid to lead to the heavy wood-and-glass door, with its sleek black “Welcome” sign hanging. The larger cement wall extended to the right of the door, sporting this large, seamless circular window, its wedges smoothed out to serve as momentary seating or a place to take a photo, as the neat sidewalks and the bunched-up shops outside, with the shadow of the nearby bridge, serving as the background.
Your feet crunched on the gravel as you took the brick path towards the door. Fixing and undoing your pack straps, you pushed the door inward. The bell overhead rang. The staff, all clad in matching navy blue polo shirts and cream-colored aprons, looked toward the entryway and offered a warm welcome. Fors was a spacious cafe, its cashier and brewing station situated to your left atop slabs of the same cement. Just past the cashier was the cold glass display, chock-full of illuminated pastries and cakes, each with its price. To the right of the cashier and pastry area was the front-of-house. It was designed to be sunken, so there was a small downstep to reach the various chairs and tables for customers. Off to the side, where the large circular window had been, were these velvet couches and small coffee tables, basking in the natural light. On the opposite, far end of that were more tables distributed evenly, orbiting the cafe’s large shelves filled with books. The sconces attached to the walls leaked out the same orange light that caught your attention, tying all the elements together cohesively.
To be truthful, you weren’t a big fan of cafes. More specifically, you weren’t a big fan of how cafes tried hard to be “commercially unique”, going so far as to rename the sizes of coffee cups or complicate coffee orders with a dash of this or that, a dollop of foreign syrup, a shot of exotic bean grounds. You had your gripes, too, with this new wave of muted, minimalist, and sleek aesthetic that all cafes seem to go for nowadays. You’d always wonder which Heaven a cafe’s soul goes to whenever it loses its life and trades it for cold, stone floors.
However, you never turned down a good old croissant. It’s simple, not too crazy — plain. Seizing the moment, you walked to the cashier and placed your order.
“Would you like a regular coffee with that, Sir? It comes in three sizes, Micro, Mean, and Maxim,” the young female barista pointed up at the overhead menu with the drink sizing.
“Yeah, I’ll have the…uh…the Mean.” You cursed internally.
“Okay, that’ll be $25.50.”
I will never return here, you thought as you weakly handed over your card. After a few taps and prints, you took it back alongside the warm croissant and ventured down towards the seats.
Scanning the area, most customers were seated near the circular window, hoping to get a shot for Instagram or whatever. So you walk past them and take a window-side wood seat with a small square table. Comparatively, this window was a bit dirtier, with blurry fingerprints streaking and dotting the pane.
“Guess they neglected you, huh, buddy?” You softly asked the window, pulling out the seat. “Well, don’t worry, I’m not much for circle windows,” you whispered as you finally sat down to wait for your coffee.
“You usually talk to inanimate objects, or just windows?”
On the table directly in front of you, nearer to the books, there was a woman. Fair. Olive-shaped face. A gentle and delicate nose with a smooth bridge. Subtle smirk. Silky deep-brown locks styled in a wolfcut that flowed just down to her shoulders. Time-stopping.
“No, just—just windows…” You sighed.
The woman’s gaze was sharp. You felt it cut you four different ways as she scanned your appearance, searching for…something. The slicing ceased as her gaze fell back down to the opened laptop in front of her.
You gulped a bit as you shifted in your seat, uncomfortable with the sudden connection this stranger initiated. But hey, with a knockout of a woman such as her, you found it hard to complain. She sat down like grace and hard work combined, a delicate posture accenting the way her fingers typed swiftly, her eyes twinkling from the laptop light. She seemed around your age, with smooth skin sculpting and defining her cheeks and neck, with waves of her hair flowing downwards in subtle curls.
“You usually stare this long at strangers?” she piped up again, never taking her eyes off the laptop screen.
You cursed under your breath. “No, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. That’s weird,” you said with a shift of your head away from her general direction.
What is wrong with me? You thought. Your heart raced just looking at the woman; any longer and you’d die. But fuck, this girl’s beautiful, you awed silently.
And so, like addiction and relapse and all that, your gaze flowed and waned, wandering and detouring, but ultimately landing back on her.
Her brow was raised, still immersed in whatever she had on that laptop. Her eyes narrowed a bit further. Then it happened. Seemingly frustrated, her nose scrunched like something she didn’t mean to do and instantly corrected. The crinkles at the top of her nose bridge eased as her expression settled. It happened for a split second, but you caught it.
Then you felt a slash, the gash quickly rising from your arms and up to your face. Warmth flushed your cheek. Her almond eyes lacerated you. You were leveled.
You nervously smiled, getting caught again. You fiddled with the complimentary Fors creamer and sugar, hoping that mindless actions would undo the last three minutes of awkwardness. You drummed the table a bit, conveniently looking to the counter, waiting for this dumb century-long coffee.
Coffee beans must’ve still been harvested from exotic red-soil countries, you mused.
The woman suddenly stood up, chair whining against the floor. Grabbing her sling bag and books in one hand, and holding the corner of her still open laptop with the other, she strode shortly and stopped at your table. She set her belongings on the table, occupying more than half of your table space, and sat directly in front of you, resuming her nonchalant typing, not even acknowledging you with brief eye contact.
“Uh…”
“It’s self-service.”
“Excuse me?”
The woman nodded to the cashier. “That’s probably your coffee right now, cooling away.” Right enough, your eyes found a pastel grey mug sitting alone on the countertop.
“Excuse me,” you said with a half-hearted smile as you peel away from the table. And so you walked over, grabbed your now less-hot-than-desirable coffee, and stopped just before you reached your table. The woman still sat there.
Okay, I’m still in it, you rejoiced silently.
You took a seat again, placing the coffee just beside your croissant and the newly placed leather books. You craned your neck subtly, trying to read the titles on the spines.
“Law books,” she answered.
“Law student,” you responded in understanding.
So she was older, you thought.
She gave a nod as you took a seat, trepidation hanging over you as you thought of how to fill the silence.
“Got a paper due?” you asked meekly.
“A digest, yeah.”
“Cool, cool,” you said with a sip of your coffee.
“You?”
“Me?”
“Your major.”
“Gotcha. I’m a nursing student.”
“Hm. Younger.”
“Well, not that young,” you replied sheepishly.
“Young enough.”
“I mean, it’s not like we’re ages apart,” you replied. “You’re what, four years ahead?”
“Flattering, but no. I’m 37,” she winced.
You almost spat out your coffee. “Shut up.”
That made the corner of her lips lift a bit, and her face rose to look up at you instead of her work. The edge of her gaze stung less.
“Yup, 37. Majored in Poli Sci. Left for a bit. Came back.”
“But you look…” You pointed at all of her.
“Yes?”
“Absolutely not 37,” you said in awe, wrapped in a jest, but you caught yourself.
“I’m sorry.” You played it cool. “You’re just…wow.”
She laughed a single melodious laugh, her nose scrunch more visible now. Then you noticed it — the lodged maturity in her laugh, the seriousness seeping through her smile as her face eased back into a composed smirk, the intensity in the corners of her eyebrow. Her brown gaze stabbed you, but you didn’t mind.
“So you do laugh.”
“I do. Unfortunately.” She released a short sigh, thought for a bit, and decided to shut her laptop. “Kazuha.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Kazuha,” you offered your hand. She shook it firmly, but friendly.
“So how do you…?” you motioned up and down.
“Exercise and diet. Mainly genetics, too. Aren’t you supposed to be an expert on this, Nursing?”
“Oh shut up. You’re lucky I don’t quiz you on…” You leaned closer, tilted your head, and read off the spine of one of her books. “…torts, obligations, and civil proceedings.”
“I’m sure I can handle it.” She sized you up.
“I’m sure I can handle it,” you repeated sarcastically.
“Christ, you’re a child,” she scoffed slightly.
“Hey, a child you specifically chose to sit next to.” You pouted with false-surrendered hands. “Pretty sure that’s illegal.” You leaned back a bit.
Her gaze sliced down to your arms and back up to your eyes.
You relented immediately.
“Obviously, I’m kidding. Thank you for sitting here,” you said as you leaned back in towards her. This rewarded you with another laugh, the melody ringing in your ears as she chuckled.
“I’m 23,” you eased her mind.
She nodded with a slight smile. “Alright.”
“Alright?”
“Alright.”
Kazuha stowed her laptop, piled the cluttered paper, and stacked the uneven books. With a sling of her bag and a grip on her books, her tall frame stood before you, hips cocked to the side.
“Nursing. 23.” She repeated your details back to you, seemingly memorizing and rehearsing the information. “I’ll see you around then, 23. Enjoy the coffee.” The older woman pivoted and strode away, her heels tapping across cement.
Alright, you smile to yourself, satisfied. You took a sip of your coffee and finally dug into the croissant.
Kazuha sliced the back of your head with one last peek at you. You never noticed.
-
With a zip of your duffel bag, you neatly fold and store your scrub top and the casing of your stethoscope, ready to head out. Packing most of your things, you venture out of the clinic, eager to start that commute home. Your ID beeps at the employee monitor as you say goodbye to your clinical instructor, hoping to split before they have any “last-minute tasks” for you. With a dash across intersections, you quickly navigate past the rabble of people also rushing to head home. Like obstacles, the buzz of people filled your night commute; a group of teenagers on skateboards, similar college students probably on their 5th Red Bull, businessmen guffawing as they turn off work mode, and you — this aquamarine smear in a mosaic of muted clothes and the scattered bounces of car lights. Pulling out your phone, you cross off the last item of your to-do list and walk down the same street-lined shop, the last stretch before your commute.
You glance at the familiar shops, giving an occasional wave at the vendors you’ve personally gotten to know while studying. You see Mr. Lee, resident loudmouth teokbokki monger, as he shouts out his low prices over his steaming boiler of rice cakes. Just further down, Mrs. Bang, the no-nonsense street food mogul and local grandmother of all, fans the coals just under sizzling skewers and tin-foiled sweet potatoes. Across Mrs. Bang’s side, the Kim brothers chase off young kids staying too late at their neon-highlighted computer gaming lounge. You chuckle a bit, staring at this picture of comfort. Miles and miles of pavement and hours of train tracks separate your college from your house, but walking down this lane has always felt like home.
You walk a few more meters and come up to Fors again, its human vibrance sheltered by its grayscaled exterior. The circular window, an amber eye staring back into city streets and cloudless nights. Words and conversations spill through the glass door, decoding long enough whenever the door opens for a customer and vanishing as quickly as it shuts.
You were never a cafe guy.
You take a few strides past Fors, walk the crossing, and stand just before the steps leading down into the subway and, eventually, home. Something gnawed at the back of your mind.
You were never a cafe guy.
You could go back now, just to check. No harm done.
You were never a cafe guy.
It’s only a few steps. You check your wristwatch. 7:23. Two hours before the final train.
You were never a cafe guy.
You still had a lot of studying to do.
You were never a cafe guy.
You didn’t even have any money left.
You were never a cafe guy.
And you never will be, if they didn’t have…this.
Her hair is whimsical, flowing through the air in slow-motion curls and waves. A million love songs play as a part of her face, now comes into view. Her skin is bright and rose-cheeked and warmed by orange cafe beams, a stained-glass display of jaw-drop, devotion being the only appropriate response. Her lips are sweet and kind and lightly pouted, as if inviting a reply only lips can make. Her name flits from your mouth like a short kiss you never want to end, like those you make before leaving for work or wanting to stay in the moment. Cherubs softly sigh as she scans the room, gracing each customer with a momentary glimpse of her— those split-seconds freeze as you find yourself actively trying to pause the world and the hands of time, just to commit the image to memory. Her eyes shatter the last of your inhibitions as you physically feel weak in her gaze. Daggers dig into your torso, then your face, your beating heart bleeding true onto your sleeves. Your chest rises and falls as you try to steady your breathing from the sprint back.
“Hey,” you pipe up.
“Hey.” Her smile twinkled in the sea of strangers, like faraway lights beckoning you to come close. A smirk rises from her lips as her wolf cut cascades down her cheeks. You notice something.
“Hoop earrings.”
“Working eyes.” Kazuha’s scoff turns into a laugh as she turns her attention back to her books.
You come up to the empty seat across from her.
“Taken?”
Kazuha shrugs with a brow raised. “Maybe.”
Crap.
“Really?” You drop the bravado a bit, concerned.
She suddenly laughs, hand immediately coming up to cover her grin. She gestures with an open palm toward the empty seat.
You nod, pulling out the chair and taking a seat, face-to-face with Kazuha again. Well, face to book. A dark green leather-bound book with spidery gold lettering blocked her face from view – Environmental Law.
You lean back a bit, breathing finally evening out. Now, with you sitting down and thinking clearly, you realize the next step is unknown to you. She was right there, just a few feet from you, and yet the distance was canyon-like. You glance back down at your watch – 7:31. Maybe not too late to catch that train.
Her voice cuts through cafe conversation.
“So…” Environmental Law is lowered for a bit, her sharp eyes now coming into view. “You ran all the way here just to see me?”
“Just to see you?” you echoed sheepishly. “No, of course not. I was just, you know, walking. Then I realized I hadn’t eaten yet. So, I wanted to grab a bite to eat before that train ride home. So, yeah,” you finish with a shrug.
“Uh-huh.” Her eyes narrow for a bit as she scans you up and down. “You beelined here, didn’t you?”
You exhale and admit. “Yeah…”
A short giggle leaves her, but a smile stays. She closes up stupid Environmental Law and sets it aside, along with her other law books. She leans forward, her knit sweater accentuating her slim waist and graceful frame.
“Am I a bite to eat, 23?” Her voice suddenly takes on this sultry lowness. Blood rushes to your cheeks as you are hit by her sudden boldness and the obvious double entendre.
“No! I just mea—“
Kazuha bursts out a quick chuckle, her hand waving it off as she makes light of the conversation. “Jesus, chill out!” She smiles at you, satisfied with the jest.
“But did you? Beeline here, I mean?” She asks again, her voice rising with a slight tone of hope. The contrast jarred you.
For how brief you’ve known her, Kazuha’s voice was markedly unique. Hers was a symphony made by madmen — confident, clear, contradicting. Her voice could be light and easy, with a small rise in pitch. But then, it’d have this surprisingly low quality to it, like a sudden flip of sentience and suave — and Kazuha seemed to abuse that switch.
“You’re going to be dangerous, huh?”
“Pretty much,” she says with sly eyes and a smirk.
-
“So yeah, graduated, did ballet, hated it, got confused, then took time off.”
“Mhm…yeah.”
“Then got back here to take up law finally.”
“You liking it…?”
“Mmm…just a bit lower, please.” Kazuha’s fingers interlace in your hair, pushing you a bit lower, down her open legs.
You chuckle as you give a compensatory lick lower on her wetness, nearer her smooshed asscheeks. “I meant law,” you say in between pecks to her pussy lips and kisses to her smooth thighs propped up on your shoulders.
“Fuck yes!” Her grip tightens when you hit a spot right at the crease of her ass, using your tongue for all its worth. “Yeah, I’m-I’m liking it, yeah.” She giggles through strained breaths.
You hook your arm around her left thigh, come back down towards her pussy, and start rubbing the bud at the top of her splayed lips. Your tongue takes care of business nearer the entrance, lapping up the leaking lubricant.
“Fuck, yeah, right there! Yes, yes, right there!” Kazuha’s mouth widens as her neck arches to the ceiling of her quiet flat, her slender throat on display, moonlight streaking through her blinds, the strips of light dying to touch the scene.
You maintain the pace Kazuha liked, rubbing faster only at her clit. Heaven collapses onto you as her strong thighs smother you, the soft flesh clamping down the sides of your head.
“You’re dripping.” You can’t help but smile through suffocation.
“For you,” Kazuha breathes out your name, caressing your head with surprising sweetness. “Oh fuck!— You make me so wet.”
You grip her outer thighs, your fingers sinking into the plump skin, as you lower them from your head. Her pink pussy lips are spread for you, liquid still dripping down the ring of her ass. An idea pops into your head.
“Shit! Yes!” Kazuha’s head snaps back onto the pillow as your tongue trails from her asshole and up to her clit in one long, deep lick.
Your head finally comes into her view. “Really?” you coo, intrigued.
A laugh rises through her exhausted breath as she nods with a smile. “Mhm…” Her voice softens in erotic embarrassment.
You lean back down and, after a few more coaxes with your index and middle finger, her hips buck against your head as her sex twitches in orgasm. You drown in the erotic liquid and the salt in her sweat that was beading down her navel. You open your mouth wide, tongue flat in acceptance of the fruit of your hard work. The older woman’s legs wrap around your head, humping in response, as if trying to get another orgasm going.
With the added juices, you slide your tongue down her pussy lips and back onto her tight rim. She shrieks in delight with the repeated contact, the tip of your tongue circles and teasing entrance, baiting her for a bit before letting her cunt settle down from the high. You sit back up, satisfied with your work.
Kazuha lies there for a few moments, recollecting. Her tits bounce ever so slightly with each inhale and exhale. With a flick of a switch, her post-orgasm vulnerability vanishes, leaving only a deep need to retaliate. She rises to plant a few kisses on your neck before pulling you lower, her mouth now close to your ear.
“My turn.”
She adeptly reverses your position, with you now lying down on your back, your bare chest and boxers subjected to her gaze. Kazuha straddles you, the tent in your underwear lightly touching her pussy.
With you now on the bottom, Kazuha leans down, her lips seeking a target. First, they land on your cheek. Then the side of your mouth. Your jaw. Ear. Jugular. Pecs. Her face stops near your now-hardened nipple, eyes staring back up at you. Her open mouth breathes warmth onto you. Your cock twitches visibly at the possibility, now straining even harder. This catches her attention. Her sharp gaze widens.
“Really?” She echoes.
Fuck.
You admit with a slow nod.
Her pink tongue slowly darts out, dragging across the hard nub.
Sparks fly immediately. You jerk in pleasure, your torso rising on instinct, inadvertently bumping your nipple back onto her tongue. You squirm in the unexpected gratification, your breathing quickens as you grip tighter on her pastel blue bed sheets.
Hunger consumes her now. Her mouth latches down onto your left nipple, tongue coating the sensitive nerve endings with slick saliva. She licks repeatedly, around the nub, alternating clockwise and counter. She releases you with an open-mouthed gasp, her tongue coming down to poke and flick the nub lightly and minutely, just enough for you to feel the stimulation — and ultimately crave more.
A neural pathway must have short-circuited because the words that came out of your mouth surprised even you.
“The other one, too. Please…”
After a few last licks, Kazuha smirks up at you. She kisses your left nipple one last time as she shifts a bit, eager to focus her attention on your other erect bud. Saliva coats your right nipple now, Kazuha working hard to keep it moist. Seemingly satisfied, she now blows a cold breath onto it.
“Kazuha—shit!” Your abdomen flexes in response to the cool feeling. Your fingers find her hair, tightening and coiling a few strands before loosening. “Sorry,” you whisper.
“It’s alright,” she whispers back, a comforting smile manifests on her cheeks. “You feel good?” Her gaze is a different kind of sharp now — less edge, more eager. Less cut, more care.
You nod back, letting her continue. And she does. She brings her index and middle finger to your mouth now, eyes wide with this concentrated gaze, lashes batting and beckoning for you to give in.
You open up a bit, her fingers now brushing against your lips. Her lithe fingers dance around your tongue, sliding and slipping, making sure you taste her skin. Without breaking eye contact, she brings out her now-wet fingers and places them back on your left nipple. She traces circles around the center, cutting across occasionally, rubbing your nipple for you. You squirm again, the nerve endings overloaded with the pleasurable stimuli, your body needing to do something to try and regain control. But Kazuha was everything — consent and control. She coaxed and cooed whenever she tried new things, making sure you were alright with it. But the moment you said yes, her disposition steeled. She would fixate on those boundaries she could cross and punish you for it, building you up for your eventual breaking down.
With her fingers focusing on your left nipple, you finally see her plan: her mouth latches onto your nipple on the right. Surges of electricity course through your chest and up your spine, wetness now coating both of the nubs. You curse out in pleasure as you feel the onslaught of sensation, Kazuha pushing and driving you further. She giggles at your response, and you feel her mouth curl into a smile as she licks and sucks at your areola. Your hard dick flexes painfully, begging, pleading, for release as it strains against your boxers. Kazuha looks up at you with an erotic open mouth, her tongue flicking your nipple. Her eyes dart to your cock and back to you, debating whether to give you a journey into that one last frontier you’ve been wishing she’d venture to.
“Should I?” Her low voice inquires in faux apprehension.
Not able to take it anymore, you snap. “Kazuha, you fucking better,” you whisper.
She laughs in surprise, gasping at your boldness. Her eyes sharpen for a moment, but glaze over with this newfound warmth. Kazuha leans over, her gorgeous features becoming clearer. She lowers and gives you a sweet kiss, lips pressing against yours firmly, but not hungrily. The sentiment of the kiss caught you off guard, but you reciprocated. You close your eyes and let yourself go.
A few seconds deep into the liplock, Kazuha pulls back. Like magnets, your lips chase and follow her, both of you now sitting up, with her on your lap. You stare at her face again, this beauty staring back at you in the middle of her muted apartment. Once again, those seconds play in slow motion. The curl of her hair stops mid-fall; the blanket flows off her waist like linen waterfalls; her lips, like sweet fruit, accent the light pink tinge of her cheeks. Her body was on yours, graceful, toned, and fragile. You’ve begun hoarding those moments.
Her thumb caresses your cheek, and the world resumes its turning.
“Hey, you okay?” Her voice is sultry, sweet, almost a soft squeeze on your shoulder.
You hold her hand and rub her palm for a bit. “I can’t help but try and memorize every detail of your face…” You trail off.
“Eh?” she squeaks, her voice high now. She shifts back a bit. Much to your dismay, you sense the warmth in her fade a tad, that stinging facade of the Fors cafe girl flooding back in just a smidge.
“No, I just meant— You’re beautiful,” you stammer through, trying to save the conversation from, well, whatever it was you were trying to save it from. “From when I saw you the first time, you were just so— “
“God, shut up.”
Her lips collide with yours. You feel her smile through the kiss as her lower lip lightly bites yours. “Just lie back down, okay?” Kazuha says, with a flat palm, lowering you back onto the mattress.
Her nails run down lightly on your sternum and down to your stomach, your abs tightening suddenly at the mix of tingles and sensuality. Her fingers stop at the band of your boxers, just a few inches from the large tent, aggressively trying to find much-needed contact from Kazuha’s anything at this point. She hooks both thumbs as you also lift your hips a bit, helping her remove the last roadblock to your sexual resolution.
Your cock stands proudly, throbbing and flexing for the older woman, putting on a show so she could finally touch the whole you. You stare at Kazuha, her lips coming to a pout, eyebrows rising as she evaluates your length. You gulp.
“Relax. It’s bigger than I thought.” Kazuha croons. “Biggest I’ve had,” she mutters under her breath, quiet enough to escape you.
She wraps her fingers around the tense muscle, her cool skin grasping and pumping it slowly. Kazuha watches you, observing every squint, twitch, and groan she can make you perform for her. You moan out her name in weakness, the vowels slipping off your tongue like honey. With a quick swoop, both your lips reunite, her tongue slipping inside to tangle with yours. You share a hot breath as Kazuha pulls back, her nose nuzzles yours for a bit before she dives back in to make out with you. With a sigh, she pushes against you, kissing harder as she grows more insatiable, before peppering smooches down your neck and back onto your right nipple. Her tongue comes out, flicking at it once more before going to your other nipple. Her mouth licks in a constant circle while her other hand lies across your chest, finding your erect right nipple. Your head pounds from the overstimulation — a tongue and a hand on your sensitive pecs, her smooth left palm jerking your length, and a pair of eyes that stare up at you as you go insane. Waves upon waves of signals and zings course through your brain and spine, tingling and rushing through your veins as you grow increasingly numb and sensitive at the same time. You stiffen up unconsciously, puffing your chest and giving Kazuha more space to wreak havoc. You feel simultaneous wet corkscrews from both her tongue and her precum-lubricated hand.
Then, for whatever fucking reason, Kazuha speeds up.
“Zuha! Wait!” you croak with weak knees. A tightness starts in your abdomen and starts rising at the base of your steaming length. You buck erratically into Kazuha’s palm as she pumps you relentlessly. The pleasure builds, you feel this tightening in your core as you breathe quicker now.
“Zuha, please!” you manage to moan out, but the older woman jerks you off anyway. Her palm travels your length, squeezing and twisting, stopping just at the tip, and starting back down at the base. With quick strokes, you feel your orgasm building and rumbling along your length.
Then, nothing.
A pit forms in your stomach as your eyes widen, taking in a motionless Kazuha with a stupid, teasing, edging smirk. “Wait, no, fuck! Zuha, you can’t do thi—“
Her warm, silky mouth suddenly plunges on your thick length, tongue slipping down your shaft and reaching the base in one smooth stroke. With a quick maneuver, Kazuha lies between your spread knees, hands reaching up to stimulate your chest one last time before you eventually…
“Fuck!” You unknowingly grip Kazuha’s hair tighter as you slam her mouth deeper onto your meat, her nose meeting your navel. Your cock releases a shot of cum into her mouth, the pressure immediately releasing and gratifying. You hear a slight audible gag as your cock keeps going, dumping and firing off strands of white into her (very receptive) throat and pink tongue. Kazuha bobs for a few moments, making sure to pump every last rope out of you, before releasing your cock from the caverns of her mouth.
Kazuha sits back as she angles her face slightly upward. Her erotic clavicle and neck flex for a bit as she gulps down your seed. She sighs after swallowing, tired and satiated, for now.
The once-spinning apartment has now slowed to a stop, the blue bed and the ravishing woman now clear instead of a sex-hazed blur. Kazuha tucks a stray lock behind her ear, her eyes satisfied with the hurdles she just put you through. Your head collapses back down onto her pillow, sweat soaking just under your chin and neck.
The sheets crinkle and fold as Kazuha plops herself beside you to your left, your two naked bodies touching shoulder to shoulder.
You turn your head to look at her. She looks back.
“So…” she begins. “Zuha’s new.”
“Hey, you try moaning out a three-syllable name,” you retort.
“Oh, Kazuha! Fuck, yes, yes, Kazuha!” she yelps out suddenly, eyes closing in dramatized pleasure as your eyes widen. Her face returns to normal as she playfully shrugs. “Not so bad to me.”
You push her shoulder. “You’re so dumb.”
She squeals, laughing at you, her voice taking on a new pitch and decibel. Her eyes smile at you, a blade sheathed momentarily.
“I like it, though. ‘Zuha’.” She repeats the nickname, testing it out for herself and being satisfied.
You can’t help but beam. “Okay then.”
-
You stir awake to the sound of the bedroom door closing. Your eyes focus for a bit, taking in Kazuha’s apartment walls. A plant in the corner. Pictures of friends on a desk nearby. Pastel blue living room.
Kazuha smirking in the doorway.
She wore classy cat eye sunglasses perched atop her forehead, her round eyes visible and scanning. A pair of pearl earrings glint slightly in the panel of Sunday sunlight streaming through the window. She wore high-waist jeans, a simple white shirt, a brown wool cardigan, and boots. She held a cardboard cup holder, two coffee cups in stow — Fors coffee cups — and a paper bag with the cafe logo in her other hand.
You, on the other hand, were still naked, comfortably under her covers.
“You’re up early.” You rub your eyes for a bit.
“It’s 10.”
You whip around to find your phone. 10:07. You text back home that you were fine. Your gaze lowers to the coffee in her hand. She catches it.
“Yeah, figured I’d do something nice for you while you were knocked out.” Kazuha shrugs sarcastically, stepping away from the door and into the hallway leading to her living room.
“Thanks!” you call out.
“Just get dressed! I don’t want crumbs on my bed.”
You sigh a few more times, streaks of the midnight adventure seeping through your closed eyelids. You can’t help but smile, your heart feeling heavier and fuller.
This thing with Kazuha? It was thrilling. But at the same time, waking up in her apartment for the first time was calm and still — it was certain. Your heart races, not for the chase or the “game”, but for the serenity of something stable.
You hold yourself back a bit. This has to be superficial, you think. Who wouldn’t be infatuated with a natural beauty taking an interest? You’ve literally only known her for a day.
But you’ll be damned if you don’t try and stretch that into years.
You rise out of bed, slip on your boxers, and look around for your shirt. You rifle through your bag and through some of Kazuha’s clothes from last night — still nothing.
“You must really like cold coffee, huh?” Kazuha pipes up from the living room, impatient but teasing.
You sigh, walking out into the hallway, shirtless, bashfully covering yourself.
It didn’t take long for you to see exactly where the shirt went. You see Kazuha facing away from you, fiddling with her microwave, wearing your white shirt. It hung low on her frame, hugging her shoulders but flowing loosely down, giving her a boxy sort of look. Your eyes trail down the shirt and see her legs, extending gracefully. Kazuha was a tall woman, taller than average, standing just a few inches below you, but her legs went on for miles. Her hips curved sensually, followed by those strong thighs that wrapped around your head previously, then her smooth calves, all the way down to her feet. Her hips were cocked again, the swell of her ass accentuated by her black panties, as she was preoccupied with the appliance.
“You had pants on a while ago.”
“Perceptive.” She snorts. “More comfortable this way.”
You hear a metallic clang and the closing of a microwave door. The appliance beeps, its internal timer being set before a constant drone picks up as it stirs to life.
“I expected shorts but not…” You can’t help but ogle the curves of her thighs as they transition to her legs. You slightly drool at the sight.
“Stop staring and take a seat.” She tilts her head to look back, her eyes meeting yours.
You scoot over to her kitchen area, taking a seat on the corner nearest a window. On the table are the two coffees she bought from Fors, you take off their tops, trying to discern which one was yours. You place the latte near you and Kazuha’s americano on her side of the table. With a ping from the microwave, Kazuha brings a tray over — two croissants. She plops the pastries in the middle of the table, taking a seat across from you. You stare at her a bit before deciding to inch your chair closer to her side. You were now sitting to her left.
“There’s enough room for both of us, c’mon.” She bumps your shoulder playfully.
“I know. Just wanted to be closer.” You shrug, sheepishly.
“You’re a sap.” She chuckles briefly as she nudges the tray of croissants.
“Thanks, Zuha.” You lean over to try to kiss her cheek.
She clicks her tongue as your lips land on her palm instead. “Eat.”
“Bossy.”
“Insisting,” she corrects.
You pick up a croissant, take a bite of the flaky pointed end, place it back on the tray, and chew in front of her.
“Happy?” you ask through munches.
“Jesus, just eat!” she whines with a small laugh, hitting you on your shoulder.
“You don’t really talk much, huh?” you say with a sip of coffee.
“You don’t really stay quiet much, huh?” Her nose scrunches as she acts irritated.
“Not in my nature. Learned that a long time ago.” You shrug.
She sighs as she looks into your eyes, a small smirk plastered on her face. “I rarely talk to people, let alone have breakfast with them. So I stay quiet most of the time.”
“So, is this a first for you?”
“Not exactly. Just…the first time in a long while.”
“I see.” You tap your fingers a bit on her table. A few silent seconds pass. But you can’t help yourself. “How’re you liking it so far?”
“You’re really annoying, do you know that?” She replies snarkily.
“Wow, tell me how you really feel. Am I right?” you chuckle, poking her side a bit.
“And you’re really stupid.”
“That I can accept a bit.”
She laughs at you, her hand reaching up to cup your cheek. Instinctively, it seems.
“But,” Kazuha thinks hard for a bit. “…you’re charming,” she finishes honestly.
Your chest pounds as her hand comes into contact with the side of your face. Your stomach feels full, butterflies fluttering and drifting up your throat, trying to crawl out of your mouth in the form of stutters and stammers. Your brain kicks into overdrive again, trying to encode the sight before you.
Her nose was adorable, the folds on her bridge on the verge of scrunching. The corner of her lips rose, a smirk about to form again. Her lashes batted, as her eyes were softer now, their edge now an old friend you dare not reunite with.
Kazuha senses what you were doing; her nose now actually scrunches in amusement before smoothing, like reflex suppressed. She rolls her eyes and averts her gaze as she scoffs, a hint of light pink appearing on her cheeks. Her hand lowers from your cheek, landing back on the table, near her coffee cup.
“So…” you cough a bit. “I thought you hated ballet.” You nod across the kitchen, motioning towards a wall in the living room. On it, hung a picture of a younger Kazuha, mid-pirouette.
Kazuha follows your gaze and clicks her tongue. “Ah. Yeah. I think it’s all I’ve ever known, and I don’t really have any other pictures.” A somber quality to her voice reached you.
“Why’d you do it, anyway?”
“Well, my father was a prestigious man.” Kazuha puts on a fake gruff voice. “Only the best for my little girl. The best schools, the best clothes, the best lessons. It was either the best or nothing at all.” Kazuha laughs it off, but continues. “I liked it at first. Then, I got confused. Did I like it? Or did my dad like it, so I liked it too? Maybe decided I didn’t like it. Told him about it. He obviously wasn't happy. We stop talking. I moved away. Next thing I know, I’m back here, all dressed in black, staring at his casket being lowered.”
Shame fills you. “Oh no, Zuha. Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t even mean to…” You wrap an arm around her, and her head rests on your shoulder.
“No, I know. It’s alright.” Her voice stiffens a bit, trying to play it tough. “It’s just not really a conversation over coffee.”
You nod silently as your thumb strokes her shoulder.
Kazuha blurts out, the moroseness in her now absent. “I was close to getting married once.”
“Excuse me?” you gasp, shock evident in your voice.
“I know, right? Had a ring too!” she lays her palm flat, staring at the bare space the ring used to inhabit. “But stuff happened, so I don’t really go for that anymore— the commitment thing.” Her voice softens as she trails off.
“Oh.”
A few awkward minutes pass by without a word being uttered.
Your heart beats a little bit faster, nervous and ashamed, for even yearning a little bit. Her eyes wander upwards, trying to catch your expression.
“Hey, look, this was—“
You cut her off. “So! You like croissants too?” you cough, bypassing that conversation for now. You prod at both of your croissants with a fork.
Kazuha pouts but nods slowly. “Uh, yeah. Croissants, pastries, bread, in general.” Kazuha eyes you but plays along, her voice sullen now.
Given where you are in your life now, you’ve always appreciated honesty. Playing social games has been a pain, so to speak, and you’ve always made it a point to be clear. Now, you reassess.
So you nod.
And then you sigh.
And then you speak up.
“Look, Kazuha. This…” You motion to both of you. “Don’t you want to try?”
Kazuha breathes deeply, the conflict obvious in her brows. “Dating?”
“We don’t have to go out all the time! I’ve got school, I know you’ve got law. We can just, y’know, hang out— like see each other at the end of the day.”
“But—“
“And, I’ll respect your time. If you just wanna stay here and not meet up, I’ll understand.”
With pursed lips, Kazuha slightly nods, still trying to think about the proposition.
“What about the sex?” she inquires innocently, despite the subject matter.
“Oh. No, no, we don’t have to. I’m fine without it.”
Kazuha stifles a laugh, a smile coming back to her cheeks, her face brightening now.
“You’ll be fine without it?” she says with a roll of her eyes, a brow sharply rising now.
You blush suddenly. “I mean, yeah. I don’t want to pressure you.”
“You really are a sap,” Kazuha confirms. There was a certain sweetness to her voice, like a slow realization of you.
Her face is a few inches from yours. You’re still shoulder-to-shoulder. The seconds tick by as millennia. You study her face in the pause.
Her eyebrows.
That’s what made her gaze so sharp. Those eyebrows that furrow, arch, or dip with every expression passing through her. They’re angled when she’s thinking, pointed when she’s scoffing, and rounded whenever her nose scrunches. Together with her eyes, her brows complete her blade.
The ambient sounds of Kazuha’s flat unwarp as temporal flow is restored. Her eyes move minutely across your face, and you feel small cuts on your lip.
“What is it?” you whisper.
“I’m worse, y’know, when we become closer. You just don’t know me yet,” she whispers back.
“Give me a chance to then.”
Your lips meet again that morning in her flat.
-
A week passes by after that day. Then a month. And then three. And, true enough, you’ve consistently met up with Zuha. You’d catch up with her after her classes, she’d sometimes wait after you clocked out, or you’d just stop by her flat. You’ve settled into that familiar routine, taking into account your commute time and all that. Although you have spent many a night at Zuha’s place, too, when she points out how you’ll only be cramped in that train ride (albeit while her lips are on you). But, all in all, Zuha was a part of your day.
And yet, she remained mysterious.
You’ve been observing her on the days you spent time together in her apartment. And, honestly, you felt perplexed.
Zuha was the type of person who had this cold exterior, especially when it came to her studies, but at the same time bawled over her 7th watch of The Lion King (getting through Mufasa’s death was always a trip through all the stages of grief).
She’d keep all her notes and digests organized, but she’d highlight like a maniac afterward — a mosaic of colors, lines, arrows, offshoot notes, and tangent case references. It was incomprehensible, but Kazuha would read them and judge you for not understanding.
She’d shut down most jokes you make, rebutting and parrying with a deadpan expression, but then she’d drop a few dad jokes, grin sweetly, and then assert that she’s just funnier than you.
She’s clumsy, but only once. She’s precise in a way that ensures she won’t make the same mistake twice. She mispronounces words, looks them up on Google, and then she practices. She overcooks a dish, tries again angrily, and then proudly serves it when she gets it right. She knocks over furniture sometimes, but then arranges them in a way that allows her to perform chaînés across her apartment.
Which brings you to ballet.
Each movement of hers seemed like a calculated performance. An afternoon at hers was a quiet recital just for you. You’d see ballet in everything she did — the way she’d gracefully bend to pick up a dropped spoon, or the way her lines extend when you stare at her putting on jeans, or the way she’d unscrunch her nose and tuck a strand of hair neatly behind her ear. You’ve been wondering whether she still likes ballet. You’d watch her and just be stuck.
She’d catch you staring sometimes, too. You felt it whenever you got cut. She would raise an eyebrow, a small, confused smirk forming. Then a roll of the eyes. A rare middle finger. But most commonly a blush.
Was the age gap between you and her apparent? Surprisingly no. Both of your personalities jived, and Zuha never made a point of talking down to you, and you always respected her whenever she knew something you didn’t. Being with her was refreshing. She had an impulsiveness about her that was such a thrill ride, but then you’d also have these deeply meaningful conversations that went on for ages. She was the perfect woman, in addition to being the perfect girlfriend.
And, you’ve had girlfriends before, but it was always the high school crash-and-burn ones. It was never a “go straight to their place after school to cook dinner” type. I mean, you’ve never even introduced anybody to your parents.
Not until your 10th night staying over at Zuha’s flat.
-
“You never told us it was a girl!” Your mom squealed on the other side of the video call. All this time, you’ve told her you’re staying over at a friend’s but never bothered to specify a girl. But then, Zuha accidentally walked behind you a few minutes ago, her feminine form obvious through the video. Your mom was now seated and audibly excited.
From the background, you hear your dad laugh. “So that’s where he’s been!”
“Yes, okay, she’s a girl. But that’s enough! I’m just staying over here to bypass the stupid commute times!” You whine, uncharacteristically.
Zuha sat in front of you and to the right, sitting just outside of the phone’s view.
“Remember when you kept sneaking in to stay over, ‘hon?” Your mom sighs, reminiscing.
“Yeah, we were around his age then, too, ‘hon,” your parents laugh. Zuha is dying, her stomach flexing as she giggles silently.
“Well, where is she? Show her to us!” Your mom whines, insisting.
“Oh, I don’t know, Mom. She’s kinda bu—“
“Wait!” Zuha protests, suddenly and swiftly walks over behind the couch to lean over your shoulder. Her face now comes into view and on camera.
“Oh, honey. She is gorgeous.” Your mom gasps in shock. “Wow.”
Zuha giggles lightly and greets your parents respectfully.
Your dad now walks over, puts an arm around your mom, and chuckles. “Kazuha, please, drop the honorifics. At this point, we’re just glad you’re our son’s girlfriend. Welcome to the family!”
You fake a yawn. “O-kay, guys! It’s getting pretty late, we should probably—“
“No! I want to keep talking to them!” Zuha’s voice rises, her pearly whites widely on display as she teases you. Her nose scrunches momentarily. You mentally take note of it.
You hear defiant cries from your phone, too.
“Christ, fine, fine!” You hand your phone and walk over to the kitchen to prepare a side dish. Zuha stays behind, entertaining your folks with a couple of stories about you. After having their fill, their conversations shift from you to her: where she came from, her childhood, her hobbies, and then finally, ballet.
Your ears (and your parents') perk up as soon as you hear Zuha talking about her old ballet school, how strict the recitals were, and how dedicated her classmates were. You feel the tinge of joy Zuha had for ballet, and you couldn’t help but gush at her passion. You hear your parents exclaim as they look up Zuha on their cellphones, surprised to see how much of a slight celebrity Zuha is.
And it was true, shortly after your first morning together, you looked her up. And, real enough, Zuha had her own Wikipedia page and YouTube videos with thousands of views. She was an astonishing performer. Her lines were clean, graceful, and full of training. Interestingly, you’d also sometimes catch her watching her old recitals. She’d tuck them away whenever you got close, laughing shyly, so you never really got around to asking her about it.
So, conversation aside, you had to focus on dinner. You fix up a small salad for a few minutes and set it down on the table beside the sukiyaki Zuha cooked. You motion over to her, she nods, and says goodbye to your parents, handing you back your phone before sitting down at the table. You check back on the video call.
“Alright, guys, you’ve terrorized me enough.” You joke.
“She’s a keeper, honey.” Your mom whispers sweetly.
You look up from your phone and see Zuha preparing a plate for you first, oblivious to what your mom just said.
“I know, Mom. She is.” Your heart swells.
“Okay then, just text us every time you’ll stay over there, alright?”
“Mhm, I will. I promise.”
“And use protection!” Your dad calls out in the background.
“Go to bed, Dad!”
The video ends, and you awkwardly chuckle, tucking away your phone. Zuha inches her chair closer to the table, waiting for you.
“So.” You finally take a seat in front of Zuha.
“So.”
“Did you hear any of that?” You wince a bit.
“Hear what?”
You shake your head as you release a sigh, laughing at the whole situation. “I’m sorry, Zuha. They just get excited from time to time.”
“Oh no, don’t be. They’re cute. They really love you.”
“Yeah, I do too,” you say, satisfied. “Thanks for being kind to them.”
“Of course.” She lets go of her fork for a bit to take your hand, her thumb rubbing your outer palm.
After a few silent stares, both of you start eating, eager to just dig in and finally head to bed.
The older woman pipes up suddenly, mouth half full. “Gotta say sorry to your dad, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh. ‘Cause we won’t use protection tonight.”
-
Your relationship had its ups and downs, too, no doubt about that. You’d argue, but she had her ways, and you had your own ways of ensuring it never got too out of hand (Bread. It was bread.) or too long (Not going to bed mad, and all that).
Fighting was normal. Fighting with Zuha, however, was not. Fighting with Zuha was hard. When she knew she was right (and that was most of the time), she was bulletproof. She was stubborn, argumentative, and smug. She’d have these three absolutely solid main points, a dozen supporting statements, and a recommendation or two on how you could change your behavior. It was incredible, really, peeling back a layer to envision how she was in her classes.
You’d try arguing back, but she was quicker. A stern “no” and you’d immediately fold. You couldn’t get a word in, even if you tried.
Which made you really savor those moments you were right.
-
So, the crux of the problem was that Zuha thought you were, and you quote, “at times too taciturn, apprehensive, and slow to move”, end quote.
“I told you to see to it already. Did you listen? No. You never do.” She rolled her eyes but remained planted in front of you, arm crossed, eyebrows jagged and sharp as ever.
“Okay, Zuha, that’s a bit unfair. I swear, I gave them to you. I bought them, then gave them to you right after.”
“Absolutely not. If I had them, then we'd already be there in the damn cinema!”
Yes, this argument was about tickets. To an animated movie. About talking animals.
“No! I’m absolutely sure I gave them to you. I triple checked those tickets, Zuha. I know how much you looked forward to the movie, so I made sure not to mess up.”
“So where are the tickets, then?”
“Zuha, I don’t know. I gave them to you, and that’s the last time I saw them.”
“The absolute negligence.” She muttered to herself, shaking her head and walking toward the other side of the living room.
“Hey, c’mon. We can just stream it. I’m sure a couple of pirate sites already have it up. Let’s calm—“
You heard the metallic hum of her gaze being unsheathed. “Calm down? You wanna run that by me again?”
“Shutting up.” You mumbled.
With a few careful strides and a sidestep, you avoided the fuming area that is Zuha and got to the bedroom. Looking to lie down for a bit and just zone out, you hauled the large clothes pile that Zuha always kept cluttered. You grabbed a couple of shirts and blouses, set aside the heavy leather coats, and hung a couple of the jeans and trousers she had worn in the past few days.
Then, something fell out.
You hung the jeans by the belt loop and looked around. And there it was. On the carpeted floor.
Two obviously-folded movie tickets. From her pants. Your face melted into a smile as memories of the day you gave it to her flooded back.
“Zuha!”
“What?” A shout.
“Come here for a minute.”
You heard her steps bounding down the hall.
Her eyebrows were weaponized, her graze fresh off the grindstone.
“Look what I found.” You sat on the bed, leaned, and crossed your arms. Smug.
Her blade swung wide and almost caught your neck. But they landed on the tickets on the floor.
“Now, for my cross-exam, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, could you tell me what those are?”
Zuha was frozen speechless, her tongue poking the side of her cheek now. “You don’t cross-examine the jury, smart ass.”
You clicked your tongue a few times. “Zip it, Nakamura. I have the floor. Now what, pray tell, are those you see on the floor? Are they movie tickets?”
“You could have put those there to—“
“Now, now, if I remember correctly,” you put on a fake, wondering tone amidst your lawyerly bravado, “you must only respond with a yes or a no during the cross-examination.”
She scoffs, eyes darting around the room. “Yes, they’re movie tickets.”
“And those pants are yours, correct?”
“Yes.” She grumbles.
“So were you, or were you not, the latest recipient of said tickets?”
Silence.
“Ms. Nakamura, I’m gonna need an answer from you.”
“Ugh, fine! Fine, fine! I had them last then. It’s my fault we couldn’t go.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.” You took a bow at the four walls of her room and the imaginary spectators of your stupendous legal victory.
You poked Zuha in the side. “How’s that?”
“I’m giving it to you this once.”
“Giving what?”
“The satisfaction of proving me wrong.”
You reveled in the honor. “Christ.” You took a step back, letting the privilege sink in. “This is the best day of my life.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get you next time.”
“Is this what law school’s like? It’s kinda easy, don’t you think?”
“Alright. I take it back. You’re done. Shut the fuck up.” Her voice was harsher now.
“Shutting up.”
“Sit down.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” The satisfaction was stripped away instantaneously. Your obedience and your “taciturnity” were now the most salient parts of you once again.
Standing in front of you, Zuha placed both hands on your shoulders, locking eyes with you.
“Z-Zuha?” You gulped.
“Look. I’m sorry for calling you negligent. Or that you don’t listen. That’s not true.”
Your hands found her waist on instinct, rubbing her sides sweetly. “Hey. That’s alright. I know you really wanted to catch that movie.”
“Let me make it up to you, then.” Her fingers trailed along the length of your arms and stopped at your knees. With her eyes fixed on yours, she got on her knees, tantalizingly slow, positioning herself between your legs. Her hands crept up and down your thigh, feeling the soft material of your baggy shorts. Eventually, her palms wound up in between your legs, settling on your clothed bulge, growing and stiffening.
Fighting with her was hard. But you were right where you wanted to be.
-
To add on to your list of perplexities, Zuha was a total freak despite the exceptional discipline she exhibits when it comes to studying, cooking, or any other area in life. Hell, she was even more adventurous than you. (But to be fair, you were pretty vanilla, so the bar is already low.) You were already pretty exploratory, letting her do the nipple thing, but then Zuha took it further.
It started with a few slaps on her ass, then the occasional “put a finger in it” from her, and then your tongue. But now, most of the time you go out with her ends up in “alleyway ass-play”, as you refer to it in your mind.
When the mood struck her, you’d know. She was unbelievably teasing with it too — a small raise in her eyebrow, pupils darting to an unseen corner, a bump of her shoulder. Then she’d amp it up with a small kiss on your cheek, nails lightly digging into your bicep, deep whiffs around your neck, or, if unheard, a moan of your name. Then, with discreet shuffles, you’d be on your knees, tongue worshipping Zuha’s ass.
You figured you must have been totally whipped, always letting her reach orgasm and delaying yours until you guys got home. But every time, you’d still put an arm around her and kiss the top of her head sweetly. It was Zuha — of course, it was fine.
-
For example, this one time, you waited outside the Law building, tucking your clinical notes inside a clipboard to prepare for tomorrow’s case presentations. You adjusted your scrub pants a bit, allowing your top to finally untuck. You heaved a sigh, a 12-hour shift evident in the ache of your shoulders and neck. You rubbed your eyes and did a few stretches, willing the fatigue to leave your body before Zuha sees you. With a few minutes left before 5:30, you finally sat down on the building steps with your back to the door, eyes heavy with sleep (or lack thereof).
With a scuffle and the sound of metal turning, you heard the conversations of the law students finally seeping through. An onslaught of corporate attire swarmed you — heels clacked, oxfords tapped, ties swished, and pants swooped. Future lawyers, entranced in their own legal world, threw around jargon, judicial loopholes, and jurisprudence issues, all while flowing down the steps. They courteously gave you a wide berth (probably resonating with that same tired look you had) as you waited for Zuha. The flock thinned out soon enough as the remaining stragglers trailed off away from the steps. You looked around, slightly worried, as the campus became increasingly sparse. But, with your feet weighing a million, you stayed sitting for a few more peaceful minutes.
“You better not be falling asleep.”
Zuha.
You stood up to turn around, following her voice. The ache in your joints dissipated instantaneously as your pulse quickened.
“'Cause I definitely can’t carry you home.”
There she was.
She stood at the top of the steps, with a strong amount of swagger, wearing this deep blue three-piece suede suit. She wore black tapered high-heeled boots, accentuating her long, slender stature. Her fair skin glowed with the contrast of the suit’s color, making her presence literally illuminating. Her neck was fully on show, ditching the traditional collared polo top and only wearing the blue vest. Her nails were colored a dark red, beautifully manicured and shaped, as her hand lay on her cocked hip. Her eyes twinkled alongside her earrings, like stars beginning to show in the waning sun. And her brow, proudly raised and basking in your jaw drop and ogle. Her silhouette was sharp, slender, and confident, armed with her sling bag and a clipboard containing the structure of her defense.
The surge of law students prior has been erased from your memory; they could never compare with what you were seeing. You continued to stare, speechless, but remembering — encoding. Zuha did tell you about the mock trial and how they all had to dress formally to simulate real court proceedings, but you never expected…this. You swooned internally, feeling weak in the knees and in her gaze.
Zuha scoffed playfully, shooting a finger gun. “Hey. I take it you’re speechless? I know, I know, I clean up pretty nice, if I do say so myse—“
“You’re breathtaking.”
Her eyes widened as she stopped fronting. A blush crept up her neck and on her cheeks. She tucked a stray hair back behind her ears.
“Oh. I mean, I was just kidding…” Zuha trailed off.
“No, I mean it.” You climbed up one step closer. “You’re absolutely breathtaking…”
You felt cuts across your body and your face as Zuha stared back, shy and nervous and on guard.
“Come on, it was just the makeup. And these clothes were really just lying around unused.” She excused herself.
“Zuha.”
“Plus, you see me all the time. Without all the makeup and the jewelry and all that.” Her eyes avoided your gaze now as you stood with her atop the steps.
“Zuha.”
“What…?” She spoke in a small voice, seemingly terrified of what you had to say — the confident law student, mortified at the notion.
“I mean it. You really are— and not just today, but all the time.” You cupped her cheek. “I am so in love with you.”
Zuha breathed out, glassy eyes taking you in, a pout suddenly forming. After a beat, she finally leaned in to kiss you, crumpling your shirt to pull you in. You kissed back, holding both sides of her face as she hummed in glee. Her hands trailed up to your shoulders, criss-crossing just behind your neck as you pulled her closer by the waist now, deepening the kiss. You felt her lips curve into a smile as she pulled back slightly to stare at you, her gaze soft and sweet.
Zuha whispered out a joke. “So this is all it took for you to kiss me like that, huh?”
“I mean, you’re gorgeous all the time.” You chuckled and planted a peck on her lips. “But yeah, you look great in that suit. Jesus.”
“Hey.” Her thumb brushed along your cheek. “I appreciate you. I know I’m weird with affection, but I’m trying. It’s okay when it’s you.”
You smiled lightly as you held her gaze. “I’m yours, Zuha. No way around it.” You shrugged.
She leaned in again, and you pursed your lips on instinct. But this time, she tilted your head down, planting a kiss on your forehead. You blushed at the unfamiliar gesture as you coughed awkwardly.
“So how’d the trial go?” You asked Zuha as you both finally stepped down and away from the Law building, your arms linking.
“Yeah, it went great! We all had a chance to speak before the bar, and it all went smoothly. My notes really came in handy with the defense, what with all the different cases I got to reference.”
Zuha then went off on a tangent on how the mock trial works and how they’d be scored. She brought up different parts of the courtroom and what role they played in legal proceedings, how a cross-examination was supposed to be done, and why technicalities are basically bulletproof if a law hasn’t been amended yet. You nodded along to her voice, half listening and half swooning as her lips moved.
“…so we really had no choice but to call for a short recess just to finally get the defense straight.” Zuha finally finished.
Zuha lagged for a moment, quietly registering what you said. Then she bumped your shoulder appreciatively. “Thanks. I’m really liking it, too.”
Both of you finally reached a T-junction, with the road extending on both your left and right. A few convenience stores lined the street as the nightlife started to grow.
“Did you want to eat something before we go? Or just share the pint of ice cream we have at home?”
“That pint sounds kinda tempting, but that’s not dinner. Hey, I thought you were Mr. Health Guy, out here making people’s lives healthier?” She chided with a smile, poking at your scrub pants.
“Hey, I’m off the clock!” You whined.
Zuha thought for a moment, but her eyes ultimately landed back on you. Something was off.
“Hey, did you really like this suit?” She raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Of course. It fits you perfectly, Zuha.” You answered slowly, suspicious of the sudden question.
Her eyes look past you, in between the different convenience stores. Her grip on your forearm tightened slightly.
“Do you wanna take it off me?”
“Dammit, Zuha, I knew it!”
“Come on. We’ll be quick.”
“We’ll be caught.”
“We’ll be quiet,” Zuha affirmed, steadfast. Her legs extended as she dragged you into a small passageway just beside a store. The path was dimly lit (of course) with only a blinking lamp post on the far end.
“Plus…” Zuha started as she pulled you into the shadows, her arms squeezing both your shoulders. “It’s not for me.”
“What do you mean?” You whispered.
Zuha turned around, planting both palms on the brick wall of the building. She arched her back, the suit jacket trailing off her sides, showing off the round shape of her ass. The suede shimmered slightly, drawing lines where her legs and juicy thighs met the outline of her butt. Your meat suddenly flexed in anticipation.
“As a thank you. For waiting for me.” She said with a bite of her lip. “And for everything else.”
You approached her slowly, your hand coming in contact with her waist. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Think of it as payment. For the times I only let you get me off.”
“You’re crazy.” You said, head leaning in to take a whiff of her neck.
Zuha moaned at the proximal contact. You moved both your hands to hug around her waist, feeling the sleek material of her vest. You made a slight U-turn, fingers trailing upwards to cup her chest as you kissed the spot below her ear. You finally closed the distance with the tent poking through your pants as you brushed your bulge at the cleft of her asscheeks.
“Mmm, fuck, that for me?”
“I’m yours.” Your right hand squeezed her tit as your left pushed against her fit stomach, bringing her whole arched body closer to you. Your cock rubbed against the material of your scrub pants, grinding against her plump ass and poking in between from time to time. You leaned against her shoulder, face buried in her fragrant vanilla-shampooed hair, grunting as you finally had your way with her.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry for leaving you— fuck— hanging all the time.” Her palm crumpled the hair on the back of your head as she turned slightly to kiss your cheek. You ground your cock harder against her, gripping her flesh tighter as if she’ll disappear right before you orgasm. You moaned in unison as you humped her. But you needed more. With a quick release, you pulled down your scrub pants and boxers, exposing your straining dick to the night air. You brought your shaft closer as you humped along the groove of her ass.
“Fuck, did you take it out? Oh God, fuck, yes, that’s so fucking hot. I can feel how hard you are.” The older woman mewled as her hair became disheveled, the thought of your bare cock rubbing against her ass exhilarating her to a new height.
The soft feel of the suede and the roundness of her butt were the perfect velvet cushion to hump and grind against as you held her in place. Beads of pre-cum slicked the length of your shaft, making your strokes extra slippery and smooth. Zuha cried and whimpered your name as she felt your entire length run between her cheeks. You drove your meat further, alternating between a long stroke and a deep push between her thighs. You crept both of your hands underneath her vest, feeling for the bottom of her bra. You snuck a couple fingers in, rubbing and pinching at her hardened peaks.
“Holy fuck, you’re amazing. Yes, yes, oh God yes, just like that, just like that.” Her fingers tightened around your hair.
With a sudden bang and the sound of hollow plastic falling, both of you froze. Your eyes panicked, darting to the end of the passageway where the convenience store was. A cat had knocked over several empty water jugs and plastic gallons of oil. A bell rang, and the store owner stared at the ruckus, a frustrated cry accompanying his irritated hair scratch.
He was now facing the alley.
Toward the both of you.
Any closer — any noisier — and you’d both be caught.
“Hey, wait, wait,” Zuha says with slight concern.
You buried your face back in her hair, adrenaline flowing as your dick did most of the thinking. You gave her a hump.
Zuha lightly smacked your cheek. “Hey, c’mon!” She snapped at you quietly.
But you didn’t listen. You grinded against her more aggressively now, your dick smacking her ass.
“Fuck!” Zuha croaks out.
The store owner’s head snapped towards the alley. You saw him squint, trying to make sense of the shadows.
“Fucking stop it, I swear.” Zuha released a warning alongside a breathy moan.
You brought one of your hands to her mouth, covering her lips but leaving her nose. You continued grinding now, slowly but surely, savoring the unexpected audience. Zuha seemed to notice this too; her complaints now coos and moans into your hand.
The store owner shook his head and finally knelt down to fix the spilled containers. He headed back in shortly after.
Zuha smacked your shoulder this time. “You really are an idiot, huh?”
You held her hip with one hand now, watching your shaft bump up against the blue velvet material. You brought your other hand to her throat and pulled her back towards you, your chest and cock now pressing flush against her.
“God, you’re lucky I like you.” She breathed out, turning her head to the side to meet your lips as you mashed your member against her.
“I like you a lot, Zuha.” You murmured against her temple, hugging her a bit harder, a bit of sentiment breaking through the sex-fueled cracks of your resolve.
“Yeah? I bet you do.” Her hold on your hair loosened as her hand traveled downward, finding your thick rod. She stroked it a few times, spreading precum along the length. “Mmm, fuck, you’re so big. You feel good?”
“God, fuck yes.” You brought her hand back up to your hair as you took charge, breathing in the scent of her sweat as you angled her face towards you. Zuha gasped out an open-mouthed moan, feeling you drive your erection further between her thick ass. You shove your tongue in her mouth as she groans out your name, meeting her in a raspy and sloppy kiss.
You rubbed back against her harder, feeling the rising pressure in your groin just steaming to get out. She responded in kind, meeting your humps halfway, colliding against you with the velvet feel of her pants.
“Where do you wanna cum?” She rasped out.
“M-mouth..?” You requested through clenched teeth.
“Fuck.” Zuha said with an accidental gasp. “Great choice.”
You humped erratically now, the piston-like rhythm now lost to impending release. Zuha’s body rocks alongside yours as she welcomes the roughness. After a few awkward humps and grinds, you feel a surge travel up from the base of your cock to the tip, your meat flexes as you finally groan out in pleasure completed.
“Cumming?”
“Mhm, y-yeah.”
You leaned back a bit, hand wrapping your cock to keep the stimulation going. Zuha quickly whipped around and crouched, hands on both your thighs, as she opened her mouth. You leaned forward a bit, tip now coming in contact with her tongue. The LED lamp’s light crawled through the shadows from the end of the alley, lighting up Zuha’s clear face as she looked up at you while steadying herself.
You stared at Zuha, at the stray lock of hair that traveled down her face, the slightly scuffed suede suit now a juxtaposition to the raunchy situation you were both in, and her delicate lips now parted to accept your release. You stroked yourself faster, groaning as your knees shuddered and spine tingled, until you finally climaxed. You spurted out a rope of cum, shooting half into Zuha’s mouth and up diagonally to her right cheek. You let out a strained growl, another wave shooting out and splattering on her tongue, the orgasm hitting you way harder than expected. Zuha stroked it for you, aiding you in emptying your balls deeper into her mouth. She helped you ride out your orgasm, catching each drop with care.
With a gulp, she smirked. “Well?”
“Fuck— thank you.” You gulped, exhausted and palpitating, your cock still out.
She giggled before rising from the cement to pat you on the chest. Her hand slid up to the side of your face as she leaned in to plant a kiss on your cheek.
“Of course.” She cooed, her thumb stroking your jaw gently.
You zipped up awkwardly, patting down the crumples and folds of your shirt. “So now do you wanna go home?”
-
Zuha could be confusing at times, but in the short span you’ve known her, you were aware that your feelings had grown ever clearer — you already loved her. It was easy, exciting, and expected.
Sure, Zuha was a woman of opposites within herself, but with you, it was different. You got to fill in whatever gaps Zuha had, and you enjoyed the “work”, so to speak.
You’d ease tightly-wound nights she spent studying with instant cocoa and a few back rubs. Funnily enough, you could now also recall off the top of your head different cases she’d said mattered to her defense. You’d have breakfast ready for her whenever you had to leave her apartment early, and you’d be there in the evening, picking up scattered clothes she’d be too tired to pick up.
And she filled you, too.
Zuha was quick with a quiz or two on your recent lessons and cases. She’d roleplay as different patients with varying diagnoses, practicing how quick you could diagnose and plan interventions. On your down times, she’d buy you more bread, masking the sentiment with a flashy grin, but secretly making sure you never forgot to eat. She’d click her tongue and fume for a moment whenever you food-stained your shirt, but you would always catch her preparing the washing machine right after. Her age is apparent in those moments.
You already loved Zuha, but telling her was a different thing altogether. You’ve noticed it for a long time, how she would dodge conversations about it, simply skirt around the topic, or silence you with a kiss. She never talked about love, or loving, or falling in love, and so you’ve always chalked it up to her not being used to it, what with her alleged marriage (you were still very curious about that) not being the best and how she’s never really needed to love another. You knew she was trying to open herself up, and you would be there every step of the way.
However, you also knew this thing with Zuha was different. It had to be. Sure, it’s only been a couple of months, but forehead kisses and buying groceries together seemed to convey otherwise. You’ve already considered Zuha’s flat your place too, and she wouldn’t have it any other way either. You’ve already shared countless nights together — snoring, arguing, or kissing. If that wasn’t love, then you don’t know what the hell you’ve been doing with her all this time.
And so, since it was now also your 4th month together, you planned to tell her tonight.
-
With a click of your phone, you send a reply to Zuha, reminding her to stay safe on her way home.
She texts back a smiley face with sunglasses and finger guns. “You know it.”
For the 5th time now, she’s had to stay a bit late on campus, so you decided to go ahead and prepare dinner for when she arrived. You run some plates under the faucet after finally setting down tonight’s dinner: a few well-seared cuts of beef, beautiful and silky mashed potatoes, a yogurt bowl with mixed berries for dessert, and a nice bottle of wine you bought on the detour home. Then, as you both ate, you’d tell her you love her. Boom — sparks fly, she’ll tell you she loves you too, and then you’ll be a hero. After dinner, you’d lead her to the couch and bring out your secret weapon to seal the deal: a pint of ice cream and a Disney movie. You hum to yourself, satisfied, as you fold a few of the clean laundry that piled on the corner stool of Zuha’s (and yours) room.
You hear the faint jingle of Zuha’s keys as the door finally swings open. She steps in, this wonderful woman wearing an oversized army green parka over her baggy grey hoodie, loose jorts, and dark leggings that pair with her beat-up sneakers — stylish as always. She pushes her glasses up her nose as she readjusts the strap of her (obviously heavy) duffel bag. Her gaze scans and lands first on the food on the table and then finally on you. Her face beams as her eyes turn into crescent moons of glee, and her nose scrunches for an imperceptible second.
She smiles at you. “Sorry, I’m late.”
Your arm wraps around her waist as your other hand cradles the back of her head. You lean forward and plant your lips on hers. Her arms snake and cross just behind your neck as she leans into you, surrendering to your kiss.
“Mmm, you missed me?” She whispers with a smirk, her eyes shimmering.
“I always do.” You kiss her forehead. “I made dinner.”
“Thank you.” Her fingers run through your hair appreciatively. She pecks you one last time before leaving the embrace to turn around and behold the dinner.
“You’ve always been the better cook.” Zuha shrugs. “Meat and potatoes? What’s the occasion?” She chuckles.
“You tell me.” You smiled as you led her to the table, pulling the chair out and seating her. You pop the wine bottle and fill her glass halfway.
“And wine? Seriously, what’s up with you?” She gasps lightheartedly.
“C’mon, Zuha. It’s our 4th month together.” You tease.
She gulps down an eighth of the wine with wide eyes. “Oh gosh, no, yeah, I knew that!” She smirks with a cocky brow.
“Yeah, so just sit back and let me serve you.” You put the wine off to the side, stab a couple of pieces of the meat, spoon some of the silky spud, and lather the rich demi-glace over the ensemble. You graciously offer the plate up for her judgment.
She picks up her fork and tries the meat. Then the mashed potatoes. Then the meat with the sauce.
“Holy God,” Zuha mutters with a full cheek.
You burst out laughing. “Good?”
She nods vigorously, the strands of her bangs bouncing in unison. “More than good— Christ.”
“Well thank you, Zuha. I appreciate that.”
“No, you! I appreciate you. You have to make this for me all the time.” She scarfs down another bite.
“Zuha, slow down.” You say with a chuckle. You take a bite off your own plate and relish in your recently learned dish (thank God for YouTube). “So how was school?” you continued.
The older woman then goes off on a tangent about how a certain law was amended just yesterday, effectively disassembling the defense they had set up for their next trial. She vouched for her argument’s validity, citing more and more cases you had no knowledge of, and expressed her exasperation with the amendment. How they knew which laws to amend to throw a wrench in Zuha’s defense really irked her.
Despite the obvious anger dormant in her, Zuha glowed. She was passionate, fiercely intelligent, and dedicated. And that’s what you loved — Zuha just being herself.
And so you finally work up the courage.
“…but, it’s fine. That’s the law, I guess. If that’s what the law says, I’ll just have to find another theoretical basis. Which is a lot of work. But, I’ll manage.” Her brows finally ease as she catches herself in the zone. Her gaze rises, cuts your jaw, and meets back with you. She displays a goofy, toothy grin.
“Hey. I love you.”
“What?” Her voice ups in pitch as she abruptly stops chewing.
“I said, I love you.”
Zuha’s mouth hangs slightly open. The faint jazz music from the nearby speakers floats through the dead air.
You chuckle once, slightly nervous. “Zuha, I love you.”
“N-no, yeah. I know, I know you do.”
You chuckle again, a bit weaker now. “Well, I mean…I was expecting something more than ‘I know’.”
“No, I-I do…y’know…” Zuha attempts to complete her sentence but trails off after her stuttering, her disposition now uncharacteristic of the confident woman you met.
“Yeah…” you nod slowly, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. “So can you say it back?”
“What?” Zuha tries to tame her ragged breathing.
“…say you love me?” Unconsciously, your voice verges on a plea now. Your hands cramp and your fingers freeze, desperate to cross the meager distance of a few centimeters toward her clenched hand. “Is it too early for that? Or, am I pressuring you? Is that why you can’t say it yet?”
“No, it’s not that. Look, I do, okay?” She sighs, her gaze now dull and inaccurate, rarely meeting yours. “But I…”
“What’s wrong?”
An inhale. “I’m afraid of saying it…”
“Afraid of saying it? W-why…?”
“Because saying it makes it…”
“Makes it what…?”
“Real.”
The mood vastly changes now. The apartment suddenly has this uncomfortable weight, like a heavy load on your shoulders, and you’re quickly getting exhausted.
Your breathing quickens as your eyebrows finally fall into a furrow. “So this…” You pointed at both of you. “…wasn’t?”
“It’s not like that.”
“So what is it like then?” You whine now, letting go of your cutlery, appetite now obviously extinct.
“I just meant that saying it makes it…official.”
“There it is again, Zuha. So was this all unofficial for you? I mean— what the hell even are we then?”
“We’re…”
“I’ve practically moved out and lived here, Zuha. ” You push back the plate. “Was all this nothing to you?”
“It’s not nothing.” Zuha’s voice finally settles into a whisper.
“We sleep together, we go to class together, we go home together, we do laundry together— Zuha, we buy groceries together. And all this time you’ve been afraid of making it ‘real’? So what is this? W-what’s— What are we doing?” Your forehead crinkles as you gulp, studying her face.
Nothing.
“Did you even know it’s our 4th month together?” You continue, voice shaky now.
She looks away, her face turned to the side, looking toward the different dishes that were drying.
“Zuha.”
Her eyebrows furrow a bit more in response, and her chin trembles slightly. But she doesn’t reply. She looks down instead.
“Kazuha.” You drop her nickname.
She looks up at you, her eyes suddenly now crystal-like with the tears finally building. Her chin wobbles as her bottom lip quivers into a pout. Her eyebrows lose all their pointedness as her gaze is disarmed.
She cries.
Dammit. You immediately scooch your chair out to walk over to her. You lean down and wrap her in an embrace.
“You’re mad.” Her voice is a shaky tantrum as she laments the loss of her nickname. The once cool and sleek woman, now a fragile sobbing mess in your hands. Almost like a child, the older woman whimpers into your chest.
So, you press your lips against her forehead as you try to console her with a few gentle hushes. “No, no, no, I’m sorry. I’m not mad, Zuha.”
“Then why’d you call me Kazuha?” Her lips form a pout again as she looks up at you. Your heart aches as you stare at her.
You breathe out a sigh slowly. “Because I’m serious, Zuha. I need you to talk to me because this matters to me.”
“Okay.” Zuha sniffles a bit, her gaze studying yours, then she finally nods. “But I’m Zuha. I’ll always be Zuha now.” She adds while pounding your chest gently with her clenched fist.
You kiss her forehead a few seconds longer before you part. “Oh, jeez, who’s the child now?” You chuckle softly.
Zuha rolls her eyes as she sniffs, her cheeks are flush and her hair is messy. You carry your chair over to her side of the table so you can now sit in front of her. She dabs a few tissues on her nose and the corner of her eyes before sitting up straight. She tries looking at you, but her eyes wander, failing to hold contact.
You reach over to squeeze her palm. “I’m not mad, Zuha. But I am serious. I need to know now.”
She lets go of a long-withheld sigh. She studies your face, weighing her thoughts and words precisely. “I’m scared because the last time I told someone I loved them, they hurt me. And I never make the same mistake twice, you know that about me. So, I just—“
Her breathing hitches a bit before she’s able to gather herself, her tears now refusing to run down her cheeks.
“I never told you…even if I knew I felt it. I was afraid because if we made things real, then it’d be real enough to hurt me. And I never ever want to get hurt again.” Her brows come together in worry, her head now looking down at her lap.
You ease back in your chair. So she did love you back.
“But…” Zuha starts again. “I’m also afraid because I know you want the real thing. And I think the real thing you see is us staying here together and living our lives here. And I don’t think we can have that because…”
You nod slowly, nervous about what comes next.
“…because I’ve been taking ballet classes again.” Zuha finally confesses. “M-my old ballet school…they’ve always been asking me to come back and try again, saying they’ll save me a spot.”
“Your ballet school…” You murmur. “…in the Netherlands.”
She nods, eyes a bit red from the sobbing, but scanning your face for your reaction, gauging whatever emotions you feel.
“Huh. So all this time you’ve been coming home late…?”
Zuha nods with a nervous bite to her lip, moving slowly toward her duffel bag on the floor. She unzips the bag to pull out her ballet shoes, a faded rose pink with minimal wear — obviously new.
“You’ve been taking ballet for weeks, then.” Your voice comes out weak. Defeated.
“…yes.” Zuha’s voice was weaker and tinier.
You remain quiet for a second. “You told me it was for school, Zuha. You lied.”
“I was gonna tell you, eventually.”
“Zuha—” You speak, voice teetering on annoyed now. You take a small sigh. “When was 'eventually' going to be?”
“I don’t know, alright? I was working up the courage, but then…” She bites her lip. “Loving you made it more complicated.”
“Complicated? How?”
“Because I knew loving you would make the decision harder.”
Oh. The decision.
You finally let go of the weight of the apartment on your shoulders.
“So you’ve decided.” You say, flatly.
“It’s—it’s not like that. You know it’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like, Zuha?” Something was rising in your chest now. You feel your eyebrows furrow and grow heavier, this deep burning feeling churning in your stomach. You scan Zuha, immediately rifling through the numerous details of her face you’ve memorized, hoping — pleading — to have just the faintest idea of what was on her mind. (Looking back, your gaze sharpened that day. She felt it too.)
“I was just looking to try it out...” Her words stumble and trip. “But I can’t really drop school again, and my family’s still staying here, plus I don’t have the money for another apartment and tuition, and I absolutely won’t forgive myself if I force you to come with me. I mean, your parents are here, and I know you don’t want to leave them. I also know you want to set up a clinic here, and I know you’ll be shelling out money you don’t have to try and follow me now. So I don’t…” Zuha racks her brain in the pause but ultimately fails. “…I don’t know.”
You click your tongue on instinct. Zuha winces a bit.
“I’ve always been honest with you, Zuha.” Your anger is slowly cooling now as you feel yourself pull back from the conversation — indifference. Zuha’s eyes suddenly widen as you stand up.
“N-no, wait, hey, please. Don’t leave. Where are you going?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Zuha. I just need to think.”
“No, please, please. I can be more honest with you, please.”
“I know, but…” You sigh out, half hurt, a quarter tired, and on the verge of tears, and a quarter frustrated. “It’s time you’ve been more honest with yourself, Zuha.”
You gather the plates from the table slowly as Zuha sits there. Her puffy eyes stare at you helplessly, watching your every move with a pout on her face. She was desperate to forget all that had happened and just hug you. But she doesn’t. She knows you. You’ve always needed time and space whenever you guys get into a big fight, and she’s always respected that.
You decide to sleep with your back turned to Zuha.
-
Your phone buzzes you awake. 5:45. It’s a Friday.
You try to rise from the bed, but you feel a weight sprawled across your chest. Zuha.
In the toss and turn of the night, her arm was now wrapped around you, gripping your side of the covers tightly. You look down and see a pajama’d leg also interlocked with yours. You sigh as you stare at the top of Zuha’s head, burrowing closer to your side.
“Zuha, I have to go.” You whisper.
She shakes her head.
“Zuha, I need to leave.”
“Please, I’m sorry.”
“Zuha, I meant the clinic.”
Her fingers finally loosen. “Sorry, I thought you meant…”
“Oh, Zuha.” You squeeze her forearm. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.” You urge as you finally stand up. You stride a bit, looking around for your bag before you hear the mattress groan. Zuha snatches your hand, her bare face finding your gaze. Her face remains angelic despite the puffiness around her eyes and the pink hue of the tip of her nose. Her straight hair flows down smoothly, making it hard to decipher whether or not she slept at all or was simply blessed with a higher power’s favor to always wake up perfect. And yet her lips were still in a pout. A weak one, but you know it was there.
“About our conversation last night…”
“It’s fine, Zuha. We can talk about it when you’re ready.” Your eyes wander around her flat, thinking back to your first night, a far cry from the very night you just had.
She reels you in gently, slowly, like you were some boat about to be moored. You resist at first, but let her pull you in an embrace. You stand at the foot of the bed while she kneels to try to stay upright.
While her arms envelop your waist, you kiss her forehead, unsure about whether or not a kiss on the forehead was allowed or if the rules of your and Zuha’s “arrangement” have forbidden that and only allowed for quick hugs and gentle hand presses.
Zuha pulls you downward lightly, kissing you back on your forehead.
-
Five days pass by after that. Scant conversation was all that remained in Zuha’s apartment. A few scattered pecks here and there and a couple of hand squeezes that lingered a little too long also served as words unsaid. You’d sometimes share a brief gaze with Zuha, too, paragraphs and essays of what you wished to say would pour out telepathically, but it never sufficed. The conversation never came.
You’ve been going home more frequently, too. Your parents seemed to understand not to talk to you about it, only settling for small hugs and pats on the back whenever the topic shifted to Zuha or when you thought of her. Your room was never scarce of her, though. On your bedside, you kept a framed picture of Zuha from your 2nd month together, one where her goofy grin was evident, and her nose was scrunched as she watched a movie. The picture helped you sleep soundly.
Did you still love her? Of course. You’ve thought long and hard about dropping everything and going with her to the Netherlands, but it just wouldn’t work. There’s not enough money in your name for a plane ticket, let alone the funds needed to basically start living there. You couldn’t even bear to explain to your parents how your schooling would work. Ultimately, your paths have officially diverged. You know ballet’s a strict sport, and so you know long distance will only delay the inevitable. Heck, it might just cause a larger rift, now that you think about it. You already envision the long arguments over the phone about selfishness, not having enough time for each other, setting priorities, and timezone contradictions that would end in either tears, the “End Call” button, or, as you expertly predict, a breakup.
Now, here you are, finally clocking out of the clinic and walking down that same street toward the train station, dreading the old commute. You pass by the food stands, ignoring the scents and aromas of crackling food over coal heat, and stride faster down the sidewalk. Your eyes wander for a bit until you see Fors. You observe the cafe for a bit. It was busy as ever, catering to the nightlife now.
You see customers exit the establishment with paper bags in hand, and you briefly remember Zuha. Has she eaten? Probably not. You sigh for a moment, but after a couple of backtracks, end up trudging in to buy a croissant anyway. You tuck away the bread neatly and reroute to her apartment.
Up a couple of alleyways and bypass roads, you spot her apartment with the lights still off. Being a quarter past 5, she was still probably at school, packing up last-minute books and notes. And so, you let yourself in.
Zuha’s perfume was comforting. It floated through the apartment so much that you could smell her everywhere. Her apartment was still the same, but one part of the wall in the living room was now bare. You walk over to where the couch is and see an overturned picture frame. You flip it back up to see Zuha, the same picture that got her wide smile as she was locked in a spin. You sigh, staring at the picture — at the woman you love. You stroke your thumb over her cheek as you sigh deeply. You make the decision to hang it back up.
You sit down on the couch now, taking everything in: the smell, the hazy stovetop light, the different plants, and the ballet picture. In the quiet stillness of the apartment, your heart aches loudly. You gulp at the thought of not being able to give Zuha what she wanted, how she had to second-guess her dreams just because she ended up loving you too.
And then you feel it. Your bottom lip trembles.
God, fuck, no, you think to yourself as you shake your head, sniffling harshly to try and stifle the waterworks. You pull out your phone instead, hoping to just doomscroll and bypass emotions flowing out of you. You open up Instagram, only to close it back down. Your thumb shakes, obviously confused at the conflicting stimuli your body and mind seem to both be shouting. You settle on TikTok, but that doesn’t work either.
“Here are 10 simple date night dishes you could make for your—“
You’ve gotta be kidding me, you shout internally. You immediately exit the app, flinging your phone on the opposite end of the couch. You cross your arms for a bit, pinching the bridge of your nose as you sniffle.
But you can’t resist. Your fingers leap out.
You reach over to grab your phone, and you pull up YouTube, scroll for a bit, and find a video. Kitri Variation - Bolshoi Ballet. You hesitate, but something tells you to hit play.
The mix of warm and cool lights spread across the large wooden stage as the audience hushed straggling whispers and phrases. The camera wobbled a bit, zoomed out, but then focused shortly. From what you could see, the theater was grand and large, housing hundreds of red suede seats that surrounded the wide stage in a semi-circle. The stage was tall as it was wide, sporting these huge columns of burgundy curtains that cut the performance into sizable chunks and interludes. With the whole place now settling into quiet, music finally commences. A few booms and crescendos of classical music filled the theater as the strings started to pick up. The plucks and twangs of instruments invited the audience to a trance-like state, focusing on the next performer striding toward the center.
And there she was — Kazuha. Younger, a bit shorter, but with her shining smile still preserved and untouched after all these years. The spotlight cast a graceful shadow on the floor.
After a beat of silence, Zuha erupted in movement. She leaped and pounced and fell and zig-zagged across the stage. Her arms were graceful and strong, and would occasionally whip into shape. She’d perform on pointe, showing off her balanced and calculated lines while maintaining this air of pomp. With a couple of dips and hops, her face came into view. Her adorable face showed off a wide grin as her nose scrunched.
You chuckle softly, the light from your phone illuminating your face and part of the darkness that shrouded the living room, beyond the reach of her lamp in the corner and the kitchen lights. The lights bounce off the tears slowly creeping down your cheek. You laugh helplessly. “Jesus, I look so stupid.”
You keep watching, though.
You chuckle, glassy-eyed, as Zuha flitted through the stage with a smile, visions of the time you spent with her flooding your mind. You remember the smirks she’d make or the glares she’d produce. Hell, you remember her laugh whenever she had to take care of you when you were too sick to function.
As the music finally kicked up a notch, signaling a climax in the performance, Zuha fell into a series of fouetté turns, rotating on one leg while her other leg whipped around to propel her.
And she spun.
The video ended with roars of applause and cheers as Zuha took a small bow at the end before retreating offstage.
You put the phone down to finally wipe some of the tears running down the corner of your eyes, sniffling weakly as you groan out a laugh. The tremble in your lip slowly starts to settle. You lean back on the headrest, your stare landing on the apartment ceiling. You rest your puffy eyes before slowly drifting off to sleep, clutching the Fors paperbag close to you.
-
The next thing you know, you hear your name.
“Hey.”
Your eyes shift for a bit, discerning reality from sleep.
You feel a poke on your cheek.
“Have you been here long?” You open your eyes to see Zuha staring right back at you, her arm atop the sofa headrest, her eyes wide as she observes. She wore a plain white t-shirt paired with some high-waisted jeans — a casual day at school, it seemed.
You’re groggy, but you take a quick glance at the time. 7:12.
“I guess so.” You whisper as Zuha adjusts when you finally sit up.
“Hey, your eyes.” Her hand travels upward to cup your cheek. “Have you been crying?”
You shake your head minutely. “I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong?” Her eyes fall down toward your unlocked phone. On her video. On the hanging ballet portrait.
You scan the emotions running through Zuha. She stalls for a bit, digesting in silence. Then a sigh.
“Could you tell I was nervous?” She nods toward your phone.
“No, not at all.”
“Well, I was. My knees trembled before and after I got on that stage. Puked a couple times, too.”
“You were incredible, Zuha. You’ve always been incredible.”
She smiles subtly. Her eyes were puffy as well.
“Hey, listen—“
“You should do it.” You cut her off.
“What?”
“The Netherlands.”
“You want me to…go?”
“Yes. And I know you never really meant to ask for my permission, Zuha.” You cup her face. “But, I’m sure you’d still be a heck of a lawyer if you decide to come back, though.”
She briefly bites her lip, processing what you just said.
“You never had to lie to me, you know? I don’t want you to think for a second that I would have stopped you from going back to ballet. I’ve seen the way your eyes light up whenever we talk about it. You also know I’ve caught you watching your old videos before.”
Her head droops, but you lift it back up gently. You smile through the blade of her eyes.
“Look, I love you, Zuha. Not just the idea of being with you.” You rub a stray tear away from her eye. “And if loving you means you have to go away…” You bite the corner of your lip slightly as you nod. “Then that’s fine. My love stays the same.”
You try to slow time, but only muster up the power to stop the physical environment. Clocks halt, cars brake, stars stall. But not Zuha. Zuha breathes slowly as she locks eyes with you.
“I love you too,” she speaks in a whisper, getting shy at the overdue reply. “Oh God, I love you. I’m in love with you. You have my whole heart.” Her eyes are stunted waterfalls as she pouts up at you, finally baring herself wholly to you. This was Zuha — not the ballerina, not the lawyer, not the daughter. Just Zuha.
She gasps, revitalized by newfound oxygen, as if saying I love you back was a long, foreign feeling to her lips that she’s finally found again.
She inhales more now. “Gosh, I love you, and I’m sorry for lying to you— for going behind your back, for coming home late, and for not telling you. I-I should have told you because I owe that to you. Because I shouldn’t hurt you. Because I love you.”
You sniff back a sob, but you ultimately nod. “Zuha, I already forgave you the morning after you finally told me. I only wish you'd been more honest with me. I would have understood, y’know?” Her eyebrows crease, but you kiss the top of her head, whispering into her hair as you hold her close. “I’ve been in love with you for so long, you big baby.”
She rubs her eyes with the back of her wrists, chuckling stupidly as she realizes how her puffy eyes and tantrum must have looked: childish. She grins as her nose scrunches, but she wills it away.
“You don’t have to keep hiding that.” You flick your thumb lightly at her forehead. “Just…grin whenever you want to, laugh whenever you want to, do ballet whenever you really want to.”
A slight pout from her as she breathes out.
“The Zuha I know doesn’t need permission from anyone,” you continue.
She scoffs it off faintly with a shake of her head. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m serious, y’know. There’s a Zuha inside you that’s tough and enduring.” You slide a part of her locks behind her ear. “Not like Lawyer Kazuha. No, this Zuha is even tougher. This Zuha’s been tough for a very long time. And she doesn’t care what other people think. At least, that’s what she hopes for. Because deep down, she’s sweet. She’s warm. She laughs. She adores sleeping in. But she hides these things by being tough, thinking that letting them slip through the seams means weakness.” You take her face into your palms. Your thumb grazes her cheeks slowly. “But it’s not. I’ve seen her let go and just be herself. And in all of those moments, I’ve always thought of how tough she is, tough enough to laugh and be foolish and joke at her own expense. Tough enough to be vulnerable and to keep chasing passions despite the things she’s gone through in life. Tough enough to allow herself to scrunch her nose.” You tap the end of her nose gently.
“I love you.” She says in a low whisper. “And I missed you.”
You chuckle. “I know, Zuha. I love you, and I missed you, too.”
She buries her face into your chest as you wrap her in a small embrace, inhaling your scent as you breathe. Her hand reaches up from her side toward you, but she accidentally hits the paper bag.
“That for me?” Zuha’s face suddenly beams, like the tears that had just fallen were inconsequential to the now more important matter: bread.
“It’s for us, you selfish girl.” You chide as you prop yourself up on the couch to open the bag, pulling out the two croissants and placing them both on a plate of Fors tissue paper. “It’s still fresh…” You poke a floppy part in Zuha’s croissant. It doesn’t bounce back. “…you can have mine instead.”
Her nose scrunches for longer now. She gives a grin, flashing off her pearly whites, before opening her mouth.
“What?” You ask.
Her eyebrows furrow as she pouts, her cheeks rounding out her face. She points to her mouth wordlessly, almost cartoonishly impatient.
“Jeez, you really must have missed me if you’re acting like that.” You set aside your own croissant to focus on Zuha’s. She hums lightly as she opens up once again.
“Feed me both croissants, and I’ll show you how else I’ve missed you.”
-
The reuniting kiss with Zuha is all tongue, teeth, and tension. Her hands immediately trail upwards to crumple the hairs on the back of your head, pushing you towards her mouth. She releases a sloppy, hot exhale as your lips separate, sounding off whenever both of you reposition. You feel her pushing against you, pressing her lips further and further, licking, sucking, and sometimes biting.
“Zuha, wait.”
“Mmph. Fuck no.” She straddles you now, both hands on the sides of your face as she makes you look up at her. Her thumb presses lightly on your chin, making your jaw push back and opening your mouth.
Then she spits inside.
“Oh, fuck.” You wheeze out as you drink the warm saliva Zuha just produced.
“You like that?” A husky whisper.
You nod profusely.
She dives back in to make out with you and then pulls back again to spit more in your mouth. Zuha repeats this for a while, roughly rocking against your clothed crotch. A chorus of names and whispers fills the small apartment, the church-like atmosphere accentuated by the warm orange glow of a lamp off to the side. This was worship and sacrilege at the same time — you gnashed teeth, spoke in tongues, and sought salivation.
“Ugh!” You groan out as Zuha pulls back on your hair sharply, your head slamming back on the sofa. Her arms wrap around your head as she looks down on you, her wavy hair draping downward. With vigor, Zuha grinds her hips in a circle, sliding against your stiff member, her eyes watching your every reaction.
“Oh—oh fuck, yes.” Her mouth forms an “O” as she gasps your name, her breath colliding with yours. She moans into your mouth, holding you close, teasing you with a kiss, but only ever gracing you with light brushes against your lips.
Zuha suddenly rips your hands off her slim waist, lowering them down to her ass, the roundness of her cheeks ever felt through her tight denims. You squeeze courteously as you both moan in unison. You hear your name and other profanities spill forth from her mouth, her words slurring and seething as she desperately sated herself on dry humping you.
You inhale quickly as you abruptly stand up, carrying her lithe body as she clings onto your shoulders. “Mmm, room time?”
“Fucking do me on the kitchen counter.” She breathes out.
You shove your tongue into her mouth as you march over toward the kitchen. You hear the separate thuds of Zuha’s heels fall to the floor as she tightens her legs around you. With restraint, you finally withdraw from her lips (Zuha’s tongue was quite persuasive) and plop her down on the tiled countertop just beside her small rice cooker as you work on unbuttoning her jeans. Zuha leans back as she bites her lip, her gaze a blade waiting for your next move. You finally slide her pants off, revealing the smooth skin of her hips, her round, muscly thighs, and the wet spot on her light-colored panties. You take a deep whiff of her scent, the salty, sweaty, heady musk invading your nostrils, making your cock flex painfully. You release a rugged breath as you help Zuha lift her ass to slide off her panties. You consider fucking her there and then, but you fall to your knees and succumb to your baser desires.
You give her shaven pussy a long experimental lick.
Zuha squeals out at the surprise. “Oh God, yes, yes, I needed this, too. Oh, I need you so much.”
You hook your arms around her thighs, falling into the usual motions of routine. She was atop, in all her sexy glory, and you were down there once more, adoring and venerating the wet folds before you. You keep up a consistent stroke, tonguing and licking her clit as you rub two fingers across her splayed pussy. You alternate a few times, kissing her sex and licking the inside of her meaty thighs, watching Zuha groan or mewl depending on where your tongue dared to go. After a few more licks, you switch to a slower pace while sucking on her nub. Her leaking juices drip down the grooves of her crotch and the crevice of asscheeks, making the rim of her ass glisten. Zuha moans out slower now, her chest rising and falling as the tempo shifts. You coat your index and middle finger with her liquids before slowly entering her warmth.
“Jesus, fuck!” She nods as you look up at her, her right hand confused whether to tense and pull on your hair or ease and grip the back of your neck.
She opts for the former.
Your scalp stings, but the joy of pleasing Zuha far outweighs any pain she inflicted. You trail your fingers from her pussy and down to her tight rim. She squeals in surprise as you lose count of how much your name has been recited this night. With careful entry, you breach her tight asshole. A different kind of warmth wraps your fingers now — a hotter and tighter muscle, so paradoxical it keeps you inside when you want to pull out but eagerly sucks you back in when you want to penetrate. Zuha quickly verges on her release, the stimulation of all her holes making her legs twitch and squirm on your shoulders. Her voice picks up in pitch now as she closes her eyes in pent-up libido, her brows harshly furrowing and pointing to her ceiling, her hair flowing wildly with some sticking to her neck and forehead sweat. Bringing your other hand into play, you lick on her swelling clit as you finger both her holes.
“Motherfucker!— I’m yours, I’m all yours. Take me, make me cum. Please!” She runs her fingers through her own hair, her body twitching and her breath ragged as she locks you deeper between her legs.
With a final rub of your thumb on her clit, she cums. Wasting no time, you immediately get to work slurping up her pussy lips as her orgasm continues. You indulge in the tangy, salty mix of sex and love Zuha was offering, licking in long vertical strokes, making sure to cover wherever you haven’t covered yet. Her twitches die down slowly as her high subsides. Your tongue ventures lower again, reaching her puckered rim as you eat her out gently, matching her easing sighs and exhales, helping her return to baseline. Her eyes finally catch your gaze, staring at you and the highly obscene act you were committing.
“You feel good?” You whisper as you kiss the inside of her legs before rising up from the tiled floor.
Her arms wrap around your neck to pull you in. “So much fucking better now.” She whispers before smiling to kiss your cheek. She exhales deeply, angling your head to the side to kiss your neck sweetly.
You reach the smooth line of her back, fingers running up and down to feel her body, toned with constant discipline but curvy enough to grip and squeeze erotic flesh. You help remove the white t-shirt and throw it across the room. Zuha does the same, trailing her hand up from your abdomen and to your pecs before pulling your shirt off. Her palm briefly brushes your hardened nipples. You wince unexpectedly.
“Still sensitive?” She coos sweetly.
You chuckle and nod.
Her plotting eyes stare at you, a trance-like gaze taking over now, as she brings her hands to your shoulder blades, making you puff out your chest. Without breaking eye contact, she lowers her head to lick your nipple.
“Zuha.” You seethe through gritted teeth.
“Hm?” She continues to lick, spreading saliva around the areola. She licks the other one now, wrapping her lips around to suckle gently.
“Oh fuck, Zuha.”
“What is it?” Her head moves with each long lick, positioning and repositioning her tongue to get better angles. She releases the bud from her mouth to look up at you. “C’mon, tell me.” Her voice is a raspy whisper now.
“That feels good.” You wince out.
“What does?” She licks counterclockwise on your areola, avoiding the center. “This?” The flat of her tongue travels across your nipple.
“Or…” Zuha pulls back a bit. “…this?” She wraps her mouth around your whole nipple, her steaming mouth suckling while her tongue flicks the hardened tip.
“Gah, fuck! Y-Yes, Zuha, both. Both feel good.” Your brain processes the electricity traveling down your chest and up your spine. You were ticklish, but you felt yourself leaning in closer to Zuha.
Expertly, you feel her legs leave your lower back as her feet stop at the waistband of your boxers. She continues the assault on your sensitive bud, all while pushing your underwear downward, releasing your flexing shaft.
You let out an impressed chuckle. “Um…”
“Ballet.” Zuha boasts with a strange mixture of horny pride evident in her voice as she speaks.
You comply, kicking the boxers away, your rod now level with her steaming pussy. With her other hand riding up your chest, her fingers roll your left nipple as her mouth latches onto the right. You squirm slightly, the warmth of her tongue slathering across your pebbling nip, as you grip the overhead handles of the cupboards. Her right hand sneakily slips in between your bodies, tracing down your abdomen and finally to your hard cock. You jolt forward on instinct, roughing your erection along Zuha’s palm. She giggles sweetly, her breath betraying how amused she is at the situation. She stops licking your chest for a bit to spit on her hand before returning it to your impatient shaft. She coats the length with her spit and works you, twisting and pulling along, her thumb glossing over the slightly reddened tip.
“God, it was always so fucking big.” She leans in, a hand on the back of your head, pulling you closer. Your foreheads touch now, your breaths colliding as her chest rises and falls. Her vanilla-scented hair was a mess, covering most of her features, but she made sure you could see her face in open-mouthed pleasure. She jerks you off for a couple more minutes, matching each moan you make with her own, before rubbing your cockhead against her slick entrance. You both groan simultaneously. You take the hint and prop both Zuha’s arms around your neck as you step in closer, palm guiding the tip, aiming at her core. You push your shaft a few times, the underside rubbing the ridge of her pussy lips, coating and lubricating it, teasing her in the process.
“Please.” She whimpers.
“Begging?” You chuckle, surprised. “That’s new.”
“Shut up. I’ve just been really needy…” She whispers, a blush creeping up her cheeks.
“No, no, I like it. It’s hot.” You give her a peck, once on the lips and once on the forehead.
“Fuck me then. Please.”
With a long stroke, you thrusted in. She cries out with a whip of her head, hitting the hanging cupboards with a thud.
“Shit!” Zuha laughs through the blunder, planting a kiss on your lips to keep the mood going. Her arms hook speedily around your neck as her legs interlock just at the small of your back.
“Careful.” You hiss through the kisses you trailed along the side of her jaw. You grip her waist as you thrust forward, fucking her against the cupboards more carefully now. You pull back to feel your length smoothly retreat from her tight groin, her heat contrasting with the temperature of her apartment. You slowly push back in, drawing out a long moan from Zuha, her brows furrowing as she shuts her eyes.
“Yes, yes, fill me— God.” She cries out, her nails scratching and gripping your traps as her shins push you forward. You tighten your hold on her sides, squeezing and bruising her waist, your digits digging into her curves. You fuck her deep and strong, leaning into your strokes as you show her how much you missed her. You hear her walls squelch around your cock with every entry, lubing up and down your meat. The sound is erotic, your bodies the instruments, her cries the accompaniment.
Zuha is tight and accepting, but also combative — she would bite your earlobe, pull on your hair, or scratch the line of your back. When your lips strayed too far, she’d pull you back in. When you’d deviate from the angle she likes, she’d lock her legs tighter. It was a struggle for control, really — a competition to show who’s missed the other more, and you’ve definitely missed her.
And so you slow down abruptly, shocking Zuha.
“W-what are you—“
“Ballet, right?” You grip her full thigh, shifting her right leg to prop it on your shoulder, pulling her body toward you in the process. She jerks forward with a deep groan as you remain locked inside her, her body finally angling sideward to accommodate the new position. You pressed against her deeper now, the position granting you new grounds to explore.
“Oh fuck— oh fuck, you’re so deep…” Zuha’s moans come from her diaphragm now. “You’re so deep in me. Oh God, oh God yes, yes.”
You take a look at her thighs, how perfectly succulent they are, inheriting the roundness from her ass as it tapers off to her sexy, toned legs. Her calf rests on the left side of your head as your cock spears her in twain. You were in the middle of it all, bearing witness to Zuha’s undoing. Her head rests against the tiled kitchen wall with her arms spilled over past the rice cooker and sink, steadying and gripping with all her ability.
You place a hand on the knee atop your shoulder, simultaneously reaching down to palm her exposed breast. You start slow at first with experimental strokes, feeling out the new angle and Zuha’s novel tightness. You allow her left leg to hang free in the space between your legs, finally giving you the most amount of access you could have, driving your midriff and groin flush against the inside of her thigh.
“Holy fuck.” Zuha whimpers.
“Are you okay?” You gulp, sweat dripping down your forehead.
“You’re splitting me. You’re hitting me so deep. Oh shit— Christ!” Zuha doesn’t even stare at you now. Her lids remain closed, brows scrunched in permanent euphoria.
You tighten your hold on her wanton thigh while rolling her hardened nip between your fingers. With every mewl and cry, you thrust back deeper into Zuha, analyzing the subtle changes in her face and expression, evaluating how you could switch up every pound, every rail into her greedy sex. Your cock strains each time you thrust, the tense muscle invading her warm walls repeatedly, driving itself to find release.
“Jesus, I could fuck you like this every day.” You release a quick exhale.
“Shit, yes, please. I want that, oh fuck I want that.”
“Yeah? You want me to fuck you like this every day, Zuha? You wanna be bent over, split in half, every time, hm?” You pick up the pace.
“God, yes!” She yelps now.
“Mhm, yeah? You want me to pound away at you, while you just take it? You want me to just fuck you over every surface in this apartment?” You time your thrusts right, creating a rhythm from the constant thud on the cupboards.
Zuha grips you, nails digging into your forearm, as you rough your way into her, your cock pulsing eagerly, hitting just the right spots to have her droning on and on with an incohesive hum.
“Answer.” You whisper low, a hand coming down to slap her ass cheek.
“Yes! Please, oh please…”
“Yeah, I bet you’re gonna miss me when you’re in the Netherlands, huh? You want me to fuck you there, too, hm? Fuck you all around your small flat just before class? Fuck you until you leak cum while you’re practicing?”
“Y-yes!— Fuck, fuck, fuck, I want that, please. It’s you, it’s you, I only want you, it’s so different when it’s you. Shit— I need you and this fucking cock of yours. Oh fuck! My fingers aren’t enough, please.” She pleads, whispering rapidly.
“You only want me, huh?”
“Oh God, yes, I only want you...” Zuha gulps, her breathing now ragged and exhausted. “J-just— Come with me to the Netherlands. I can’t take it when you’re not here. Come fuck me there, too.”
The words stumble from Zuha’s lips unintentionally. Was she delirious? Maybe. Her slurred speech definitely didn’t help her case. You’re stunned, so you suddenly miss a beat, breaking the rhythm. But hearing her only wanting you made you grind harder, so you compensate on your next pump. You rub a particular spot, which makes Zuha twitch accidentally, her vice walls clamping around your meat. You lurch forward to steady yourself, your chest rising and falling.
“Fuck it. I’ll follow you all around the world just to have you like this.” Your fingers gloss over her trim thigh muscle, gripping her skin tightly as you plough over and over again. She winces a bit as your digits sink deeper into her curves. “Bent. Twisted. Gripped. Chased. Owned.”
“I-I’m yours. I’m yours…”
Having had enough of splitting her in half sideways, you ease up on the pistoning of your hips. You gently lower Zuha’s shin off of your shoulder, putting her leg down, allowing her to regain her balance gracefully, all while you remain hilted in her. The corkscrew sensation of her slick sends tingles through your thighs as you groan out softly. Zuha now grips the countertop while she’s bent over, her hair flowing down her bare back, apple-shaped ass fully exposed and impaled. You push the remaining length of your meat in her, gripping and bringing her waist up as you press against her back. Zuha leans her head on your shoulder.
“Hey.” She whispers.
“Yeah?” You whisper back.
“Say you love me...”
“I-I love you, Zuha.” You thrust once.
She bites her lip in the process of suppressing a moan. She rolls her hips slowly. “Again.”
“G-God— I love you, Zuha.” You pull back only to slam back in firmly.
“You…wha—what do you…What do you love about me?” Her eyes close as she cries out.
“Well…I love your neck.” You lick the length of her neck up to her earlobe. You grip her waist tighter, fingers ridging on the sleek lines of her abs. You thrust once. This makes her whimper and hiss.
“I love your tits.” You cup around to the front and take her breasts in both your hands. “How they feel, how soft they are, how hard your nipples can be.” You run your fingers across the sensitive peaks as you ram it in her again. She emits a shaky moan.
“I love this ass of yours.” You bring a palm down hard, striking the pound of flesh. A mix of a gasp and a scream falls from her mouth, her body in a rigid arch as you support her from behind. “Love how huge it is, how round your cheeks are when I cup it, and how tight it can be.” You reach down with your thumb, making a circle motion at the rim of her ass, teasing entrance and reaping the sounds Zuha makes.
“And I love your pussy.” You hold her sides once more before giving a shallow thrust. “You grip me so well, so hot and tight around my cock like this. Love how much you’re leaking all over me, how good you take me each time.”
Zuha hisses, sucking air. “Yes-yes-yes, I’ll take all of you.”
You finally thrust hard and quick, your thighs banging repeatedly on the base cabinet doors. Zuha lurches forward when you go faster, holding tighter on whatever she can grip, her body being pushed and pulled by the force of your rod poking her insides.
“God, yes, you do me so good, you do me so fucking good.” Her lips are filthy, speaking ill and cursing.
You bottom out over and over again, pressuring her velvety walls as you thrust to the hilt each time. The sound of skin and flesh slapping against each other intoxicates you, riling you to keep going. You look downward, eyes trailing from the line of her back, to your lubricated length — it was hypnotic seeing her pussy lips spreading to accommodate your length and girth, how each push forward sends your meat disappearing deeper within her body. You slap an asscheek. The plump curve jiggles at the contact.
“Jesus Christ, Zuha, you’re amazing.” The bumps and bangs of your legs on her kitchen cabinets have surely annoyed some of Zuha’s neighbors, but you don’t care. Back and forth, her body meets yours precisely, a moan clawing its way out of her throat each time you penetrate. But the pleasure eventually reaches an apex. You feel her walls clamp on you tighter. She hums and mumbles incoherently, desperately attempting to fill the silence and verbalize the torrent of feelings passing through her. She’s close.
“You gonna c-cum?” You wheeze out.
“I’m gonna fucking cum again.”
“Shit, okay, okay, just hold it! I’m close—“
“Fuck, please!” She begs, her tone coming out a little harsher than she intended. Zuha’s hand grips the back of your head as she angles her face sideward. Her tongue surges into your mouth in between dirty whispers. “Just cum with me, please. Oh God, I can’t take it— Please, cum with me.”
You pound away at Zuha, her cheeks bouncing and recoiling as you railed her harder. Her head lurches forward weakly, consciousness slipping as you prolonged her edge. You close your eyes to feel more of her, how her wet pussy wraps each inch of your length, how each texture sparks a sound from Zuha, how warm you’d be if you just stay planted inside. Your breathing quickens as you feel the coil deep within you.
“Z-Zuha! I-I’m—“
“Yes! Yes! Oh my God, yes!” Zuha lets herself go. “T-Tell me you love me!”
“What?—“ You’re confused, but your thrusts are on autopilot.
“Tell me you love me…When you cum, tell me you love me.”
This spurs you on. “Shit! I-I love you— Holy fuck!— I love you, I love you so fucking much…” Your fingers dig into her sides as you pursue a deeper stroke.
She winces. “Oh fuck, right there, yes, yes, I love you, I love you…”
The tension in your core finally shatters as you orgasm vehemently. You burst deep between her twitching legs and her grasping cunt. You cum forcefully, sending off copious ropes of your seed, painting her insides white. You groan weakly, repeating her name like a hymn or prayer a devotee would voice whenever their faith was tested or whenever they fell to their knees to sing praise. You hump at Zuha erratically, groaning as you dump everything you had inside her, an offering to the temple that is her body.
Zuha’s voice is gone at this point. She cums, a silent gasp in the sea of hair splayed on her face. She twitches and jerks occasionally, the onslaught of orgasm writhing out of her in surges. Her voice reaches a new pitch, exhales leaving her in short, vulnerable bursts. Her slick flows down your length, her walls clamping down on you as she rides her high. You hold her closer, hugging her as she pushes and shudders back, desperate to keep your length breached and wedged in her pussy.
The burden of the orgasm — the best orgasm you’ve both had, ever — finally dissipates for both of you. You wobble forward, hugging Zuha’s slim body as you lay your weight slightly on her. Zuha steadies both your bodies by propping her arms on the counter. Your palms trail down her arms to hold her hands. Your breathing syncs up as your forehead touches her back, just a few inches before her nape. You remain hilted, your cock still warm.
“Well.” She breaks the silence.
“Yeah?” You kiss a spot on the midpoint of her spine.
“Probably can’t get to ballet class tomorrow.”
You chuckle as you stand closer. Her walls squeeze slightly at the minuscule movement. You kiss up to the back of her head now, smooching her hair, then to her ear, then to her cheek. Her round eyes land on you, her stare dull, disarmed, diminished — glazed with the afterglow of sex, but made soft with a deep lingering affection — affection you can now confidently name love.
“You alright?” You laugh gently as you softly bump your head on hers.
“Never been better.” She gives you a peck. “So that’s what it took for you to fuck me like that, huh?”
“Shut up.” You chuckle. You pull out of her walls, a moan coming out of her as you depart. “Could’ve told me you loved me sooner if you wanted it that bad.” You say with a small smack of her thigh.
She gasps in fake hurt. “You diss me as you pull out? I rescind my declaration then.” Zuha turns around slowly, still leaning on the counter for stability. “Plus, I’m the one usually surprising you when we fuck— Oh, sorry. When we make love.” She chides. Zuha leans back, the light catching her angle and casting subtle shadows across her body. Her tall, athletic frame is made a thousand times better by the fact that she is still fully naked. Her toned and sculpted midriff is completely on display, the result of consistent training and commitment, creating the prominent lines you were gawking at. You make a mental note to ravish them later.
“Gosh, you’re really sexy.” You blurt.
A grin appears. Her nose scrunches for longer now, crescent eyes accenting the dimples on her cheeks as she laughs. She lightly punches your shoulder, but quickly reels you back in by the forearm. She wraps herself around you, your forearms tangling around her neck in an embrace. “You’re sweet.”
You kiss her crown lightly, whispering slowly. “You’re beautiful.”
She sighs, her gaze studying you, a stiletto point threatening to pierce, but no cuts come. She sheathes the blade, a pout surfacing in its place. “I’ve always…loved…that about you.” Her lips linger on the word “love”, its utterance a paradox between novel and natural. She says it carefully, like setting down delicate china you bring out only once in a while — fragile and vulnerably open to destruction. “The way you’d just tell me things. Me. The things you say are to me, and not just to who I think I am or who I think I should be. To Zuha.”
You smile lightly at the nickname you gave her. “Zuha suits you better. Plus, I don’t know you any other way.” You scramble around her kitchen, wearing your boxers and shirt, piling up garments, and gathering other flung articles of clothing (Zuha’s panties landed on a plant).
“Wouldn’t want it any other way, either.” Zuha raises her arms in a stretch, her abs and back muscles flex as she wrings out the (s)exhaustion from her system. She walks by you, giving you a light peck on the cheek before sashaying into the bathroom.
You stride down the hall and back into her room, the place where it all began. The space was the same, except her sheets were pink now, a more lush color compared to the pastel blue you had lain on that first night. You dump the pile in the basket and tidy up some more scattered socks and pants. On Zuha’s side of the bed, propped up on her end table and adjacent to her earrings, you see a new, smaller picture frame: you. A picture of you on your 3rd date with Zuha. You were holding two large paper bags of groceries, vegetables, and cartons peeking out the top. Hooked on your elbows were more bags — one with paper towels, another with soap and sponges. And in your mouth, wedged between your teeth, was a Fors croissant. You chuckle once as you adjust the frame.
“I think that’s when I realized I was falling in love with you.”
You turn around to see Zuha adjusting her pajamas, her shirt clinging to her slim frame, wet hair tied in a high bun, a towel hanging from her shoulder. She gives a small smile before hooking the towel off to the side of the door.
“But this was when…” You start.
“Mhm. Barely a week since we started dating.” She kicks around a loose carpet tuft. “I guess I’ve loved you since then.”
She shifts around awkwardly, but continues. “Hey, about that night you told me you loved me.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t even think for a second that I hesitated because I wasn’t serious with you— with us.”
“I know.”
“Good. Because I was. I am. I just…I was just scared.”
“I know, Zuha. I know you were. But I appreciate you telling me. Thank you.”
“Okay, good,” she says with a nod.
Zuha gracefully moves over toward the bed, shifting the sheets and making space for you. She sits, propping her back on the headboard, and brings the covers up to her knees, eagerly waiting for you.
You comply, scooching beside her and leaning back similarly. She lays her head on your shoulder, her gaze only pointing straight ahead.
“Did you mean it?’ You ask.
“Mean what?” She asks back.
“You wanting me to come with you. To the Netherlands. Or was that just…sex?”
A deep inhale, then a long sigh. “Of course I want you to come with me.” Her voice is smaller now, knees locking closer, and fingers gripping tighter. “I could barely handle you not coming home, not coming to me. How much more could I take being so far away from you?”
You take note of the new tone in Zuha’s voice. There is this strong vulnerability to her now, and her honesty only serves to strengthen her person, not weaken her fortitude. Her posture is small, but her heart is larger now. Long past inhibitions about baring so-called “weaknesses”, acknowledging strong emotions, and leaving ample space to be herself have now been dissolved.
“Oh, God, I want to come with you too. But I really can’t just up and leave my parents, Zuha. I barely have enough to help with rent if I do come with you.” The reality resurfaces and weighs on both of you. Zuha still had to leave, and you still had to stay.
“I know.” She mumbles.
You put an arm around her as she tucks her head on your chest, nearer your chin.
“But I don’t want to break up.” She murmurs against your shirt.
“I don’t want to, either.”
“Do we really have to choose?” A quiet whine leaves her lips.
“We might have to.” You rub her shoulder, tracing circles on her soft skin.
“If we do…break up,” Her voice cracks a bit, but she recovers with a sniffle and a cough. “I’d rather we do it on good terms now and not down the line when we’re at each other’s throats or over the phone.”
You exhale gently. “I’d rather have that too.”
You two stay silent for a while.
“Do you want to break up?” A whisper from Zuha so small you think twice about hearing it. She doesn’t look at you.
“Never.” You whisper, too. You stare at the back of her head and the curve of her cheek, her lashes moving as she blinks.
Zuha suddenly sits up, propping her palms flat on your chest, head looking toward you now. The blade returns to her eyes, lamp light glinting off her gaze. “So we don’t. We never will.”
“Can you do long distance?”
“I will if it’s you.”
“What happens if we both get busy? And we fight? And we lose time for each other?”
“I’d still want you.”
“Be realistic, Zuha.”
“I am.” Do you still feel the cuts of her gaze? You do. Swift slices of her pupils gash your arms, neck, and lips. She shakes her head with a sigh. “I’d still want you. The same awkward, speaking-to-windows, lukewarm-coffee-loving, nerd in scrubs. We can make it work.” Her hand cups your cheek now, minuscule lights like flecks sprinkle her pupils — tears.
You lean your head into her palm, savoring the warmth of her skin stroking your face.
She takes a gulp. “If we get busy, then we get busy. If we fight, then we fight. If we lose time, then we lose it. But, I’m still coming back to you.”
You shift on the bed a bit, linking your arms around her neck, allowing Zuha to put her chin on your chest. Her body lies on top of yours as she stares up at you while hugging your torso. You breathe slowly with her.
“Zuha, I’m still coming back to you, too. But I don’t want to lose time for you. I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t want to see us that way.”
“I don’t want to, either! But I’d rather have that than not have you at all.”
“Oh, Zuha.” You take her face in your hands, thumbs adjusting stray hairs and tucking it behind her ear.
“No! You can’t— Don’t do that. Don’t ‘Oh, Zuha’ me.” She veers her head away from your grasp, eyes staring at you for a beat. She bites her lip, stifling a sob. “I just got you back…” She chokes up, a free tear sliding down the side of her cheek.
You hush her gently as you bite back a sob of your own. “I know, Zuha. I know.”
“And don’t—“ She gulps, trying to find the words. “Don’t think I’m childish for finally wanting something for myself, enough to be selfish about it— enough for me to throw tantrums over it like a stupid kid.”
“Zuha, I would never.”
“I just…” Her brows furrow as she looks up. “Why can’t I have what I want?” Her face vanishes into your chest, tears soaking your shirt as you rub her shoulder blades.
She cries.
There it is: the plea Zuha has just breathed into existence. A whine in the face of the world. A conniption so ego-tistical, so selfish, and so immature, it’s childlike.
And so you respond in kind.
You stiffen up your upper lip, extinguishing the bawl attempting to bubble and rise. You grab her palm, urging her to look up at you. “Fuck it. Let’s do it. Let’s just give it a shot.”
-
“…and you’ve got your room key?”
“I do.” You tap your chest, feeling the keycard you slipped into your breast pocket earlier.
“Passport?”
You show your phone camera a slim browned-leather keeper. “I have it here, Mom.”
“Extra money?” Your dad pipes up now.
“Enough for dinner and a cab back to the hotel.”
“Good man.”
“Do you have enough data for your maps?” Your mom stutters now, the nerves evident in the shakiness of her question.
“I’m not that dumb, guys. I got this.” A chuckle leaves you.
“Alright. Just be safe, and come home safe. Good luck.” With a sigh, your parents slowly let you go. The phone clicks off.
Now, finally, on to the agenda. The show had just finished, with droves of people moving across the wide theater lobby, walking briskly to wherever their plans tell them to go. The carpeted floor effectively muffles the numerous footfalls, isolating only the sounds of conversation. Hushed words fly, whispers creep, and voices adjust. You remain silent, though, this stalwart constant standing still in the blur. A few shoulders whip past you, polite apologies making their way into your ears as compensation. A few adjustments to your gait and stride, and you’re all good. Nothing could really ruin your mood now.
You spot an empty bench in the atrium, this comforting spot illuminating to ease the aches of pacing. The sleek padded cushion groans, catching your full weight as you lean back to stretch. Your legs are crossed as you check the time. 8:22. You could stay a few more minutes. Or hours. You just had to know.
And so you go through the routine of anybody who’s socially awkward and unfortunate enough to be stuck in a public place: check your phone, stare at the ceiling, go to the bathroom (without actually peeing), and then back to the phone. It’s a cycle, really. A cycle you’re very much proud of, because you’ve gotten quite good at appearing like a normal person on the outside. A few pretend phone calls? Amazing play. Pseudo-interest in the shows playing next week and all the minute details of their posters? Absolutely masterful.
Did you appear like a person who knew what they were doing and not someone wandering around, grasping at straws, clawing at a glimmer of a slim chance? You hope so. Did they notice you awkwardly pacing and going up and down the hall? That’s not the point. The point is to masquerade as someone who’s not…afraid.
In truth, the pit in your stomach is growing. Afraid of what, exactly? Well, nothing, to a degree. You were afraid to find out that you flew exactly 5330 miles, gulped through the jet lag, lugged bags across stations, navigated across language barriers, and fumbled through faux pas, for nothing. Not even for a glimpse, a sideways glance, or a chat. You were worrying that, because of the past years of being broken up, and despite constantly grinding to make your own, striving to complete internships, acing departmental exams, and graduating with flying colors, it would all have been for nothing. You guys would still end up as nothing.
Why couldn’t you have what you want?
You slump on the bench, your unkempt appearance, tousled hair, and untucked shirt now obviously inappropriate for the formal setting and the more well-dressed theater goers leaving the maroon-carpeted lobby and down the polished mahogany exit steps. You don’t care anymore. You just absolutely had to wait.
So you wait.
And wait.
And wait.
The crowd thins out, save for a few pairs scrambling and hoping to catch the few remaining tickets for tomorrow’s performance. The buzz of talk soon dies down, replaced by the sound of rain falling and the crisp crash of tires driving over puddles and gutter water outside. You barely noticed the rain before, but you do now.
If only your mom could see you. I knew it. I told you you’d forget something, she’d say.
“Sorry, Mom.” A mutter from you. “Sorry, little umbrella.” Back at home, your umbrella ruffles in acceptance of the whispered apology.
Then you feel it.
You touch a finger to your right cheek, tracing an invisible line from your face to your lips. A cut.
Confusion fills you. Your breathing slowly picks up now. This was familiar. You’ve felt this before, this gash. It was this stinging feeling like a subtle paper cut, the type of paper cut you’d only feel after a substantial amount of time, but even then, the damage was already done. You unexpectedly blush as if blood were leaking from the slice. You feel your face heat up as your heartbeat quickens, the blood pulsing just beneath the surface. It becomes harder to gulp, too, as your throat dries, your voice stagnating and burrowing deep within your courage.
You turn to where the cut came from. Long-dead abilities revive within you. The sound of precipitation distorts as things come to a dead halt. Raindrops disobey gravity. People freeze in place, their stride suddenly stopping.
And yet she still walks toward you. Even if you stop time, she still walks toward you. Even if you’ve been broken up for all those years, she still walks toward you.
~Le Sserafim's Eunchae (x Male Reader), Smut, 5.2k words, Cafe Cuties Part 6 (previous part)
Read it on Fanprose
“Will it count towards my hours?” you ask, knowing it’ll egg her on.
“You’re the supervisor now! It comes with extra responsibilities,” she rolls her eyes. She’s still naked in your bed, wrapped around your arms.
“Just not sure about doing… free labour. Especially since you, Ms. Manager, are a walking HR violation I have to deal with every day. Seems this job is getting more and more sweatshoppy.”
Chaewon pinches your arm. “I’m an HR violation? You came on my face in the supply closet.”
“Only because you asked for a massage.”
“Well you—” she drones on.
Yeah, safe to say you and Chaewon are back to normal.
2 minutes ago she was asleep soundly in your bed. But when her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at you with a smile, to then talk about work! You knew you had to tease her. Anyway, despite your bickering, you make a mental note that, on Chaewon’s orders, you and Yunjin are to hang posters around the city sometime this week.
“I’m using your shower, get a towel ready for me,” Chaewon demands.
---
Things are mostly back to normal now that you and Chaewon are on good terms. And by good terms, you mean Chaewon calling you in the wee hours of the night asking: “Why isn’t the time sheet updated?”, or “You ordered way too much milk today”. Yeah, supervisor duties. Still, though, it’s nice that you can talk back to her when she does call.
And of course, that talking back isn’t really talking back, just banter.
So it’s weird that you still feel like something is off. Hmm, maybe it’s your spring allergies.
But when you’re walking home from work one night (alone, Eunchae was in a rush and left on her own), throat clear of mucus, you realize it can’t be spring allergies. No, actually, it’s Eunchae.
It’s hard to pinpoint what about Eunchae. In fact, you were just goofing off together on your shift. She still smiles mischievously whenever she’s purposefully being annoying— which is pretty much all the time. And of course you don’t actually find it annoying, you just pretend you do because it makes Eunchae laugh.
It’s in your head, then. Yeah, she’ll text you tonight anyway, You guys are good.
But you fall asleep with your phone in your hand, still silent.
---
“Wanna come? We’re going Sunday,” you say, shining a glass cup in your hand for the sixth time.
“I think that glass is streak-free,” Eunchae nods. “And you want me to come hang posters?”
“Yeah, it’ll be fun!”
“Right,” she says sarcastically, “fun.”
“Oh, come on,” you whine, leaning back on the counter. “You have to come!” You say with oh so much more vigour than you usually would.
“You sound like me,” she laughs. “Can we like, do something else?”
“Something else? I’m pretty busy this week— what did you have in mind?”
She leans back on the counter, foot stretching out towards you. It lands on your thigh, dangerously close to your nether region.
“I think we could think of something.” She smiles.
You’re taken aback that there’s a foot (shoe and everything!) on your thigh, but also because she’s being so blatantly flirty.
But should you be? You stand there stunned, but yeah, you should’ve known this. Eunchae has been asking you to hang out, even insinuating things she’d like to do with you ever since, oh, your little escapade in the washroom.
And then there was last week, where you spent pretty well all your time making posters, save for a moment - a moment where you walked her home and declared: ‘you’re my best friend, Eunchae’. You haven’t really been acting like it, though.
She sees your hesitation, and says “right, next time then,” and it’s not bitter. That’s what kills you the most, really. That she’s not even bitter about it. She doesn’t hold it against you because she knows you’re busy, or at least, she’s trying not to seem like she is. What was that she told you at that staff party all those weeks ago? That she used to be… pushy? And she didn’t want to be anymore?
She turns towards the kitchen.
“Wait!” You scream, which is weird, because she’s still only 3 feet away from you.
She turns back, something in her eyes lighting up.
“Saturday! I’m free Saturday.”
The smile on her face makes your heart skip a beat. “Okay, Saturday then.”
“Just you and me.”
---
You look around your apartment, figuring out what the hell to wear.
The plan to ‘hang out’ has immediate effects - the texts Eunchae usually showers you with late at night return in full force, and you think: maybe this is easy. Eunchae isn’t so much high maintenance, just, needs some love.
And you today, Saturday, you plan on giving her that love.
Coming in sweats seems okay, right? Or is that much too casual? No, you don’t think so. She’s been dropping— no launching hints at you. Hints that she wants to… fuck again. It’s weird, thinking about it. Yeah, you always do somehow end up making love to almost every girl in your life. Except Yunjin. But planning to do that? Going over to Eunchae’s for the express purpose of sex? It feels strangely embarrassing.
And plus, you just told her you were her best friend. Is this the sort of stuff best friends do? You sure as hell didn’t do it with your high school best friend. Would’ve been an awkward endeavor with one too many sticks involved.
The more you think about it, the less normal it seems. But what’s there to do? It’s Eunchae. She’s bright, funny, a beacon of laughter whenever you need it, so cute she could make a mime chuckle. But she’s also unbelievably hot at times. Yeah, maybe those times are when her body is pressed against yours, which again, is the root of the problem.
You’re definitely weak willed, because just the thought of her body pressed against you is enough to steel your resolve. Gray sweats it is.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” She asks, judgmental smile lining her face.
“Yeah, what’s wrong with it?”
“I thought we were hanging out?” She asks.
“Yeah, me too. I’m so ready to hang out.” You say, overenunciating the last words to indicate innuendo.
She cracks the door open a little more, revealing a nice pair of jeans and a white tube top.
Fuck. “Oh-”
“It’s okay, I think you look cute. Where did you want to go?” She slides out of her apartment, and her outfit really is nice. Yours pales in comparison, which seems pretty common for you these days.
“Maybe a cafe?” you ask. It’d at least explain your super casual clothing choice if you planned to go to a cafe.
“A cafe? Really? We work at a cafe.”
“Oh, right.” Well this is going horribly. You’re so damn embarrassed that you thought this was a hookup, and it’s clearly messing with you. You can barely talk to her straight. And to add onto that, the realization that this is basically a date hits you, and it’s almost as bad as the hookup confusion.
But it’s Eunchae— she’s sweet and comfortable and reminds you of coffee and she takes your hand in hers. It helps that it doesn’t really mean anything. There’s no pretense in it. When she says “Wanna go shopping then?” the grasp of your hand really just means ‘let’s go’.
It comforts you, reminds you that yeah, this is Eunchae. You can be yourself.
“Sure,” you say.
She tugs you a bit, leading you out of the building. She lets go of your hand by the time you’re walking to the mall, because again, there’s no pretense in it, but once you reach your destination, she grabs you again, dragging you off to the different stores.
“You really do think my outfit is embarrassing!”
“I never said that,” she says, lining up a pair of jeans over your legs, before switching them out with another pair. “Sweats can be a great staple to any wardrobe!”
“And do you think I wore them well?”
“Never said that either.” She smiles when the next pair of jeans hovers over you. “These are nice. Hey, wanna play a game?”
You answer with hesitation, because you’ve known Eunchae long enough to know the games she plays sometimes come with a price. “What kind of game?”
Her eyes find yours, and they have that twinkle in them, the same one that’s there whenever she’s in her playful mood, which, to be honest is most of the time. You’ve missed this, missed just, hanging out with her. You paint a suspicious look on your face, but you know probably as well as she does, whatever she says, you’re gonna say yes.
Luckily, it’s actually pretty harmless. “Let’s each pick out an outfit for each other!”
“Y-you trust me to do that?”
Her smile goes soft. “I know you’ll make me look cute. Plus, I’ve seen you dress up before,” and leaning in close, she whispers, “and I know you only wore these sweats because you were planning to fuck me.” She says it quiet, almost too quiet, and it’s jarring based on how the rest of the day has gone.
“Eunchae!?” You yelp, even though it’s misplaced, because she’s hit it right on the mark.
“Hmm?” she plays oblivious. “Anyway, meet here in 10 minutes with an outfit. Make me look cute~”
Your brain is a haze, but you manage to pick out an outfit you think she’d like. A miracle, really. Flipping through all the clothes, you tried to imagine her in them, but then you’d remember her breath on your ear, whispering to you that she knows how bad you want to fuck her. And then the clothes you were imagining her with disappear.
You shake the thought from your head, going back to the middle of the store to meet up with her. And of course, she’s not there. It’s nearly another 10 minutes before she comes back, toothy smile lining her face.
“What happened to an outfit?” you ask, gesturing to the 4 pairs of pants and 6 tops she’s carrying.
“I couldn’t just choose one! What’d you get me?”
You sheepishly hold up the plaid skirt, button up shirt and checkered sleeveless knit, unable to help the feeling you’ve been one upped. “I was going for like, a preppy look. I thought it would be cute.”
Eunchae tosses a couple of items on a nearby clothing wrack, holding up a similarly preppy looking outfit. “Looks like we’re matching!”
“I don’t know, I’d say you altered the probability a bit,” you say rolling your eyes playfully.
“No, I think we just think alike!”
After much convincing (puppy eyes are dangerous), Eunchae convinces you to buy the outfits (”You’re my supervisor now! Supervisors treat their employees!”), and leave wearing them.
It’s definitely a confidence booster. You remember how you felt when that TikTok went viral, and all the comments clowned you for getting face caked. You remember how hundreds of men flocked to the store after that, just to get a look at the two cute girls that did the face caking. You hope some of those men are here now, watching you get dragged along to the various shops of the mall, outfits matching.
“You know I had a weird strategy when I was in elementary school,” Eunchae says shortly after leaving a cosmetic store. “If I had a crush on someone, I’d buy them a candle, or facemasks.”
“That’s not so weird is it?”
“Yeah, but do you know why?”
“Hmm. No. No idea.”
“Because a candle fills an entire room with a scent! And, if they associate that scent with me, then whenever they’re in that room, they’d be thinking of me!”
“Smart,” you chuckle. “Did it ever work?”
“Yeah, but I’m also cute, so that could be a factor.”
“Good point. What about the facemasks?”
She smiles proudly. “Well, when do you do facemasks?”
“I guess… I do them before I go to bed.”
“Exactly! So I thought if someone were to do a facemask I got them before they slept, they’d have dreams about me.”
“Well, that one seems like a little bit of a stretch,” you chuckle.
“Wanna test it out?”
“What do you mean?”
She reaches into her arm bag, pulling out a candle and some facemasks. You take them slowly, and before the implication can settle in, she grabs your hand again, pulling you away again.
The rest of the mall trip goes by almost too fast. A lot more stores, pretzels, and ice cream, but eventually, it’s time to go home.
“I wonder how Chaewon’s doing,” she says as you leave the building. “That new hire is working, right? Hope he’s not a weirdo.”
“He won’t be! I personally hired him. Did the interview and everything.”
“Wow, good job Mr. Supervisor.”
The nickname gives you PTSD. “Don’t call me that!”
“Hehe~ d-do you wanna go check on the store? It’s on the way,” she asks, but her voice is different. Cautious. You have no idea what to make of it, so, you just answer honestly.
“On my day off? Not particularly, no.”
“Hmm.”
“Did you want to?”
Eunchae wraps and arm around your bicep this time, your hands being full of shopping bags. “Nope! Let’s go drop this stuff off.”
The walk there is mostly silent, but Eunchae still clings to your arm. There’s been a pep to her step all day, you’re not sure Eunchae knows how to operate without it, that boundless energy, but for some reason, it’s softer now.
You don’t even mind the silence though. It’s nice, just being here beside Eunchae. Ever since you’ve started at Cozy’s, things have been crazy, even more so once you became supervisor. Except those first few weeks, getting close to Chaewon and Eunchae in that empty cafe. Those times were peaceful. This reminds you of that.
The thought of how you started the day off, with sweats and an expectation to fuck doesn’t even cross your mind.
“Help me take the bags up?” she asks when you approach her apartment building.
“Of course.”
You’re getting that feeling, when things are about to end, the day having been spent when you don’t want it to. That bittersweet line between exhaustion and wanting to keep the fun going.
She lets you into her apartment, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve been here. You plop her bags at near her front door, some pocket you can reach without intruding too far with your shoes on. You don’t want to make the same mistake as last time in assuming you’re allowed to stay.
“Tea?” she asks right on cue.
You’re plopped down on her couch, tired after a long day out. It feels later than it is, because it’s only 4pm and you could crash right now. You sit up as Eunchae approaches, half because you could use a tea right now, and half because it looks like there’s purpose to her movements.
She puts your tea on the coffee table, sitting down on the floor between the couch and it. She lets the silence sit there for a bit, not the same as the walk home.
“I really had fun today,” she says.
“I did too, Eunchae.” You can tell she’s weighing things, deciding whether to say something. Maybe she has been the whole silent walk home. “You okay?”
“Yeah!” she says, a little too loud.
“Eunchae,” you say, sliding off the couch and onto the floor next to her. “Remember what I told you that night we— that night at Chaewon’s? We’re friends. Friends tell each other things,” you say. It’s not like this is surprising that she has something to say. It’s why you planned to go out with her in the first place. Because you could tell, something was off.
“I just—” she hesitates.
“I know, you don’t want to be pushy. But you can be, Eunchae. You’re pushy, you like when people tell you things, you like sharing your feelings with others. It’s one of the things I love about you most.”
She sits there for a bit, and you faintly remember that night in Chaewon’s apartment, where you both sat on the floor in front of a couch, and opened up to each other. “I thought you didn’t have room for me anymore.”
It’s a fair accusation, but it still pains you all the same. “Eunchae—”
“It’s just— I know I’d always ask to hang out, and I know you couldn’t because you were busy. But every time I’d ask and you’d say ‘not this time’, or ‘I have to help Yunjin,’ I thought I was being too pushy, annoying you by pestering you all the time. And then you became supervisor, and I didn’t want to keep on annoying you.”
“Eunchae, I— why didn’t you tell me?”
“How could I?”
“What do you mean, you can tell me anything.”
“It’s not like I thought you were ignoring me or anything. I just thought, I don’t know, you didn’t have the capacity for me outside of work.”
You shift on the floor, angle yourself towards her. “Eunchae, I will always have time*—*” but you stop yourself, because if you’re honest, she’s right. You haven’t been making time for her.
“I’ve seen how stressed you were over Chaewon the last couple weeks, I would see you put yourself out there to help Yunjin with posters, and I just kept thinking, ‘is there a place for me in this store anymore?’ The three of you felt so tapped in, and I don’t know, I care about the store, but it’s— I care about the people more. And I think I show that by, doing whatever it is I do that probably annoyed you in the first place”
“Eunchae, you mean so much to all of us! Never once have you annoyed me! I was— I know it’s not an excuse, but things have been busy.”
She hugs her knees. “Even saying this now, I feel so stupid. And it is a real excuse! All of you are so busy, and I feel like I’m like some kid begging for attention. It’s like I never changed. Like that same pushy kid that lost her old life, her old friends is still here.”
“But that’s not you at all!” You say, because you can see exactly how she came to that conclusion in her head, but you don’t really have the words to articulate how much of a fool she is for thinking that. “You can be pushy with me any time you want.”
She sniffles. “I can?”
“I’ve said it before, Eunchae. I mean it.”
“O-okay. Then, you still have room for me right?”
“What did I tell you last time?”
A choked chuckle comes out. “That’s right. We’re best friends. You know, I was so happy when you asked me to hang out. I’d been asking you for so long, I almost just gave up. Settled for only being your coworker. And I didn’t want to take it out on you, didn’t want to harbour any bitterness.”
“Well, I’m glad I asked you. Really. And I mean it, you really are my best friend.”
She heaves a heavy sigh, the relief of who knows how long she’s been feeling this way released. She leans a head on your shoulder. “That’s why came with sweatpants ready to fuck, right? Because we’re best friends?”
You can feel your cheeks go red. “Well— you’ve been asking for it for so long!”
“And you’ve been dodging me for so long.”
“Are we really talking about this right after, I don’t know, that heavy emotional stuff!?” You say incredulously, but it’s a good indicator that the conversation has taken a turn, and although neither of you have really apologized, it’s a sign that everything is okay.
“It’s relevant.”
“When did you become so bold, Eunchae? You were so shy when—”
“What, when you fucked me on Chaewon’s floor while she was sleeping 2 feet away?”
“Yeah, that.”
“Well luckily now, we have the whole apartment to ourselves.”
The implications are obvious, especially considering Eunchae has done this countless times within the past few weeks. This time, though, it won’t just be an empty invitation. This time, you’ll indulge her, half as an apology for making her feel like she didn’t have a place, and half because she looks so fucking good.
You’re surprised when, instead of jumping you like she did in the washroom of Cozy’s weeks ago, she rushes to the door. She fiddles with the shopping bags, and she’s back, this time with the candle she got you.
“Now, every time you light this, every time you smell this candle, you’ll remember what’s about to happen.” She says, placing the now lit candle on the table.
“Oh? And what’s about to happen?” You ask, as the scent of coffee and caramel fills the room.
She drags you by the arms, lifting you up, and her lips find yours with vigour. You know in your mind that this means something, more than you let yourselves say. There’s the candle and the facemasks, the implications of why she got it for you. There’s that want that she expressed, for her to be more important in your life, for her to have a bigger space in your heart, and it’s all framed with the casualness of it all.
She flirts, advances on you like it doesn’t mean anything. But it does— the fact that you’re not always available, clearly it hurts her. And you’re not sure what it means to you, but it does mean something.
It’s not like you can convey this in just words, so you do it with your lips as the candle burns beside you. She tastes like you remember her tasting— why would she taste any different? But it’s telling the way that familiarity eggs you on more, causes your tongues to clash even harder.
It’s problematic, probably. The way your conversation flipped from something important, from feelings to physical like the flip of a switch, but you can’t stop now. You don’t even realize your hands are practically tearing her clothes off.
“Mmm— you’re gonna ruin our matching clothes,” she says all breathy.
“Let them get ruined,” you say.
“W-wait, they’re cute.”
Your hands work to get them off anyway. “They’re just clothes.”
“But y-you got them for me. They’re important.” She huffs.
You break away from her lips, and you remember that this is Eunchae. She likes to act bold, she’s been asking for this, for sex for weeks, but when it comes down to it, she’s a softy, and things like this really matter to her. That bold act was just her way of making you pay attention to her.
You take her in, the way her chest heaves with heavy breaths, the red in her cheeks. Your hand fixes the collar of her shirt, the one you rumpled in the heat of the kiss.
She gives you a smile. It takes a lot not to jump back in while she undresses. She even takes a moment to neatly fold the clothes. She takes her shirt off first, and you see her luscious breasts, those brown button nipples you’ve been wanting to taste again, but you let her go slowly.
You almost lose it when she takes her skirt off, revealing her blue panties, before taking those off too, but then she looks at you, eyebrows raised. “Well, your turn.”
It’s so unbelievably Eunchae, the slowness of it all. The care of it. It frames her boldness earlier in a different light, like she’s been craving this.
So you take your clothes off too. It’s embarrassing, really, her naked, watching you undress. But it’s worth it, because when you finally do, she crashes her lips back on yours. This time, you can feel her skin on yours, the softness of her pressing against you. You wrap your arms around her waist softly, letting your yourself savour the feel of her skin.
“This is different,” you say between breaths.
“What do you mean different?” She asks, hands roaming your chest.
“I just thought, after that time in the bathroom, you’d grown more bold.”
“Are you calling me sex-crazed?” She pushed you onto the couch, legs enclosing you. You can feel the warmth of her pussy scrape your cock, but she doesn’t move to put it in.
“Never said that.”
“Do you want me to be more bold?”
You pull her closer, and you feel her wetness on your pelvis. Your cock strains, but this moment is too tense, like any sudden movement can break it, so you just hold her.
“I want you to be Eunchae,” you say.
She rests her forehead on yours. “That time in the bathroom, do you think that wasn’t me?”
You climb your hands up her waist, across her silky back, snaking them to the front and finding her breasts. “No, that was you. A version of you.”
“And what’s this?”
You find her nipples, giving them a soft pinch. “This— it’s more real.”
She squirms as you pinch, lips finding yours again.
The heat between you two is almost unbearable, and you want to feel her. Want to be inside of her.
“Eunchae— I’m sorry,” you say almost out of desperation. “Sorry for— for making you feel lonely.”
“I’m not lonely right now,” she says.
You kiss down her face, finding her neck. You latch onto it, kissing and sucking it softly.
“Nngh, shit.” She moves her pelvis, finding your cock. She doesn’t let it enter just yet, just slides her pussy up and down the shaft with gentle movements.
You want to enter her, to feel her around you, but you can barely move your hips with how good this feels.
“Eunchae—” you moan. “Eunchae, this, I—”
“What,” she moans. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want to— nngh— to feel you again.”
She lifts her hips slightly, just enough to reach a hand down to your manhood, positioning it at her entrance.
“Fuck,” you moan, and she moans too.
You nearly explode as she lowers herself on your body. You’ve felt her before, but this time it’s different. Maybe it’s that damn candle, filling the room, maybe it’s her smooth skin, rubbing on yours, maybe it’s the confusion of it all, the feelings that she just shared.
She bottoms out, and it proves too much. Her head drops on your chest.
“Jesus, Eunchae. You— you feel so fucking good.” And you know in your heart, this isn’t what best friends do. This is something more. But you can’t let yourself think that, because if you do, your head might explode. There’s another you feel this way towards too, which complicates things even further, and going down that path, thinking about Chaewon in this moment would do nothing good.
Eunchae props herself up, and the absence of warmth of her pressed against your chest is missed, but you open your eyes, and you can see her naked body slowly bounce on top of you.
It’s almost like she’s a different person than the one you’ve been ignoring, reaching out for attention. The pressure on your cock, the feeling of her walls against you increases tenfold as you take her in. Her face, screwed up in pleasure, her breasts, bouncing slightly, her hair, all over the place, you don’t know how you ever let it go this long without giving her what she’s wanted.
You lift her off of you slowly, and she shudders at your absence, but you lay her down on the couch, positioning yourself at her entrance. You’re over top of her now, and her eyes are closed with expectancy.
You can’t delay it any longer if you tried. You enter her, strokes still slow and sensual.
“Nnngh— shit, Eunchae,” you groan as her head rolls back in pleasure.
You collapse on top of her in the pleasure, cock still lodged inside of her.
“I’ve been waiting for this for so long,” she breaths. “Fuck, give it to me.”
You increase your speed, just by a little, but you both feel the effects. Your pelvis is a mess of her wetness, and every time you slide in and out of her is heaven.
Her body arches as you continue to pump. You finally find the strength to prop yourself up, find a better angle to thrust. You take a hand, find her clit while she squirms.
She tightens immediately around you. “Holy— nngh. I’m gonna- fuck- I’m gonna cum.”
“Cum for me,” you continue thrusting.
She grabs the forearm that’s rubbing her clit tightly, as her walls do the same to your piece. “Fu-fuck,” she cums.
You bottom out, feeling her walls convulse around you, and the pressure inside of you your pelvis starts to rise as well.
You slowly pull out, not all the way, just enough to see the strings of her cum connect your pelvises, before slowly pushing back in. The pleasure grows to a peak, it crawls up your spine. “I’m gonna cum too, Eunchae.”
She reaches up to you, pulling you back into her embrace, lips crashing against yours.
You fight it for as long as you can, pumping in and out of her, but soon, you lose control. You explode inside of her, shooting your hot spunk inside of her. Even then, as you cum, you don’t stop pumping, until the last of your load is spilled.
Only then do you collapse on top of her, both of you breathy.
“Jesus, Eunchae,” you groan. You slowly pull out, a trail of your liquids gushing out of her pussy.
“Th-that was amazing,” she moans, hugging you tightly.
The candle burns brightly beside you.
You let the moment sit between you. You know this complicates things even further, you know that at the end of the day, allowing things to continue so casually is probably a bad thing. Hell, you knew that the first time. But none of that matters in the moment. For now, you’re not coworkers, you’re not even best friends. You’re just you and Eunchae, laying on her couch.
You stay there for a while.
---
“Come on, these posters aren’t going to hang themselves!” Yunjin yells, gesturing you forward. “What the hell happened? You look like a zombie.”
“Just tired,” you say, unfurling some tape for her.
She hangs the advert on a lamp post.
“Do we really need these posters? I feel like that TikTok brought in enough customers already.”
“Well, they can’t hurt can they. Let’s go across the street. That side gets more foot traffic anyway.”
“Mmmk. Are you sure we don’t need like, permits or anything?” You question.
“To hang a piece of paper? No,” she says, crossing the street without looking.”
“Hey, be careful. Anyway, I think-”
“What the hell!?” Yunjin yells once she gets to the other side, tearing another poster off the wall. “Look at this!”
“What’s the problem?”
“Look!” She hands you the paper, and it’s a poster quite similar to yours, with the words ‘opening soon!’ in bold letters framing the page.
“So, another cafe is opening? Big deal. There’s a million cafe’s all across the city.”
“Look at the address!” she yells.
You do, and, as if challenging what you’ve built, the address is written in bold black letters.
“Shit,” you sigh. “This is right across the street from Cozy’s”.
---
A/N:
Hey all, finally, it's here. I know it's been a while, and this chapter is kind of all over the place. Definitely not where I want it to be (I know I say this for every damn chapter I release lol). But I just can't delay this any longer. Cafe Cuties is my baby, the story that got me to where I am today. But idk, let me know what you think!
Tags/TW: angst and drama, edgy and unsettling, mentions and description of all the bad things, a cruel story in four acts, no smut, but mentions of sex, desire, depression and mostly suicide
Thanks for 9.090 followers!
(A/N: The worst way to return with sth unsexy that I had lying around. Make of it what you will - I had different plans for this, but I'm happy I got something done. This is fic no. 149. One more to go!)
“Finally!”
“Let’s get outta here.”
“I’m so hungry, God.”
“Jake, where is my—”
“Everyone, settle down! The bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do!”
A collective groan, some curses in the back of the class, someone drops his backpack. Oh, how cliche.
“Let’s just finish this final paragraph, okay?”
“Fine. I’ll read it.”
“Then we’ll have this shit over with.”
“No cursing in my classroom!”
Snickers from the girls to your right, quick, mindless reading to your left, someone drops a pen. Didn't this happen yesterday?
“Very well done. Class is over, have a nice weekend.”
“But Ma’am, it’s only Thursday.”
“Oh. My bad. Then we’ll see each other tomorrow.”
Two dozens of bags get lifted from the ground, books and paper crammed into tight spaces, someone drops their smartphone. Yes, definitely deja vu.
“Shit!”
“Well done, Yena. I bet it’s cracked now.”
The slow turn of a delicate hand. Hundreds of scratches make the glass look like a spider’s uncarefully spread web. Someone cracks a laugh. Am I dreaming?
“I told you. Now, now, don’t cry. I’ll get you some ice cream, hm~?
Yena’s sobs and Chaewon’s coos can still be heard down the hallway. You shake your head in disbelief. Of course, this exact scenario didn't happen yesterday. It is as close to impossible as winning the yearly lottery daily, but your feeling of deja vu remains. The days blend into one another, nothing significantly changes.
The setting? The same. No one is going to paint over the old, dirty walls of this school to give them a new color, new life. They remain as a seemingly immovable constant, just like the yellow lights at the ceiling or the barely cleaned windows separating the outside from the classroom and the classroom from the floor. Maybe the weather changes, but at this point you’re even uncertain of that. Gray clouds lay on the world, an impenetrable layer that reeks of rain.
The time? The same. Your school's schedule is its most stable factor. The principal enforcing it is as certain as taxes and death. If too many teachers are missing to fill in the gaps, he himself will step in to ensure the absolute maximum of education, even if it’s 5pm. Part of this tyrannical precision is the teacher’s right to extend a lesson past the bell’s ring. It is utterly ineffective, as no one actually listens anymore, but it will never change.
The characters? The same. Not a day goes by where mostly bubbly Yena isn’t whining about something, be it the grandest of issues or a lost hair. Her best friend Chaewon is always on her side. With her calm, kind words and envious patience she is the perfect Yin to Yena’s Yang. Then there is Eunbi, the class representative, with amazing grades, amazing visuals and eyes colder than the arctis. Sakura is everyone’s crush, a girl who adores video games, looks absolutely beautiful and is a social magnet. Sadly for all the boys, she only has eyes for girls.
You could go on and on about all the other colorful characters in your class, friends, enemies, classmates, but it all leads to the same hole. The hole of repetitiveness. Not only the lives around you seem to be in an endless loop— you play along perfectly. Your thought processes all wander off into similar directions, your banter with Jimin and Chan is always about the same topics, hell, even your yawns during Mrs. Bae’s classes are perfectly timed. Day in day out, you always stay to your routine.
Isn’t it time to break out? To stand up and instead of going home, go to a friend's house? Walk through the park for another hour? Run downtown to eat some fresh churros? Your desire to break out grows, but it cannot overcome your rationale telling you:
Why am I concerned about this? Everyday life looks similar at times. So what.
A shuffle. The sound of a chair scratching over the floor brings the battle ensuing in your mind to a screeching halt and you jump. Someone is still in the classroom with you. This is unusual. Usually, you are the last one to leave. You don’t need to take a train or bus to get home, it’s just a fifteen minute walk, so unlike your classmates, you don’t need to hurry to the awfully timed public transportation. Today, however, someone decided to break with the loop.
You turn your head to search for the culprit. In the last row, someone sleeps, their head on their crossed arms, chair pushed lightly back to make the position more comfortable. In your many years of school, you have seen a couple of students sleep like this, even during class. Mingi was one of them, but he transferred last year. Yoongi as well, but he got his act together and is almost on par with Eunbi in terms of grades.
You are sure it’s her when you see chestnut-colored hair dripping down on all sides of her head. Kim Minju, the quietest person in the class. It’s been years since you heard her speak a word louder than a whisper. She is always reserved, unapproachable and frankly, you sometimes forget she is still in the same class as you. She is a fitting last remaining option for someone sleeping at their desk.
“Hey,” you speak into the room, waiting for Minju to react. She does, by lifting her head up from the scratched surface of her table. Her eyes, slightly hidden by hair all over her face, dart around the room until they find you.
“Hey,” she says in a sleepy voice. You can’t help but smile. Minju looks somewhat adorable and helpless like this. Although most of her expression is behind curtains of brown locks, she looks like a lost child searching for her parents in a crowded theme park.
“Are you okay? Don’t you want to go home?”
“Later.”
“Later? But class is already over.”
“You’re still here too.”
You chuckle a little. Her voice sounds like she is still in dreamland and her head is unable to be upright. She lays on her arms once more. She is odd and you can’t help but be intrigued by it. Carefully, you stand up and take the seat next to her. Minju looks at you with surprise in her damp eyes. You wish you could read them better as she hasn’t shown signs of being talkative.
“This must not be comfortable. I’d choose a bed over this any day.”
“It’s fine.”
You sigh as Minju turns her face away from you. This has been fun while it lasted, but she is frustrating to talk to. If she’d resent you, she would have already told you to piss off, but with this not being the case you feel like you’re just annoying her.
“Your choice. I’ll go now though.”
“Okay.”
“See you tomorrow!”
No further words from her. Minju is clearly not mentally in this place. Is this the fate of those who only dream and don’t listen in class, you ask yourself while stepping out of the room. If so, she needs to be pulled out of it quickly. Somehow.
#
Today is not going to be the same. This sentiment has been stuck in your mind ever since you woke up. However, you haven’t really acted like it. Your alarm went off the same minute it always does, you listen to the same three songs while chewing on your favorite cereal and watching the same show. Teeth brushing and time to sprint to school have remained at their bare minimum, hell, the list could go on and on. Your sentiment has just been a faint thought. Until you step into the classroom.
“And then, and then he didn’t respond.”
“Aw, I think it will be fine. You wrote him so late, he probably just fell asleep.”
“Everyone, please stay calm! The teacher is coming.”
Yena is whining about something, some boy from the grade above or below. Again. Chaewon is comforting her with the patience of all the angels in all the heavens. Again. Eunbi is urging everyone to sit down with pronounced gestures and a loud voice. Again. It’s like you’ve heard these exact sentences before. This is beyond absurd and you have to do something. You will do something.
Before Mrs. Kang starts the lesson, you take a longer route to your desk. With full intention, you pass by Minju’s desk and knock on it twice. Like yesterday, her messy head lifts from her arms and you try to find her eyes through the veil of her greasy hair.
Doing something absurd like this has left you without a plan, without any words to speak, so you just put on a dumb smile. Minju doesn’t return it. She simply flops back onto her arms. It’s like reality is forcing everyone into their positions and if you don’t fight back, it might just get you as well. You sit down on your chair and look at the unamused girl as the first couple of lines are drawn onto the board.
The lesson comes and goes like a soft wind. As soon as Mrs. Kang wraps it up, you have already forgotten everything she said. Your mind is solely stuck on how to get this terrible loop of everyday life out of your system. For some reason, you feel that the answer is with Minju, this one girl you never had anything to do with. She looks like the epitome, the greatest victim of the problem. It's time you do something for real, with a proper plan.
“Hey,” you approach her again, as the rest of your classmates fall into their usual, loud chaos.
“Hey,” Minju responds. It scares you how she has the same tone as yesterday. Maybe she hasn’t had enough sleep and rushes to school just for attendance. Her hair has also not been washed, it’s even dirtier and messier now. She kind of reminds you of a lone wolf, abandoned by everyone.
“Uhm, I don’t know how to say this and maybe I’ll sound stupid, but—”
You grab yourself a chair and sit down in front of Minju’s table. Finally, she is bestowing you with a look over her folded arms.
“—I noticed, like, how do I put it, everything is so repetitive and bland, it’s really bugging me.”
“You think so?” she whispers dryly.
“Of course! Everyone is saying the same stuff, does the same stuff, like—just look at Yena! She is always whining. And Jimin is always teasing Jun. And you’re always sleeping. I’m sorry, it’s just bothering me.”
You end your small tantrum with a sigh and hope that none of the mentioned took notice of it. It felt good letting off this steam, you were really pent up until now. However, you doubt that it was the right way to start a conversation with someone who is basically a stranger.
To your surprise, Minju starts to sit upright and plug some of her long strands behind her cute ear. Her eyes scrutinize you while her face remains blank, unamused. Then she bluntly speaks, almost at a normal volume:
“Uh-huh, and why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want to do something I have surely never done. Something that will end this vicious circle at least for a day, maybe two.”
“You can do that on your own. Why do you need me for that?”
“W-well, I think maybe it could be something interesting for you too.”
Minju still doesn’t look convinced. Who could blame her? The way you come out of nowhere and act like a slightly crazy person wouldn't convince most people to take action. In panic you stare at the ground to your left, to your right, trying to find some words to explain yourself, before—
“Hmph, you are weird. Would it be enough if we met on the weekend?”
You look at Minju in surprise. Did she just suggest that? The whisper, the calm, dry voice with not too much enthusiasm couldn’t be anyone else.
“I think we never saw each other on a non-school day, so why don’t we just meet at the gate?”
“I knew you would understand me!” you shout triumphantly and almost jump from your chair, “We can meet at the gate and see where the day leads us. You okay with that, Minju-ah?”
Minju nods slowly and a faint smile appears on her adorable cheeks. You find it amazing how she still looks so pretty, even with her lack of make-up and wild hair. She could look superbly stunning with just a bit more care put towards her face, hair and body. But you won’t judge her on that. Maybe she just had a bad day. Maybe she never cared about stuff like this in general.
“Great, then we’ll see each other the day after tomorrow?”
“Okay.”
#
Tap. Tap. Tap. The tip of your blue and gray shoes hit the paved ground in front of the closed gate. After all these years, it’s the first time you notice how smooth the black rocks beneath you are. All the footwear scratching over them for all those years polished them to the point where faint sunlight gets reflected.
It’s been quite a while since you woke up this excited. Your alarm went off at nine and with an unbridled excitement and unwarranted, but great expectation, you filled your backpack. Water, snacks, spare clothes, small games, more snacks—it’s like you prepared for a children's birthday party, sleepover included.
And like a child you stormed out of the house, early enough to not annoy your parents and take a very different route. You wandered through small alleyes, the smell of rain still oozing from the gray asphalt and beige walls. Although you enjoyed it, you wished for the sun to come out—rain, rain, go away—you are literally a child and for today, that is okay.
Your wish came true. The light gray of the clouds was no match for the sun and small patches of sky blue pop up with every minute you wait. Now, it’s only Minju who is missing. The catalyst for why you finally got over the hump and out of the lulling everyday life. She’ll be here any minute. She’s never been late for school, something she obviously isn’t very fond of, so she won’t be late for this either.
But why her? Why did it take her for you to do something like this? There is a weekend for your taking every five school days. You could’ve just ran out or called a friend and do anything but mold in your room for endless hours. It might be the thrill of something absurd, new, unnecessary but necessary. Your questions come to a halt when you hear footsteps.
You look up to see all the perfect variations of brown. Minju wears a wool dress with a stylish checkered pattern in various dirty colors, orange, green but mainly brown. Underneath the dress, a tight, cozy looking turtle neck wraps around her torso and arms in the color of chocolate chip cookies. Across her chest is the leather sling of her almost black handbag. Above all however, is the brown of her hair. Not greasy and unwashed as the days before, but smooth and combed, tugged behind her ear it hides her shoulders. Brunette excellence that delights your heart.
She stops before you. With an awkward sway, she avoids looking at you. The way her lips press together looks adorable, you can’t help but smile and disrupt the silence.
“Hello, Minju! So awesome that you could make it.”
“He-hey,” she waves at you instead of keeping eye contact for long. This seems to not be her cup of tea, but you won’t let your mood get dampened. She will hopefully get into it.
“I had a lot of ideas of what we could do,” you begin and straighten your back. Even like this, you aren’t that much taller than the girl wearing her, of course, brown shoes, “But first, I wanted to know what you think. What are you feeling today?”
“What I feel?”
Her eyes force your attention on them. Now that you can look into them mostly undisrupted with better lighting than in the classroom, you see a certain dullness, listlessness, even lifelessness in them. It takes you out of your childish dreams, the naivete that builds up. You take a step closer towards her. She tenses up.
“I-I just mean, what you felt like doing today. If you’re not feeling well or anything, that’s fine. A-are you—”
“No, no, it’s okay.”
She laughs it off with a wave of her soft hands and takes a step back. You can feel that something is off. Maybe you got her on a bad day. Or maybe even in a bad time, judging from how she looked throughout the week. It’s not the perfect day to make her jump over some mental barriers. Or maybe, this is the perfect day after all. The day to wake up, to get life back into your veins, to feel it again.
You smile at her and scratch the back of your head.
“Okay then. Do you have anything in mind? Your dress looks unfit for a round of rugby, so I guess…”
“Wait, what?” Minju furrows her eyebrows, but then falls into laughter when she sees your playful smirk, “Oh, for a second I thought!”
You see her laughing face for just a split second before she hides it behind her hand. It’s cute, heartwarming even and you instinctively join her. In this moment, where all tension is lost in a simple joke, you forget that this is the first time you heard Minju laugh. In your presence, she’s never been this loud and bright before.
It’s like the clouds open just a tad bit more—the same way your relationship might open up a bit more on this simple day.
“I can’t believe you thought that, Minju-ah. How should I fit a rugby ball and a dozen other players in this backpack?” you playfully mock her and she gets shy, while still giggling.
“I dunno, I’m sorry. That was just dumb.”
“Nuh-uh, you’re fun. I might not have a ball inside here, but I have this.”
You open up one of the many zippers and pull out two candy bars. The see-through plastic holds sweet caramel and toffee wrapped in chocolate. Sweetness wrapped in brown goodness—just like Minju, but you won’t make that joke. This is not a date with flirts but a rebellion against dullness. You hand one of the bars to Minju. Her eyes light up.
“What? I love those! How did you know?”
“I guess I’m good at guessing, I guess.”
“Ts, you sound like a child,” Minju mockingly replies, but opens the plastic wrap with child-like anticipation and urgency. You chuckle and observe how this sleepy head became lifely with just some candy.
“I’m okay with being a child. We can go to the playground if you want.”
You take the first steps downtown and Minju follows you, her full mouth protesting your decision.
“No, stop. I, yum, made up my mind.”
“You always speak with your mouth full?”
“N-no. Shush, let’s go grab something. I want, hm, a smoothie. Or ice cream.”
You smile that she finally found something, but you can’t stop teasing the cutie that finally caught up to you.
“And then we go to the playground?”
A hit on your shoulder.
“Yah! I’ll make up my mind, pabo.”
#
“Oh man, that was something,” you sigh, taking off the 3D-glasses. From smoothies and ice cream, you somehow got out of her that she wanted to go watch a 3D-movie at the other part of town. It still took more convincing from you until she told you which movie it was. Although it’s certainly not your type of film, you still went with her.
“It was so good! When I thought I got all the clues, they still tricked me.”
Minju has her fingers cutely formed into a fist as you too walk out of the theater and onto the street. Although it’s not yet completely dark, you feel the evening coming and this fun day ending. As Minju still goes on about how intriguing the case was and how she thought the gardener was the murderer, you tap her shoulder.
“I still don’t get why this is a 3D-movie. Like, why? Why have these effects for a detective movie?”
“You’re a pabo. It’s to pick up on the clues better! Ts, I told you that.”
“Well, maybe I’m just too dumb for these movies,” you rub the back of your neck and watch the annoyed, but finally fully alive Minju become flustered. She pouts and pulls at your arm.
“I-I didn’t mean it like that. I hope you still liked it, I’m sorry.”
“Minju-ah, I’m playing around! Looks like you’re the pabo.”
It baffles you. How can this girl look even cuter, with this shocked, angry, playfully fun expression on her fairy-like features? You feel your heart filled with warmth. Your mind is freed at the sight of Minju and at the thought of how the two of you got out of this loop. Nothing is the same as before.
“It’s getting late,” you say and take a quick look at your phone to confirm the time, “Should I accompany you home? It might be dark before you get there.”
They fall. Minju’s bright eyes sink. The glow in them gets tainted by the dullness from before; but also pain. Pain that’s also in her weak smile that she can’t keep upright for long. Minju frowns and looks to the side, away from you. Suddenly, it’s all reset. Back to the beginning. You can’t let that happen.
“It’s of course fine if you want to go alone. O-or I could call your mum and…”
Minju fidgets, her delicate hand tightly wrapped around the leather of her handbag’s sling. She stares onto the tip of her feet. She looks cold, lost, like a forgotten child in the midst of an endless crowd of people. Things turn dark, not only because the clouds once again hide the sun, but also because Minju’s voice isn’t filled with excitement, but downright mourning.
“Mum, no. No, it’s okay. Thank you, but I’ll go home on my own.”
“Are you sure? Is there, is there some way I can help?”
“I think—”
Minju hesitates. Her fingers fiddle with her dress, then with each other, before she stuffs them into her pocket. She gives you an apologetic look, one that tries to convince you that there is nothing to hide and that things are just the way they are. Your heart tells you to not play along. There is something that’s really hurting her. So bad that it turns her back to the Minju, sleeping through life and all it has to offer. You have to lift the veil, you—
“—I should go on my own. It’s not that far, nothing will happen, hm.”
“Okay, uhm, was nice though.”
Your tongue betrays you. This is not what you want. It might be a smooth way to get out of the awkwardness, but it doesn’t get you closer to the problem. Something hurts her and you want to know it.
“Yeah, it was. Guess I’ll see you in school.”
The last chance, but you won’t take it. No reason to stir up conflict. The day was good, it got you two closer and things inevitably changed. Why risk it?
“Yeah. Have a great Sunday, Minju.”
“You too. Bye.”
She gets a hand out and gives a small wave. A small wave, a small smile, but it’s all rushed and it's painful to look at. The beauty wrapped in all the chocolate colors turns around and quickly steps out of your reach. The reach of your hands, of your eyes, of your voice.
“Bye.”
#
Sunday went by quickly as it always does and Monday greets you with the usual. Not the kind of usual you can always return to. The restaurant with your favorite vibe, the table in the hidden corner, the always comforting food. This 'usual' is what you're looking for, not the same old gray in the sky, same old cracks in the walls, same old chatter in the classroom. It's jarring.
It makes you appreciate your new friend more. Minju is not quite usual today. She doesn’t look gloomy, her silky, clean hair is crested with a cute, pink barrette and she greets you with a smile and a wave. The usually dark bags below her eyes are partially hidden by a simple, yet effective touch of make-up. Minju’s beauty shines through her imperfections and you find yourself slightly blushing at the sight.
“Hey,” you say with a small smile and carefully place your elbows on her desk.
“Hey,” Minju responds, backing off a tiny bit. She reaches for her notebook. It’s blue, mostly tattered and the pages are empty. ‘Oh no,’ she mouths, eyes still drawn to her bag below.
“Are you alright? Need something?”
“I… I think I forgot my pencil case,” she whispers shyly and tries to hide her face.
“Oh, I can give you one of mine.”
Hand her the pen and she bows thankfully. You both smile at each other a final time, before the teacher enters the room. You get ready to shuffle your chair back to your desk, but Minju’s soft voice makes you freeze in place. It’s like she opens the gate to new possibilities with just a couple of words.
“I hope, uhm, that you had a nice Sunday.”
“Th-thanks, Minju, I hope you did… too.”
#
Tuesday rolls around, and you couldn’t care less about the mundane things. You are excited to go to school, to meet Minju. You are excited about the brewing suspicions of your friends, which takes them out of their usual character a bit and makes the bickering interesting. With all this excitement, you swing open the door to the classroom. Everything, everyone is in order. Their eyes are on you as the door crashes against the wall with a loud boom. Your eyes are on Minju’s seat. It’s empty.
“Ey! Watch out!” Chaewon yells at you, as she tightly holds Yena’s hands. The duck-like girl quivers in fear. You must have scared her quite a lot. Tears pool in her eyes and you give her an apologetic bow.
“I’m sorry you two, I should have been more careful. Do you by any chance know where Minju is?”
Both girls shake their heads and Chaewon continues to glare at you, like she wants to stab you with a poison-filled syringe. Not that you would care. Minju not being here is a far greater concern to your mood. You fear that the day might immediately fall into the same rhythm, so you hold onto the hope that she is just late and will walk through the door at any moment. Maybe she will have the same enthusiasm as you did.
But it doesn’t happen. Not on Tuesday, not on Wednesday. The clouds do not part for two days. To say that it dampens your mood would be an understatement. Worry and annoyance have a hold on your thoughts, what teachers, parents, friends say is a nuisance and mostly forgotten. In some moments, it feels like a foul stench lingers around the campus. It gets even worse when, out of spite, you walk the same route you and Minju took a couple of days ago.
You get angry at every stop, but this anger is short-lived and when you stand in front of the cinema, it turns to sadness. The kind of sadness that twists your stomach and leaves you speechless at its intensity. If only you knew where Minju lives or what her phone number was. Those irrational worries that brew in your mind could just be gone. They range from her just being ill with a cold to something terrible has happened with her mother. You clearly remember how quickly all her joy and hype faded when you just mentioned the word ‘mum’.
Shake your head and head home. Tomorrow, Minju might just be back and if not, you’ll do everything in your power to confirm that she is alright. On Friday, you will ask her to meet again, and visit the park. You want to ask her a lot of questions and then, everything will solve itself.
#
You breathe a sigh of relief when Minju is in her seat early Thursday morning. Most of your classmates are probably still riding the bus or just waking up, depending on how they usually go about their day, so it’s just you two and Eunbi in the far corner. She studies geometry with her black headphones on. It basically feels like you're alone with Minju.
You cheerfully walk up to her, hand raised for a greeting. When you take a closer look at the girl however, you see her hair in a worse mess than ever before. It’s like someone took a pair of scissors and cut strands off at random spots. The hazelnut chaos spreads over her cheeks and what might look like bad bangs partially covers her eyes. Dark, tiny, motionless, except there is something flickering in them with unbridled ferocity. Minju’s pale skin is exceptionally pale against the large, black bags below her eyes. Her lips are dry and purple.
“Minju, are you alright?” you carefully ask and lower your hand. Your delighted mood is gone, dead, like the look on Minju’s face and her sorry posture. She looks frozen to the chair, only her knees shake as if she were in the arctic desert.
“I’m cold,” she answers, her voice tiny, dry. She coffs and you almost leap to help her. But you are not there yet. There is still no proper friendship where you can just cross the boundary and touch her.
“Can I help you with that? I can turn up the heater… or give you my jacket.”
You take off your jacket and Minju remains motionless. Her hands are in her lap, one resting on the other, the nails painted awfully messy. Her gaze mostly stays on them.
“No need, I’m just cold.”
Minju looks like she is falling, continuously, into an endless void. It’s darker than her eyes as they close and she starts to cry. However, there is no sob to hear or tears to catch. Minju just cries, in her own way and you feel powerless to step in. You can’t catch her, something is physically pulling you back. Your heart may mourn at the sight, but what is there to do, to say, to make things better?
“C-can I ask what happened? You looked so lively a couple of days ago, and now—”
Your heart spoke those words. They are like a scream to evoke some reaction out of her, but Minju doesn’t stop the sorrow overtaking her more and more. You groan in sad frustration. This sight hurts you, you can’t deal with it. You gently place your jacket on her desk and see her looking at it for a second.
“I’m sorry, I have no right to just—” You pause and ponder on a better choice of words, “I’ll be at my seat. If you need anything, I’m right there.”
Soon, all your other classmates stream into the room and take their usual positions. None of them seem to acknowledge Minju. For them, she is a figure in the background, one that might have changed a bit and even missed a couple of days, but they remain the same. Illness with two days absence plus a new ‘haircut’? Surely you wouldn’t notice it on a random classmate.
At the start of the first lesson, your very picky and meticulous math teacher immediately notices your jacket on Minju’s table. You know his eyes are locked in on it and he will call Minju out any second now. But then he hesitates, takes a closer look at the disheveled girl, and looks through the class register. His face contorts like he is in pain. This is very unlike him, and it would’ve intrigued you more if it weren’t for the gloomy feeling in your heart.
“Okay everyone, let’s start… start with, uhm. Chaewon, please tell the class what we did last lesson.”
The teacher continues to be out of sync with how he would normally act. At the end of the lesson, he calls Minju upfront. Now you’re the one frozen on the seat and watch helplessly as he calmly and concerningly speaks to her. You can’t hear him this far back, and the question is, if Minju is able to pick up any of it. She looks down at the tip of her shoes and does not react at all.
This goes on for the entire day. You can’t bear it anymore. With a final look over your shoulder, you dart out of the classroom quickly. The image in your brain is still the same: a helpless, frozen Minju, a withering girl with an unhearable cry. You notice the only difference a little bit too late, as it is barely noticeable.
Minju’s tender cheeks have the wet trails of tears.
#
Once again, Minju is not at school. This occurrence is so unusual, everyone is acting out of character. Different rumors shoot through the classroom, and they all negate each other. No one has a clue of what is happening, but they all do have an opinion. Chaeyoung in the last row says that she is probably just late, while Chan strongly believes that she is still sick and that the math teacher told her to stay home for longer. Julia has the harshest opinion though.
“I bet she is fully embracing her lazy life. She will either fail or drop out soon. That’s how it goes.”
You cover your ears. Everyone spouts nonsense, although they didn’t even talk to her yesterday. How can they be so sure? What do they know about her? Nothing. It frustrates you. The only people not involved in this except for you are Jimin, who stands by your side against these unnecessary allegations, and Chaewon and Yena. The two girls are entangled in a tight embrace and their heads are probably in a very different place right now.
Suddenly, the door bursts open. Your home room teacher and the principal walk in, both wearing a very serious expression on their faces. The rowdy class shuts up instantaneously. As if connected by one strand of nerves, everyone’s backs straighten. A gut wrenching tension fills the room, as the home room teacher sighs deeply and leans onto the front desk.
“I—this, this is hard. Excuse me, I need a second,” he says and stumbles a step forward. He is clearly not drunk, but his mind is dizzy with some heavy burden. The principal walks next to him and guides him towards a chair. Then he takes his glasses off, all fingers in a light tremble. You notice cold sweat all over his features. It’s contagious and creeps up your back.
“Class, I need you to stay strong, okay?” he begins and rubs the inside of his eyes, “I hate that I have to say this, but I hate even more that it happened. This morning, your classmate Kim Minju was—”
The principal pauses. It’s not long enough to make a large difference in his sentence, but it’s so big, you can hear the rapid pace of your heartbeat. It’s in your chest, your ear, your thumb. The burning red liquid rushes through your body. It meets the cold feeling of the goosebump and cold sweat on your skin, and this fusion almost makes you throw up. Your body gets torn to shreds, your mind is clouded. All in one pause that doesn’t really exist.
“—found dead in her home. She, she took her own life.”
In one moment, reality couldn’t be more surreal yet realistic. The stark contrast between a fragile dream and concrete reality resonates with everyone. It cannot be true, but it is. This is where they start with denial and move all the steps up to acceptance. But how can you accept the unacceptable? The voices of your classmates are background noise, but they are also all that is left. Air, matter, gravity, light, life, they all do not exist. Only the sound of gasps, cries and everything in between.
Then there is you, in pale freefall, just like the snowflakes outside. No one said it was going to snow today, yet it does. No one said Minju would kill herself today, yet she did. No one said deal with it, yet you do. You deal with it. Life goes on.
You throw your head forward and vomit over your desk. A lie knocks on your brain, on your stomach, and you vomit again. Sadly, you don’t have a reflex that will expel the disgusting shield of cold indifference out of your head. You know you will stop caring but you want to suffer. You want to hold on to Minju, the beautiful, quiet girl in class that was never supposed to walk down this dark aisle.
“You’re such an asshole at times, I swear to God.”
Yena giggles as her head rests on your shoulder. Her bare hand rubs over your sweaty, equally bare pecs. These muscles were forged in the nearby gym and Yena has them all to herself. It’s basically an equivalent exchange, because Yena is no slouch when it comes to taking care of her own body. Abs and a thin waist, they look the best when she’s fully nude. And nude she surely is. You’re each other's trophies.
“Am I?” you ask and blow out the smoke of your cigarette. You told her a story about something, something you don’t care to remember. What or whoever it might have been about probably lost and you won. Such is life. You carefully put an arm around Yena and look at the orange-gray glow of your cigarette. Your girlfriend pouts.
“Babe, be real with me for a second.”
“I’m real every second, Yena, I don’t ever lie.”
“Babe, I’m serious here!”
Yena turns to you. Her stern eyes pin you to the backboard of the bed. This is no time to joke. You hastily put the glowing stick in the ashtray and the two used condoms out of harm's way. Yena then puts her arm on your nape and you have a hard time not staring at her heaving bosom but instead at the duck-like lips that pout cutely.
“Do you really love me?” she asks quietly.
“Oh, I see how it is,” you respond with a relieved sigh. Poke both her cheeks as you usually do in these types of situations. Yena’s tension comes out through her nose like the air of a balloon.
“You are the hottest, prettiest, most desirable and most likable girl in the class—no, in the entire school.”
“Babe,” Yena blushes,”those were too many. You’re supposed to only list three things.”
“Huh? But what if I wanted to list more? Cuz it’s true.”
“Forget it,” she waves off, still blushing. ”Am I though? What about Yuri or Eunbi?”
“Okay, if you want me to list all of them,” you say, slightly annoyed, but you clear your throat regardless. ”Yuri is too crazy and not even close to your body, Eunbi is probably already married, also aloof, Sakura is gay, Hyewon is gay—”
“Wait, Hyewon likes girls?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. Seriously, the way she stares at Yuri all the time. Anyways, she is gay. Hitomi is not my type cause she’s too small, Chaewon is your best friend and not as pretty as you—”
“But she is so pretty!”
“Jeez, Yena, we’ll never finish it like this. Who did I forget?”
Both you and Yena ponder for a second, but if you’re quite honest, you do not want this argument to continue. You surely forgot a couple of girls in your class, but none of them can match Yena. She should know that, even if you don’t throw the L-word around a lot. When you do it, it’s only towards her.
“There is Minju,” Yena says in a moment of enlightenment.
“Who?” you respond. Don’t bother with the jarring task to remember who this might be.
“The quiet girl that sits in the middle of the classroom. With long, brown hair, it’s literally super long, I bet she never cuts and rarely washes it.”
“Oh I see. Yeah, no. Who the fuck cares about Minju?”
You turn to the side to cough. Yena’s face still doesn’t look amused so you do the one thing that will surely shut her up. Cup her cheeks in your strong hand and kiss her on the ducky lips. Add a simple “I love you”, and she relaxes. Her slender, naked body topples atop of yours. Finally, it’s time to go to sleep.
#
You wake up to the sound of a bell ringing. History class is over, and as per usual, you took a nice long nap at the end of it. Or throughout it. History has always been boring to you. Old guys did some things sometime in the past, wow, so impressive. It would only be a slight nuisance, but Yoongi and Eunbi always have to act smart about it. As if it actually mattered.
Can they touch the past, like you can touch Yena’s midriff right now? Surely not. The young woman squeals at your touch and you quickly pull her onto your lap. Thank God she cares as little about any dress codes as you. Even on these mild spring days she already wears clothes exposing, no, downright flexing her abs to your classmates. They see and they drool, but the only one allowed to touch them is you.
“You look sleepy, babe,” Yena says as she cups your face to inspect it.
“History, Yena, history,” you respond and force your tiny eyes wide open. Five more minutes until the next teacher arrives. Might as well enjoy the time by showing off your best trophy. Yena is better than the push-up and benchpress records, not only because she is great in bed, but also because she actually makes other people jealous.
Lift her onto your lap and give her a loud, proud and obvious hickey on her exposed neck. Yena holds onto your shoulders and holds her breath as if she would burst into moans and groans at any moment. After your deed is done, you triumphantly turn your head around. Scan the class, because someone is always looking. They can’t help themselves. Poor bastards.
“Look at her,” Yena whispers. She must be doing the same thing.
“Who?” you respond, unable to find the girl Yena alluded to.
“Minju, the one with the long, messy hair, right in the middle.”
There she is, barely three meters away from you, yet in a different realm of existence. Brown eyes lock onto yours, though you can’t make out what emotion they convey. Envy? Disgust? Pity? Well, the last two can easily be attributed to her. Minju’s entire look is appalling. Greasy hair that sticks together in clumps, dirty clothes that probably smell rancid, and an expression that lacks any kind of care or passion. Truly pitiful.
“What are you looking at, huh?” you bark at Minju. The entire class goes silent. They don’t have to hide their gazes anymore. They are only bystanders, witnesses to a tension that you know all too well. This is power, this is the way to victory. You will get your way.
Minju simply shakes her head. She rests her head on her crossed arms and goes back to her routine of dozing, as if nothing has happened. Her attitude of indifference is something you did not expect. You cannot allow such disrespectfulness.
“Get off,” you whisper to Yena, the anger in your voice not directed at her, but she still follows your command immediately. Slow strides bring you next to Minju’s desk, who senses your presence. She turns her sleepy head towards you and looks up, the same look in her dark orbs, darker than even the greasiest parts of her hair. You clear your throat in annoyance.
“I asked you a question, didn’t I?
“Care to answer it?”
Minju does not budge. She remains frozen below you, but it’s not in the way you want her to be frozen. She should be in fear, trembling, yet not moving at all, but your words, your rough tone does not seem to affect her.
“Lemme ask you again: Why were you lookin’ at us?
“I don’t care which way you swing, okay? Just letting you know there is nothing to get from us. Yena is mine, okay?
“Okay?”
You’re basically shouting at this point. Minju finally moves to put her hands up as a shield. You did not intend to punch her, not even a fist of yours is ready to strike. It’s a relief that your words can still evoke something from her. In a tiny voice that mirrors mice more than humans, Minju answers.
“O-okay. I didn’t me-mean to. Sorry.”
“You didn’t mean to what?” you growl back, voice dripping dissatisfaction from her vague response.
“Ma-make you envious.”
Pin the palm of her hand to the table below. Minju clearly lacks a quick reaction time. She only starts to gasp when the nail of your thumb drills into her sweaty hand, the pale skin growing paler, then white, and finally red. Minju hisses, but only you can hear the words.
“Stop, please.”
“Get lost.”
You leave her be, but not before giving her an angry stare. Behind the helter-skelter of her curtain-like hair, her eyes receive your wrath like a well-deserved punch. Minju drops back into the back of her chair and holds her palm with her other palm. She is reeling like a beaten down boxer.
“I’d congratulate you,” Yena snarks when you return to her. “But she is just a girl, so no respect.”
“I can never let my guard down. Not in front of anyone. Not when it’s about you,” you hum as the usual noise of chatter and laughs returns to the class. A surge of fire fills your chest, your lungs, like you’re a dragon breathing flames of destruction. The feeling of power, of being the strongest, the one who is not reckless enough to let his guard down around the seemingly weak.
If Minju really likes Yena—
“I cannot allow her to take your heart.”
“Shut it babe, you know I only like guys,” Yena giggles and playfully pushes your shoulder. “What am I saying? I only like you.”
Then you kiss her. A bit too passionate for a setting like this, but not passionate enough to still your hunger for more. More of Yena, but also more of this control. No one else can have her, not even a piece of her.
#
Damp concrete, a preferable alternative to the deep mud and grass of the nearby forest. You jog with intensity and focus, conquering the streets of your neighborhood. Usually you'd be the king of the trees, sucking in the fresh forest air around you while on the way to the gym, but today you need to take a detour.
It's a welcome change if you're honest, especially because the lousy weather keeps prying eyes away. No one to interfere with you and your in-ears, the loud music blasting through the cords as you turn corner after corner until your heels come to a screeching halt on the fine gravel in Rainbow Street.
A girl sits on the sidewalk of this street with its very unfitting name. Worn down buildings in a tiny, ugly array of gray and brown shades sit right next to each other. They are a stain in this otherwise genuinely pretty part of town, Rainbow Street my ass, such a tiny street with all the human filth in one spot—and for some reason, this girl decided to sit here, her butt probably sore from the gravel poking it.
"Looks uncomfortable," you say down to the stranger and pull out one of your in-ears. She doesn’t move her head out from in between her knees. Hell, in this posture she is certainly developing back problems. With wind blowing into the sleeves of her loose t-shirt, she’ll catch a cold first though.
“It’s fine,” she whispers in a low voice, still firmly staring at the ground as if your comment came with the wind and just passed by. Give her a weak, confused smile in pity. Usually, you’d not bat an eye at something like this. This girl probably has a house, where she doesn’t have to freeze and she probably also has water and soap to clean her dirty hair, so why bother with pity?
“Is it though?” you say with raised eyebrows. “You sit on the ground like a pile of misery and wait for the next wave of clouds for what? To let the rain wash your hair?”
You start to laugh at your own joke, which got the girl to finally move a muscle. Slowly she turns towards you and lifts her head even slower, like it hasn’t been lifted in a hundred centuries. Your laughter fades as you stare into grim, miserable eyes which stare back in hurt, agony even.
“Oh, it’s you,” you say and move to put your in-ears back in. “No business with you.”
“You’re so mean,” Minju states, her real emotions held behind the blunt statement. “Why?”
“Get lost, Minju. That’s why.”
You jog off, further down the street to quickly reach the gym. Never in your life have you felt the rising feeling of compassion switch to coldheartedness so quickly. For a second you felt like a hero that could save this cute puppy, but in the next, you realized that it actually was the disgusting, wretched Minju who had to flaunt the fact that she clearly lost control over her life.
She doesn’t even bother to take a shower or pretend to have any character. No wonder she’ll continue to be nothing but a loser in school.
#
During your workout, you thought more about the wrong classmate than about the right one. Minju, being the wrong one, has no reason occupying the free spaces in your head. You’d much rather think about Yena, the right classmate, the one with incredible charm and wit. Yena is respected, Yena is envied, Yena is your girlfriend and absolutely amazing. Minju is none of that.
Enraged about Minju’s sulking expression popping up in front of your inner eye again, you throw down the dumbbells. Someone’s shouting in anger, others stare. Enough workout for today, you need a distraction. A distraction served by the right classmate.
“Yena,” you blurt into your phone’s speaker the second your girlfriend picks up. “I’ll be at your place in 30 minutes, you down?”
“Oh my~” she responds and you can already feel her turn in her bed in excitement. “I don’t know, don’t really like sweaty boys coming into my room~”
“Since when did I come into your room sweaty?”
“I’ll make sure you’re gonna be sweaty, babe~” Yena whispers, voice sultry, dripping of lust like the sweat from your forehead and drool from your lips.
#
“Babe, promise me something.”
Yena fondles your hair and looks at you with anticipation. It’s something serious again.
“Anything for you, Yena.”
Wrap your arm around her hip and look at her, relaxed, sweaty, just like she predicted.
“Don’t, like, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t terrible, but please, babe, don’t go too hard on her. She’s a girl, you know?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Minju and what happened in class.”
You sigh and look away in annoyance. Pull out a cigarette from the back on the nightstand. Your hand recklessly pushes off packets of pills and condoms. Why am I shaking?
“I don’t know what you mean,” you say and search for a lighter. “She was annoying, right? And disrespectful. And I know that there are girls that like girls and that there are girls that might go crazy, especially over you. I know you’re smart Yena, so you get me, right? It’s not like I beat her up or something.”
You stop yourself from falling deeper into an incoherent mess of bad explanations, but Yena is already side-eyeing you. At least she has a flame for the stick between your lips.
“Yeah, you did not beat her, but you went too far. Raising your hand and pressing down hers? Babe, that was not necessary.”
“I did it for you, baby.”
These words roll from your tongue so easily. Whatever counterpoints Yena brings up, you can easily melt her with them, reducing any valid criticism to nothing but dust.
“But, but she’s a girl—”
“And you’re the only girl for me,” you hum and blow out the smoke before turning towards her. Yena clings onto you like a koala, pouty lips, trembling eyes, and best of all: still fully naked. Press a kiss onto her lips and she gasps.
“Babe, I—”
“I love you, Yena.”
“Me, me too.”
“Let’s forget other, stupid girls and classes. You’re the hottest thing since the sun and I want you now, baby.”
Take another drag and Yena basically jumps onto you. At this point, the two of you won’t have enough sleep for the classes tomorrow. Doesn’t really get better than an extended weekend, you’ll take it with glee. Throw away the cigarette, Yena throws away the blanket. I love truancy on a Friday.
#
“You should really take your girl now!”
Chaewon’s shout is tiny compared to the ear-drum shattering bass of the large speakers right above your head. You look at her, confused, and point at your ears. Chaewon rolls her eyes and points at Yena, who is stumbling through the crowd, a large stain on her pink tube top and a half-empty bottle of vodka in her hand.
“Better. Get. Her. Out!”
Her message is clear, and it should shame you that she is more worried about your girlfriend than you are, but you’re too used to it. Yena is magnetic to parties and the parties are magnetic to her. They need each other, and usually, you enjoy yourself alongside her, but for some reason, she went over the top today. Shot after shot after shot, down her throat until her dance moves became laughable.
“Fuck, fine!”
Growl in annoyance to make Chaewon back off to her clique and drinks while you grab the wrist of your completely dazed girlfriend and drag her through the crowd. Your eyes are always at her back, her hips, her bottom. If any filthy bastard tries to touch her, you will tear off his hand and shove it down his trachea to make him regret not respecting you enough.
Outside the old barn at some outskirt of the city, Yena suddenly starts to run, bottle still in her hand, her feet faster than usual. She is an excellent sprinter, but for some reason, the alcohol pushes her to a sudden sprint. You can barely keep pace but soon catch up to her when Yena leans to a wall and—
“Yena, what are you doi—hey, are you ok—”
—violently vomits out the hard liquor and her last meal, some noodles and meatballs. You bunch up her hair and turn your head away in disgust. Yena pushes out more, the unbearable sound not seeming to end in forever, until finally, she gasps for air.
“Sorry, sorry, babe, are you—”
“Jeez, Yena,” you groan and scrunch your nose, unable to look at the pile of half-digested food without feeling your stomach tighten painfully. “Just sit down over there, and try not to—you know?”
Unsure if she understood any of your words, you guide her to a nearby bench in front of the highest point of the wall. Except for the occasional breeze rustling the trees and Yena’s heavy breaths, it’s eerily quiet. You scan the area attentively, no possible attacker will go unnoticed, not even the figure on the far end of the wall. Why would someone sit there and stare skywards? There are barely any stars tonight.
The person has spotted you and jumps off the wall. You’d prepare to fight for your honor and Yena’s safety, but then realize that the person is pretty small and frail. You pull out your phone and point the flashlight at the approaching figure. Dressed in a thin black jacket, it’s none other than Minju. Again.
“Did not expect you here,” you snark at her and point your flashlight closer to her face. “Why the fuck are you here?”
“Hey! Is-isn’t that Min-Min-ju?” Yena bursts out in laughter and rises from her bench. “Best friends, best friendos!”
She steps towards her classmate in deep drunken delirium and tries to hug her. Instead she loses her footing way earlier and is about to crash face first onto the ground. You’re unable to react on time, but Minju is. She catches Yena’s fall, knees painfully digging into the gravel as both her arms catch your girlfriends’ fall. Slowly, the two of them descend onto the ground.
You stand there frozen, as Minju reaches into the pocket of her dirty jeans and pulls out a surprisingly fresh tissue. She carefully wipes Yena's dirty mouth, not shying away from the abhorrent smell and delusional smile. Minju holds her still like a baby, and Yena giggles stupidly.
“Get off of her!” you shout at the top of your lungs and push Minju off at her shoulders. She jumps and lets go of Yena, who almost meets the ground below if it weren’t for your arms on her back. In your rage you pick your girlfriend up so she stands and sways again. Her good mood fades as she struggles to stand upright, even with your arm around her.
“What is your game, huh? Stop trying to get her, she’s mine,” you snarl down at Minju, who sits on the ground, her legs shivering in this mild spring night. She should have worn more than a skirt if this is still too cold for her, but for some reason, she still has this unusual determination in her eyes.
“Can I have this?” Minju asks, oblivious to your rant, pointing at the vodka bottle still firmly in Yena’s grip. Your girlfriend doesn’t react to the question and instead rests her head on your chest. She sniffles and weeps, tears soaking into the fabric of your polo shirt. Enraged, you kick a bunch of gravel onto Minju—she should get fucking buried beneath it.
“Fuck off, really. Are you really that desperate? Pathetic.”
“I-I’m not, I just want to drink.
“Would you let her drink it? Yena is already looking bad.”
Furiously reach for the bottle. This fucking bitch. Throw it as hard as you can against the wall. It bursts into a million shards, the vodka running down the gray surface. Someone opens a window.
“Hey! You fucking rouges! Stop this shit or I’ll call the police!”
You’d love to curse back at them, but Yena pulls at the hem of your shirt. You look at her teary eyes and sigh. This has been a big enough mess, no need to push the limits. Stare down at Minju, who still looks at the spot the bottle hit, her eyes big yet blurry. She looks absolutely miserable.
“Back off,” you say to her. “Don’t come close to her again or you’ll regret it.”
#
Monday comes and goes, the same goes for Tuesday. You might sit in class, attend each of the lessons, but you’re not listening to a word the teachers say. Nothing special, if you’re being honest. You’d usually guide your hand on Yena’s thigh and watch her smirk knowingly as she tries to pay attention. This would go on until she pinches you. She tries to keep up with school a lot more than you do, it shows in her grades.
Today however, she is not in the mood at all. She swats you away from the start, her gaze focused, yet angry, as she tries to copy the teachers’ scrabble from the blackboard. You roll your eyes, this is not uncommon either, especially during that time of the month.
You roll tiny pellets of paper, your ammo for today. Simple, childish entertainment, sure, but you can’t wait to see the reaction of today’s target. Minju had it coming for a while now. Usually you’d send the paper flying over her head at one of the stupid classmates behind her; now she is in full focus.
At least she would be if it weren’t for her absence. You only notice it when you turn around to ready your first throw. She is not there. You drop the pellets to the ground, the only form of disarmament that actually feels like it. How can she not be there? The teacher didn’t even notice, no one noticed—and no one cares, except you.
But why do you care? Students are absent all the time and a loser like Minju has all the reasons not to go. For some reason, it still grinds your gears, brings them to a screeching halt and makes you form a fist. Feel your own fingernails dig into the palm of your hands; this is getting a bit out of control.
Suddenly, Yena’s hand is on your thigh, a surprising twist to your usual shenanigans, however, she is a lot less gentle. You spin around, meet her gaze for a second before the angry hum of your teacher finally gets your attention. She must have been standing there for quite a while, trying so hard to do her job by teaching you something, something, something.
“Oh, so you are still among us,” she notes, looking up and down at you above the rim of her large, blue glasses. “I bet you now know all the details of the French Revolution.”
“Of course,” you respond, voice and posture as nonchalant as ever.
“Do you mind explaining the root causes that led to the Battle of Verdun?”
“Actually, I do mind.” Let your smirk fade for something more sympathetic. “Excuse me, Miss Kang, I just have a terrible headache right now. I think I should leave for today.”
#
“You should pay more attention in class. You can’t always skip the lessons you don’t like.”
You put your phone on speaker and throw it on the desk. On the other side is Yena, thoroughly annoyed from the moment you started this call. If you’re honest, her annoyance is getting on your nerves as well.
“But I don’t care,” you groan into your room, loud enough for your girlfriend to hear. “It’s really hard to pay attention when it’s just boring shit, day in, day out.”
“I know it’s boring to you, but you know how grades work and that they don’t give a fuck about you not giving a fuck. At least try?” Yena tries to bargain, but you shatter her away.
“Why the fuck are we still talking about school? I should be by your side right now. Should I come over?”
You smirk in lust, one hand opening a drawer with countless condoms in it. Let a pack of it glide through your fingers before you hear a loud sigh coming from Yena.
“Not today, no. I-it’s better we not.”
“Huh? Why is that?”
“Look, it’s…”
A long pause. You almost slam the drawer shut, instead catching yourself at the last moment and only closing it carefully in deep regret. There is a deeply rooted hate in you for evasive behavior like this; it’s terrible in movies or TV shows, but when it is happening in real life, it makes you snap quickly.
“Yena—”
“I-it’s because… you wouldn’t… look, we can’t do it, okay?”
“Oh. It is that time of the month, huh?
“Ew.”
Another pause, this time a lot more tense.
“What did you just say?” Yena growls furiously. “Oh my God, you’re such an asshole!”
“Yena, I—” Your words face an impenetrable wall, not even reaching your girlfriend’s ear.
“No! Shut up! You insensitive idiot, I don’t want to deal with you too right now. Fuck. Off!”
Yena hangs up. You smash the pack of condoms to the ground, a nerve struck by her entitlement. Oh well, that’s how they are during this time. She’ll calm down by Thursday, maybe Friday. You get to sleep, not willing to even see the school building tomorrow.
#
The tide doesn’t turn on Thursday, but for some goddamn reason, you still went up to that school. For the first time since you two became a couple, she completely ignored you. You’ve been waiting at the gate for an extra twenty minutes, which meant less sleep for you, which means more annoyance, which leads to—
“Watch your fucking step, bro!” you growl at a random student, who was unlucky enough to be in your walking lane. This has quickly turned to a day where everyone is better off either treating you like the irritable King Saul or disappearing all together. A day like a threat; it all hangs by a thread that could tear at any moment.
Your patience is thin and so is Minju’s arm when she tries to pick something up. Too bad for her, she is right there when you try to pass her. With the grace of an elephant you pass by her, painfully squeeze her arm against the table and hear a whimper of pain.
“Watch it, Minju,” you bark at her and aggressively take your seat, eyes locked on her. Everything about her looks has gotten worse, her posture looks like it’s about to break, she could fold in half at any minute. Any hobo would have more dignity. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”
“I—it hurts.”
You can hear from the tone of her voice, stiff and pained, that her arm really hurts. Minju wraps her fingers around it gently and looks at you, but all you see are her shimmering eyes with nothing left inside, dull and dead—and so absolutely infuriating.
“Like I said: not in the mood.”
Minju hisses. Blood spills from her elbow. The class has taken notice of the situation and looks on in awe as you stand up and in front of Minju. Someone is brave enough to sneak out, probably to get a teacher to check on Minju and the open wound, from which beads of blood slowly drip to the floor.
“What have you done?” Yena suddenly whispers from behind you, makes herself beside Minju and looks at that twig-like arm. You can’t channel your focus on her for long, Minju’s sniffles drive you to the edge of insanity.
“She was in the way, okay?” you respond, not bothering to give Yena another second of your time. For this lone, fleeting moment of your life, you can get it all out on this loser—that no one would miss, that no one sees—in all honesty, you might do her a favor with this. Now, she has everyone’s attention. They can also see how dreadful she looks and smells and dresses.
Minju is undeserving of life in your eyes—and your eyes are on her cheek.
“Maybe you should apologize?!”
A smack heard around the world. You could’ve done it so many ways: grab your wrist and use both fists to hit her or maybe angle your elbow to hit her eye socket. Instead, you went straight for her cheek with your left, swung like a boxer and Minju flew off the chair. No way she could’ve dodged this.
Knocked down after one punch, but there is absolutely nothing satisfying about it. It’s all just a mess. The puddle of Minju on the floor, swollen face, bloody mouth, lifeless limbs. The crowd of classmates that surround her, take photos, groan in shock, turn around to not vomit. The hands of Yena all over your face, push you back towards your seat, into the arms of a teacher, then an officer.
Her face tells you everything. You’ll never see her again, not as your girlfriend, not as your trophy. Those times have ended with this punch heard around the world. In the end, it wasn’t worth it. The ambulance arrives and you hear the principal yelling, not the words, just that he is yelling. To your surprise, Minju never looked better than now—with that maniacal smile on her face as they carry her towards the ambulance.
#
To your surprise, you’re not in a jail cell on Friday, but in the principal's office again. The sound of that smack you gave Minju, it finally left your ears. You’re not deaf anymore and ready to take a chance at redemption. Of course your fist could not have slipped, not with all the witnesses and the power behind it, but maybe a couple hours of anger management will save you from a trial or whatever punishment may await you.
The principal looks angry, you expected as much, but the anger is mixed with shock, speechlessness and disbelief. He must have seen a ghost last night, or God himself. You’ve never seen this serious man look so at a loss for words.
The door opens, a young woman and a police officer walk in. She is crying, he is stern. They both wait for the principal to say something, but he just points at you, unable to come up with words that could describe you. At this point, you’ve had it with their hesitation, their overreaction.
“What am I doing here?” you ask, calmly, quietly, as not to show your slight annoyance.
“T-tell him, Miss Kwon, please.” The principal’s voice is about to crack, so he turns around, hands in his hair, while Miss Kwon sits down next to you. You slowly remember why she is here. She is the confidant teacher, the kind soul, the one who cares for everyone. Even the likes of Minju.
“Min-Minju came to the hospital yesterday,” she begins, her sniffles stopped temporarily when the officer hands her a handkerchief. “She, she looked good. Yes, she did, sur-sur-surprisingly.”
For the first time, you look at Miss Kwon, but she averts you. Her posture is frozen. She continues to talk as if you aren’t there.
“I remember, she smiled, said something about you. We shouldn’t be angry, you showed it to her. I asked her, but she just smiled. The doctors said she was free to leave tonight, to-to-tonight—”
Miss Kwon bursts out in tears again, her ruined face hidden behind two fragile hands that try to keep up her composure. Behind her is still the officer, the only one to look at you in the entire room, and his dark orbs are full of disgust, like he hates your guts to the core.
“We found her.” Miss Kwon tries everything in her power to get out another sentence, you feel your breath halt for a bit. “She was, she was hanging from the ce-ceiling—”
Miss Kwon wails, but all you hear is a clock ticking in the background.
“What?”
“She killed herself!” the principal screams and slams his fists into the desk.
“She is dead, she is dead!
He slams down again and again, the floor starts to shake.
“Do you understand me!? Do you regret it!?
He hits it and you realize—
“Do you regret it!?
—he’d love to hit you like this, over and over and over again.
“Do you regret it!?”
Do you regret the single tear rolling down your cold face?
An interest in photography. A camera in your hand since you’ve been four years old. A nice motive. Click.
Other hobbies don’t come to mind. Friends are none of your concern. Just a camera and the desire to one day make money with it. The grades have to match that desire though. Click. Back to study.
You have pictures of all of your classmates. Most of them taken in secret. All of them show how they grew the last couple of years. Yena and Chawon have matured, fit and attractive. The main bully has gotten bigger, meaner. He’d kill you if he ever found your pictures of Yena. They might not be inappropriate or unflattering, but he is scarily obsessive.
One motive catches your eye. While most of your classmates have bloomed to varying degrees, one gorgeous girl has withered. Your pictures of Minju portray her as increasingly less well-dressed, less combed, less happy. You can barely catch a glimpse of her full, uncovered face. It bothers you how she hides it.
No, it’s intriguing. You can’t keep your eyes off of her. Starting someday in the middle of the school year, you can’t stop looking over to her, sitting in the midst of the classroom while being outside everything and everyone.
Snapshots here and there with your phone and a small digital camera during class. They form a collection of this disheveled girl. You’d much rather have something truly worth framing, taking with your best camera model. This will have to do for the time being, you tell yourself.
Suddenly, one day, you swear that she seems to light up more and more. It is not noticeable for anyone else, no classmates, no teachers — only you know that Kim Minju shines like a star today. Dozens of pictures fill the folder of your phone. Your heart starts to race a little bit. Maybe you could approach her, get more of this glow, hell, even a full portrait—
Don’t be ridiculous! A picture like this is impossible to ask for. You never asked anyone for such a favor, let alone someone whose connection to you only exists in your mind, in your fantasy.
Minju is not in class. A day ago she was glowing; now she is hiding. Call her a solar eclipse and you a solar flare the way you burst. The thrill is burning in your veins, blood rushing to your head as you head out, towards Rainbow Street, your most expensive camera hanging around your neck. You stop next to one of the many older, Japanese style houses. There is a police car. You quickly hide behind a tree across the small street, much more akin to a trafficless avenue.
Two officers walk out, with them a few more people, dressed in black with sorrowful and disturbed faces. Minju is not amongst them, even though this is certainly her address. They murmur and whisper and cry about something, someone — they will miss him, why did he do it, oh this poor girl. The officers drive off, the crowd disassembles.
Right before you decide to leave, the sliding door to the small building opens. A fence and a wall obstruct your view, so you decide to climb up a few branches, just a few feet off the ground to maybe catch a glimpse off—
Minju lays in the doorframe, the sliding door not fully opened. Her head rests against the side, tears endlessly streaming down her face. Small sobs, contortions of her beautiful features, her hair everywhere yet at the same time, you’ve never seen so much of her face.
Her features are flawless. This moment feels like a personal show for you. Instinctively, you reach for the camera and take a photo. Then climb higher, take another photo, then again. Minju does not notice you, but her crying intensifies once more. Her hands try to grab something. She wants to hold on so bad. Click. She gasps, cries out. Click. Words stuck in her throat, lips dry and torn. Click.
A hundred more clicks as you try not to overdose on this perfect moment. You have never felt such a rush. Minju is all yours, these pictures are your proof. Nobody gets to see her like this. Your heart races at the thought that this might be the only moment, your only chance to see this spectacle. A spectacle for you and to you only.
With a hint of disgust about yourself you walk home an hour later. Jerk off to her once because what is one more sin for today? The next day, she isn’t at school, but you don’t visit her either. The day after that she is back, but you can barely stand looking at her. In the one picture you take Minju looks her absolute worst, worse than her endless sobbing and crying and screeching and hair pulling.
You decide to go back to Rainbow Street the very next day, early in the morning. One hour from the start of school and you stand before the house again. You carefully glance at the sliding door. There is a gap, it’s open.
Your heart skips a beat. The thrill of just having a peak is enough to push you forward. Nobody is out here this early, nothing will disrupt your trespassing. Increasingly rapid breaths leave your nostrils as you put an eye to the gap. It‘s completely dark inside, just a faint white reflection hovering in the hallway catches your attention.
Your heart now races. Fingers push open fully the door that was ajar. The dim morning twilight floods the dark house and the faint white turns to a clearer picture. A simple gown, worn out, hangs from the ceiling.
A scream gets stuck in your throat as your knees give out and you collapse on the floor. Minju‘s eyes are wide open, dead and with yet to dry tears in them. Bruises on her neck, bruises on her hands, lips in a hideous purple. The noose barely holds her at the jaw, blood drips from the corners of her mouth.
You have never seen nor imagined something as utterly horrifying. It‘s like every negative emotion is flooding you for your sins. Sins you have committed, sins you still commit. You find Minju more beautiful than ever.
Beneath her dangling feet you find a letter in crude hand-writing.
To my dearest daughter
I know you won‘t understand this but this is necessary. Ever since your mother passed, I haven‘t had a clear thought. My head is a mess, my mind isn‘t mine. But I have to take responsibility. I have to stop this voice, this feeling for you. You look so much like her, it‘s too painful for me, I can‘t look at you. Please forgive me, I‘m going to her now. For your sake too.
„So you just wanna game? Play something else then, at home.“
„Hey, Minju, wait! We can do something else if you want. I just need some — excuse to stay with you, something to pass today.“
„But I don‘t want to see anyone today.“
„Not even me?“
„Definitely not you.“
„Okay, that‘s fine. But promise me that you‘ll call me if you need anything — and text me before bed.“
„What are you? My lover?“
„Just a worried friend.“
„I‘m doing fine.“
„You don‘t look like you‘re fine. If you want to be alone, I‘ll go now. But I‘m only a call away.“
„Thanks. Bye.“
#
„Minju! Minju! Open the door, please, open it now!
„Minju! Why weren‘t you in school yesterday? Are you okay? Open the door!
„I swear I‘ll kick it down right now!“
„He is dead! He is dead, fucking dead and it‘s my fault!“
„I‘m coming in!“
„No! Go away! Don‘t look at me, I‘m a demon, a devil! I killed him!“
„Calm down, please. Put, put that away.“
„No!“
„Put the rope away, Minju. Please.“
„…“
„Okay, now breathe. Slow, calm, ste—“
„I don‘t want to breathe — I want to suffocate like he did.“
„Minju, please.“
„I killed my father. I‘m a murderer, I should die.“
„Minju, please. You need to breathe. No more sobbing, no more screams. Listen to my heartbeat.“
„I-I can‘t, I don‘t deserve to!“
„Then I will hold you closer, until you‘ve given up this awful plan, until your tears are dried, until you can tell me why—“
„…“
„Minju,
„I don‘t want to lose you.
„You‘re my best friend.“
„Please, let me, let me go. I‘m a demon, a monster.“
„Even if you were, I‘d stick with you. I‘m not going to let you die tonight.“
„…“
„What is in your hands?“
„My reason.“
„Your final letter?“
„My dads final letter.“
„Whatever is written in this — it does not mean that it‘s your fault and that you need to die too. Minju, isn‘t life beautiful?“
„It‘s fucking not. I can‘t do this anymore.“
„You‘re right to feel this way. But it‘s the only life you got and even if this is just me being selfish, I want you to continue trying, continue living.“
A/N: Written for @mysonesecret's A Thousand Words challenge over on fanprose! Much love for hosting!
Yujin x Male Reader Fluff
1k words
Read it on fanprose, and leave comments on your favourite lines!
Now, today might not be the round five, or the big decade. But today’s three years. You believe that warrants something a little different.
Usually, this is where the morning would go: You feel your hand sliding down her perfect geometry, her hips rolling forward while she’s half-conscious, slit coming into contact with your morning wood. She’d wake up halfway through the first thrust, moan something unintelligible yet hot against your jaw, and you’d both pretend the slow grind toward the hour of lunch counted as being productive.
But it’s as you say: This warrants something slightly different.
She blinks up at you, bleary yet beautiful, and her mouth curves into that little puppy-smile she forces for the crowds, and you force out of her.
“Yujin,” you say to her, quietly.
She mumbles something that isn’t quite words.
“Yujin,” you say again.
One eye cracks open proper. Then the other. “Hi,” she whispers, voice shot to hell from sleep.
“If you’re about to ask me to get on top, the answer is no. I’m still recovering.”
You laugh. “That’s not—”
“Because technically,” she continues, already warming up, “what you did last night counts as a war crime in at least twelve countries. I looked it up.”
You smile, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, let your thumb trace the arc of her cheekbone. “Happy anniversary.”
“Mmm.” She shifts, rolls her hips just enough to make her point, and her smile widens when you inhale sharply. “Happy anniversary to you, too.”
You smile again.
“On second thought—”, she goes to palm your hardness, devious smile to boot, “—maybe I would like to stick to tradition. You get me?”
You do. It’s a good tradition—reliable, mutually beneficial, leaves you both breathless and sweaty and weirdly wanting to hydrate. But this morning, watching her yawn and squint against the light and press her cold feet against your calves, you find yourself hesitating.
“Actually,” you say, and she raises an eyebrow. “Can we—can I just look at you for a second?”
Suspicion flickers across her face. “That’s weird.”
“It’s romantic.”
“It’s suspicious,” she decides, stretching. The sheet slips, and you get an eyeful of everything in your periphery. “What did you do? Did you forget to get me something?
“No.”
“Did you forget to book dinner?”
“No.”
“Did you—” She props herself up on one elbow, and the sheet falls further. You’re a gentleman but you’re not a saint. You’re gonna ogle. “Did you cheat on me with Wonyoung?”
“That was one time,” you deadpan, “and you let me.”
“Okay, then—”
“I love you.”
The words land differently on her than they usually do. Usually they’re punctuation—dropped between gasps as you fuck her, murmured against her cunt while you worship her. This time, though, they’re the whole sentence, standing on its own, and it makes her go oh-so very still.
Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”
You laugh, and she relaxes incrementally. “I just thought maybe we could try something different.” You trace the line of her shoulder, the dip of her waist, the jut of her hip. “I wanted to tell you things. The stuff I don’t say when we’re—”
“Fucking?”
“Being busy,” you amend, and she snorts. “I love the way you laugh at your own shitty jokes. I love that you still get embarrassed when I catch you singing in the kitchen. I love that you leave your books facedown on the nightstand even though it drives me crazy up the wall.”
Yujin stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. Then, slowly, something softens behind her eyes.
“Your turn,” you encourage.
“You’re really good with your mouth.”
You roll your eyes. “Is that your final answer?”
She goes quiet for a long moment. Then, her fingers find yours under the sheet, lace together, squeeze.
“When you pick me up at the airport.”
“The airport?”
“Mhm.” She shifts closer. “Because no matter what time I fly in—whether it’s the afternoon when you’re supposed to be at work or when you’re tired at the dead of night—after a long schedule, an even longer flight, what feels like even longer dealing with paparazzi, cameras blinding me, and all I want to do is go home…” She tilts her chin up, meets your eyes. “The first thing I see when I get out of there is you, waiting for me. And I feel like I’m there already.”
Your throat feels tight. Your chest feels tighter.
She laughs and kisses the corner of your mouth. Then the other corner. Then your nose, jaw, forehead.
“I love that you remember my coffee order,” she kisses back down into your lips. “I love that you let me steal your clothes. I love your little butt that’s just perfect for some therapeutic squeezing.
“I love that you drool in your sleep,” you declare back. “I love that you leave your hair ties everywhere. I love that you trust me enough to fall apart.”
Your hand slides lower, cups the curve of her hip, thumb tracing circles into the bone. She’s so warm. Her thigh hooks over your waist and suddenly her cunt is pressed against you, slick and ready and—God this is perfect.
“I love you,” you say again.
“I love you too,” she says, pressing another kiss to you. “Now, are we done being sentimental? Or are we going to fuck?”
“That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I’m a romantic person.”
“You’ve called our anniversary a reminder that you tolerate me.”
“I stand by that.”
You roll on top of her in faux anger, settle between her thighs, watch her eyes go dark and focused. Her nails dig into your shoulders. Her hips lift, searching.
“Happy anniversary,” you tell her.
She pulls you by the back of the neck, bites your bottom lip, smiles against your mouth.
A/N: Written for @mysonesecret's A Thousand Words challenge over on fanprose! Much love for hosting!
Yujin x Male Reader Fluff
1k words
Read it on fanprose, and leave comments on your favourite lines!
Now, today might not be the round five, or the big decade. But today’s three years. You believe that warrants something a little different.
Usually, this is where the morning would go: You feel your hand sliding down her perfect geometry, her hips rolling forward while she’s half-conscious, slit coming into contact with your morning wood. She’d wake up halfway through the first thrust, moan something unintelligible yet hot against your jaw, and you’d both pretend the slow grind toward the hour of lunch counted as being productive.
But it’s as you say: This warrants something slightly different.
She blinks up at you, bleary yet beautiful, and her mouth curves into that little puppy-smile she forces for the crowds, and you force out of her.
“Yujin,” you say to her, quietly.
She mumbles something that isn’t quite words.
“Yujin,” you say again.
One eye cracks open proper. Then the other. “Hi,” she whispers, voice shot to hell from sleep.
“If you’re about to ask me to get on top, the answer is no. I’m still recovering.”
You laugh. “That’s not—”
“Because technically,” she continues, already warming up, “what you did last night counts as a war crime in at least twelve countries. I looked it up.”
You smile, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, let your thumb trace the arc of her cheekbone. “Happy anniversary.”
“Mmm.” She shifts, rolls her hips just enough to make her point, and her smile widens when you inhale sharply. “Happy anniversary to you, too.”
You smile again.
“On second thought—”, she goes to palm your hardness, devious smile to boot, “—maybe I would like to stick to tradition. You get me?”
You do. It’s a good tradition—reliable, mutually beneficial, leaves you both breathless and sweaty and weirdly wanting to hydrate. But this morning, watching her yawn and squint against the light and press her cold feet against your calves, you find yourself hesitating.
“Actually,” you say, and she raises an eyebrow. “Can we—can I just look at you for a second?”
Suspicion flickers across her face. “That’s weird.”
“It’s romantic.”
“It’s suspicious,” she decides, stretching. The sheet slips, and you get an eyeful of everything in your periphery. “What did you do? Did you forget to get me something?
“No.”
“Did you forget to book dinner?”
“No.”
“Did you—” She props herself up on one elbow, and the sheet falls further. You’re a gentleman but you’re not a saint. You’re gonna ogle. “Did you cheat on me with Wonyoung?”
“That was one time,” you deadpan, “and you let me.”
“Okay, then—”
“I love you.”
The words land differently on her than they usually do. Usually they’re punctuation—dropped between gasps as you fuck her, murmured against her cunt while you worship her. This time, though, they’re the whole sentence, standing on its own, and it makes her go oh-so very still.
Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”
You laugh, and she relaxes incrementally. “I just thought maybe we could try something different.” You trace the line of her shoulder, the dip of her waist, the jut of her hip. “I wanted to tell you things. The stuff I don’t say when we’re—”
“Fucking?”
“Being busy,” you amend, and she snorts. “I love the way you laugh at your own shitty jokes. I love that you still get embarrassed when I catch you singing in the kitchen. I love that you leave your books facedown on the nightstand even though it drives me crazy up the wall.”
Yujin stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. Then, slowly, something softens behind her eyes.
“Your turn,” you encourage.
“You’re really good with your mouth.”
You roll your eyes. “Is that your final answer?”
She goes quiet for a long moment. Then, her fingers find yours under the sheet, lace together, squeeze.
“When you pick me up at the airport.”
“The airport?”
“Mhm.” She shifts closer. “Because no matter what time I fly in—whether it’s the afternoon when you’re supposed to be at work or when you’re tired at the dead of night—after a long schedule, an even longer flight, what feels like even longer dealing with paparazzi, cameras blinding me, and all I want to do is go home…” She tilts her chin up, meets your eyes. “The first thing I see when I get out of there is you, waiting for me. And I feel like I’m there already.”
Your throat feels tight. Your chest feels tighter.
She laughs and kisses the corner of your mouth. Then the other corner. Then your nose, jaw, forehead.
“I love that you remember my coffee order,” she kisses back down into your lips. “I love that you let me steal your clothes. I love your little butt that’s just perfect for some therapeutic squeezing.
“I love that you drool in your sleep,” you declare back. “I love that you leave your hair ties everywhere. I love that you trust me enough to fall apart.”
Your hand slides lower, cups the curve of her hip, thumb tracing circles into the bone. She’s so warm. Her thigh hooks over your waist and suddenly her cunt is pressed against you, slick and ready and—God this is perfect.
“I love you,” you say again.
“I love you too,” she says, pressing another kiss to you. “Now, are we done being sentimental? Or are we going to fuck?”
“That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I’m a romantic person.”
“You’ve called our anniversary a reminder that you tolerate me.”
“I stand by that.”
You roll on top of her in faux anger, settle between her thighs, watch her eyes go dark and focused. Her nails dig into your shoulders. Her hips lift, searching.
“Happy anniversary,” you tell her.
She pulls you by the back of the neck, bites your bottom lip, smiles against your mouth.
"This is the fourth time this week I have been working late," you warn as you throw the hotel room keys onto the desk. For almost all of those concerned, the overtime is killer, and if you're keeping track - which Wonyoung almost certainly is - then the hours are tallying up to something bordering unprecedented.
Unprecedented is, for all intents and purposes, an apt descriptor. Take, for example, how you grab Rei's ass: she leans into you, her legs hooking around your hips, her arms wrapping around your neck. The way she kisses you is equally unprecedented, her teeth brushing along your lower lip and her tongue pushing into your mouth like she wants to taste every last inch of you.
It's not, all things considered, a bad way to wind down after a long day. It is, however, entirely unfaithful to the woman waiting at home for you. But then again, that's rather the point. It's all part of the fun: the lies, the locked-office-door sex, the way you eye each other across the bullpen and have to pretend you aren't thinking of the way she feels beneath you, or how she sounds when you're buried inside her. Rei's lips leave yours with a sigh, and you can see in her eyes that she's every bit as hungry as you are.
"Missed you," she breathes, tugging at your tie, loosening the knot.
"Been two days, Rei.”
"Too long."
You kiss her again, and it's hard to argue with that. Her hands are working your shirt free of your trousers, fingertips brushing your skin, while your hands are sliding up her thighs, pushing her skirt up with them. You hit the little black garter on her thigh. You knew it was there, you spotted it earlier when she totally-not-for-your benefit dropped her pen under the desk, but it's still a pleasant discovery. You hook your fingers beneath it, snap it against her skin, making her gasp into your mouth.
Rei's fingers are quick at your buttons, and she pulls your shirt open, her hands sliding over your chest, nails scraping lightly. You groan against her lips, and she smiles, smug and satisfied. "You're tense," she observes.
"You try sitting through a four-hour director meeting and see how relaxed you are," you retort, and she laughs, an airy sound that makes you want to hear it again and again.
You back her up against the desk, and she hops up, legs spreading to make room for you between them. You kiss her neck, and she tilts her head back, giving you better access. Your teeth graze her skin, and she shivers, her fingers tangling in your hair. "I have to sit through your budget reviews, too, you know," she whispers. "They're just as boring."
"But you get to look at me the whole time," you point out, and she laughs again, pulling your face up to kiss you.
She hums a little agreement before telling you the worst-kept secret of how difficult it is to be only twenty minutes into the meeting and already dripping wet. "I mean, you're up there, looking all serious and professional," she says, her fingers undoing your belt. "And I'm just thinking about how I want you to bend me over the desk and fuck me right there."
You groan because that is entirely not helpful when you're trying to keep things together for the sake of the shareholders.
"So when you had to step out of the room," Rei continues, "it took everything I had to not just follow you out and drop to my knees and suck your cock right there in the hallway."
You grip her hips, pulling her closer to the edge of the desk, your cock pressing against her through your trousers. "Fuck, Rei," you groan, and she smirks at that.
She reaches between you, palming your length through the fabric, and you hiss, your hips jerking forward. "You're already so hard," she purrs.
"And yet, you're still so well-dressed." You start at her top shirt button, popping it open. Then the next. "I think we need to remedy that."
She bites her lip, eyes bright with anticipation, and you work your way down the line of buttons, revealing the black lace of her lingerie. You're not sure what's sexier: the underwear itself, or the fact that she's been wearing it under her work clothes all day. A body like that, you just have to taste, so you’re leaning down, kissing the swell of her breasts just above the fabric, and she hums in appreciation.
"All these hotel rooms cost a pretty penny." She’s probably right, but it’s not like you would know - the company is footing the bill for these little trysts. You’re going to argue that it’s all worth it for the look in her eyes, for the way she feels against you, for the way she's looking at you like you're the only thing that matters right now.
"I think it's a sound investment," you tell her before kissing her again, and then argue, "Good for morale."
"Mhm, I would say so. My morale is definitely up."
Then your hands are sliding up her sides, reaching her bra and pushing it up to expose her tits. You take one in your hand and just play with it so casually. Even that has her letting out deep breaths. You have to taste her. Your mouth finds her nipple, and you tease it with your tongue, making her continue those sweet sighs.
In response, her hand tightens on your cock, stroking you a little harder. "Feels so good.”
You move to her other breast, giving it an equal share of love, while your free hand slides down her stomach and slips under her skirt. You find her panties. Fuck, she’s wet. You press your fingers against her, and she whimpers, her hips rolling against your hand.
"Already so wet for me.”
"Always wet for you," she says, and fuck, that does something to you. You growl a little, nipping at her breast, making her cry out. Your fingers push her panties aside, sliding through her folds. You find her clit. You circle it lightly, and the response comes in a shudder and the clench of her thighs on your sides.
"I love how easy you are."
"Calling me a slut?" Rei asks as she unfastens your trousers, and you laugh into the valley of her breasts.
"Is that what you want me to call you?" You kiss up her chest now before nipping at her collarbone. You want to hear her say it - want to hear her admit how much she loves it when you call her a needy little thing.
"Maybe." Her hand slips into your boxers, wrapping around your cock, and you groan, your hips thrusting into her grip. "Maybe I just want you to fuck me like one."
Yeah, that’s the point here, Rei. Accompanied by a kiss, you push your fingers inside her so easily. You curl them, and before long, she breaks the kiss, her forehead against yours as she moans.
"I'm the best hour of your day," Rei teases, and it’s not entirely true, if not entirely false.
"Second best," you say with a little bite. "It's not like Wonyoung doesn't keep me pretty happy at home."
And that, right there, is the thing - the line that makes this so fucking hot. The way she knows you have someone else, and she doesn't care. She likes it, even. It gets her off just as much as it gets you off. You can feel her clench around your fingers, and you know she's thinking about it, about how she's the other woman, the side piece, the dirty little secret.
"Lucky her," Rei groans. "Getting you all to herself at night."
"Evening, night, morning - every chance we get."
You pull your fingers out of her, and she whines, but it doesn’t last long because you're already pushing her skirt up higher. Then go her panties in the other direction. She lifts her hips to help you, and soon you toss them aside. You spread her thighs. She places one hand behind her on the wood, keeping herself propped up, and with the other, she guides the head of your cock to her entrance. It all seems so rehearsed, which is a testament to the number of times you’ve had her like this.
"Where do you get the energy -"
She doesn't finish the sentence, too busy gasping as you push into her, slow and steady. She's so wet and so warm around your tip. There is a moment where you just look at each other, both breathing heavily, and then you start to move, your hips rolling as you fuck her on the desk, and you tell her, "Proper motivation."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Something about knowing someone else is waiting for me at home," you say, and she moans, her head falling back. "Makes me want to fuck you even harder."
"Fuck," she gasps, her fingers digging into your shoulders. "That's so fucked up."
"Knowing that ‘the someone at home’ is going to suck your cum off my cock when I get home." You start to thrust a little faster, a little harder. It always goes like this, as you both descend into cheating madness. "And she has no idea."
Rei's eyes are glazed over, her lips parted as she pants, and you take the chance to capture her soft lips again. She kisses back just as hard.
Her nail scrape down your back as she pulls off your shirt. You can feel the sting, but it just spurs you on, your hips snapping against hers over and over.
You want to mess her up. You want to ruin her, to mark her, to make her forget her own name. It’s all primal thoughts when you’re alone with her. You want to fuck her so good she can't think straight, can't remember anything but your cock and the way you feel inside her.
So you do just that. You fuck her hard and deep. Your hands are on her hips, and you pull her into every thrust. She's making the most delicious sounds - little whimpers and moans that go straight to your cock.
There's this thing about Rei - call it a habit or call it an addiction - she's got this need to be a little bit mean, to be a little bit cruel, even when she's getting her brains fucked out. You can feel it in the way she's digging her nails into your skin, in the way she's clenching around you, trying to milk you for all you're worth. So you give her a little of what she wants, and you whisper in her ear, "Wonyoung would hate you, you know."
Rei barely manages a few expletives in response.
"She'd scratch your eyes out if she knew what we were doing." You punctuate your words with a particularly hard thrust, and she cries out. "But I guess that's part of the fun, isn't it? The thought of her finding out?"
"Yes," Rei hisses. "Fuck, yes."
"You love it, don't you? You love being the dirty little secret, the one I come to when I need a little extra."
With that, she's got a hand on the back of your head, pulling you hard against her, into the crook of her neck. Her lips are right at your ear, and between the moans and the ragged breaths, she's throwing out these little fragments of self-degradation. "I'm just a quick fuck to you," she says. "Just a warm hole to stick your cock in when you're bored of her."
She's not wrong, but you love hearing her say it, love the way she's getting off on her own humiliation. So you tell her she's right, and you kiss her neck. You’re all teeth - it’s a little aggressive. "But you're so fucking good at it," you growl. "You're such a good little slut for me."
"Fuck, yes," she whines, and you can feel her getting close, her body tensing up, her nails digging into your scalp. "I'm your little slut, I'm your dirty little secret, I'm—fuck, I'm gonna cum."
You can feel it too, that telltale tightening around your cock and hear it in the way her breath hitches. So you push her right over the edge. Your thumb finds her clit, rubbing it in tight, fast circles as you keep pounding into her. She screams, her whole body convulsing, and you feel her gush around your cock as her juices soak both of you.
"See, you're always so easy." She's nodding along, or at least doing her best to; some form of vague agreement is hidden in the way she's falling apart. There's this signature way Rei cums, something you know well enough now that you could pick it out in a lineup of orgasmic faces, where she gets a bit teary-eyed, and her bottom lip quivers, and then she breaks into this giggle - it's fucking adorable. "And so messy."
You slow down, letting her ride it out, and then you pull out, her body going limp against the desk. You take a moment to admire her - the way her chest is heaving, the flush on her cheeks, the dazed look in her eyes. You could look at her for hours, memorise every detail, but you've still got work to do.
So you're picking her up, but not heading for the bed.
Something about sliding balcony doors sings to the voyeur in you, as if you needed the city lights as an audience to the little spectacle you're making of her. So that's where you're taking her. That's where you'll pound her next.
"You know, there is a budget issue," Rei slurs out as she is pushed up against the glass.
"Oh yeah?"
"Overspending."
You're near tearing that skirt from her hips, and as she steps out of it, she turns and bends over, pushing her ass out for you. "And it can't wait?"
Rei shakes her head, looking back over her shoulder. "Actually, it's very relevant." She dips a little deeper. "You see, overtime costs are up a few points this quarter, and accommodation expenses have ballooned."
"Sounds like something we need to crack down on. Maybe you can find one of your creative approaches?"
"Asking me to get creative?"
"Always."
“I can do creative." It's an understatement for a woman like her, who seems to have an infinite number of ways to make you lose your mind. Case in point: she reaches out to pull a chair over to her side, and then she puts one foot on it and bends over a little further, giving you an even better view of her pussy, still wet and glistening from her last orgasm.
And just like that, you're kneeling, hands on her ass, spreading her open. Your tongue slides through her folds. Rei presses against the glass. "With the right motivation, I can hide any deficit," she's telling you, and you chuckle against her, the vibration making her shiver.
You lick her clit, and she whimpers. Rei pushes her hips back against your tongue. "I can make it work," she continues, her words breathy. "I'll just have to get very hands-on with the numbers."
You're not really listening anymore, too focused on the way she tastes, the way she feels against your tongue. You don’t have to see her to know she’s smirking. "I'll just have to bend over backwards for the company."
You groan at that, your cock twitching at the idea, and you pull back, standing up. You slap her ass, making her yelp and the flesh wobble. Now, you're lining up again and then pushing into her in one smooth thrust. She cries out, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the glass where she can’t find any.
"Corporate loyalty," she gasps out. "It's all about giving your all."
"I think you're more than giving your all, Rei," you tell her. You reach around her to cup her breasts. "I think you're going above and beyond."
She laughs, breathless and a little wild, and it's the sexiest sound you've ever heard. "Just doing my job."
"And you're so good at it." You roll her nipples between your fingers. "I should give you a raise."
"I'd rather you just shut up and keep fucking me."
You can't argue with that. You straighten up, one hand on her hip, the other hooking the thigh of the leg she has propped up in the air. You're pressing her against the glass, the city lights blurring behind her. You're fucking her hard and fast. She's taking it, loving it, begging for more. You give it to her, you give her everything, until you can feel yourself getting close, your balls tightening, your thrusts becoming a little erratic.
"Fuck, Rei, where?" you manage to grit out. Not that this is a knowledge thing, you just need to hear her say it before you do it.
"Anywhere. On me. In me."
In her.
She's cumming and laughing, and it's all so overwhelming, you can't help but follow her over the edge. Your vision goes white, your body tensing as you empty yourself inside her, filling her up with your cum. You stay like that for a moment, both of you breathing heavily, and then you pull out, watching your cum drip out of her, down her thighs.
It's fucking obscene, and you love it. You love the way she looks, all dishevelled and well-fucked. Rei turns to face you, and there's a satisfied smirk on her lips. There’s a gleam in her eye that says she knows exactly what she's doing to you.
She's standing, hands against your chest as she leans close, and suddenly she's all delicate. Plump lips give pillowy kisses. She keeps pulling back before you can engage her in liplock, a playful tease that has you chasing her kisses as she tilts her head this way and that.
"You're a bad habit," she whispers, and you can feel her smile against your lips.
"You're worse.”
"I know," she smirks, and just when you think you might make out with her, she's gone. One quick drop to her knees with cat-like precision. She's taking your cock in her mouth, cleaning you off, her tongue swirling around the head, lapping up the mixture of your cum and hers. You groan, and your hands tangle in her hair.
You've seen that look before - many times over the months you've been sneaking around with her. You're sure you'll see it again, and again, and again. As much as you both know this is wrong, as much as you both know it can't last, you can't seem to stop. She's your addiction, your guilty pleasure, your favourite fucking sin.
"Fuck, Rei." You're already half-hard again inside her mouth, and that has the corners of it upturned a little.
Then comes the buzzing - your phone. You swear under your breath, reach for it, and see Wonyoung's name flashing on the screen.
Rei pulls off your cock, a string of saliva connecting her lips to your head, and then - as if it's the most normal thing - tells you, "Better answer that.”
A shake of your head and a resigned sigh. You’re supposed to be in the office, and that leaves no excuse for ignoring her call. You swipe and answer. "Hey, baby.”
"Hey," Wonyoung says, and you can practically hear her pout. "You're working late again, aren't you?"
"Yeah, sorry. Meeting ran over, and I just need to… finish up."
She sighs, a little over-dramatically to make her point. You’ve heard it before, and you’ll hear it again. "Again? This is the fourth time this week. I'm starting to feel neglected…"
You have to bite back a groan and swallow it as Rei takes you back into her mouth. She caresses the tip of your cock with her tongue. "I know, baby, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise."
"I'm holding you to that," Wonyoung warns. And sure, she's not really mad, just playfully annoyed, but there’s this pang of guilt that quickly passes. Her tone shifts to something a little more serious and a little more seductive. "You know, I've been thinking about you all day. I'm wearing that new lingerie you bought me."
It’s an enticing thought that will only fuel you further.
Oh, fuck. Rei's eyes flick up to yours as she takes you deeper. That fucking smirk around your cock. Ugh, she’s so clearly enjoying the predicament she's putting you in. You clear your throat. "Yeah? The red one?"
"Mm-hmm," Wonyoung purrs. "It's so soft against my skin, and it makes me feel so sexy. I wish you were here to see it."
You drop your tone a little and tell her, "Wish I was too." It's not entirely a lie - you do want to be there and to see her in that lingerie. You just also happen to want to fuck Rei's throat while you're thinking about it, but you can’t exactly say it out loud.
You can just picture Wonyoung lying on your shared bed, her hand trailing down her stomach, slipping inside the red lace. "I've been touching myself," she confesses, and your hips jerk forward, making Rei gag a little. "Just thinking about you. About your hands on me, your mouth on me, your cock inside me."
Jesus Christ. This is too much. Rei's still working you over, her head bobbing in your lap, and Wonyoung's moaning in your ear. You're pretty sure you're going to hell for this, but fuck, does it feel so good.
"I want you to come home and fuck me," Wonyoung near-pleads. "I want you to bend me over the bed and take me hard. I want to scream your name until the neighbours complain."
You tangle your fingers into Rei's hair and hold her in place as you start to thrust into her mouth. "I'll be home as soon as I can, baby.”
"Promise?" Wonyoung asks, and you can hear the pout again.
"I promise." It's a lie, but what's one more on top of all the others?
"Are you alone?" Rei looks up at you, her eyes wide, but she doesn't stop sucking you, doesn't even slow down. If anything, she doubles her efforts, taking you deeper, her nose pressing against your stomach - the last thing you need.
"N-no," you stutter out. "I mean, yes. Yes, I'm alone. Just me and the spreadsheets."
"Right, right. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Fine," you grit out, as Rei starts to hum around your cock. You have to bite your lip to keep from moaning. "Just tired. Long day."
"Mm," Wonyoung’s not entirely convinced, that much is sure, but she buys any lie you try to sell her. "Well, hurry up and finish your work so you can come home and finish me off."
"Believe me, I'm trying," you say, and it's the truth, for once. You need to fuck Rei again - need to finish your work.
Wonyoung laughs, a bright, happy sound that makes your chest ache. "I love you," she says, and the words hit you like a series of little punches to the gut.
"I love you too," you reply, and you mean it - even as Rei's swallowing around you, even as your hips are thrusting into her mouth, even as you're trying not to bust a nut down your mistress's throat. You love Wonyoung, and that's what makes this so fucked up.
"See you soon." Wonyoung hangs up and leaves you with the dial tone and a girl on her knees who's still looking up at you with a fire in her eyes.
You toss your phone aside. You grip Rei's hair as you start to really fuck her face in punishment. She takes it - just lets you use her. Her eyes water, and spit drips down her chin. "That was so fucking bad," you scold. "Doing that while I'm on the phone with her."
Rei pulls off, a string of saliva connecting her lips to your cock, and then catches it as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Punish me then."
At that, you're throwing her onto the bed. Wonyoung can wait. For just a little while longer, at least. You're going to give Rei exactly what she wants, and then you're going to go home to your girlfriend, and you're going to fuck her, too. Because you're greedy, and you want it all - the sweet girlfriend who loves you, and the dirty mistress who lets you use her.
A/N: Wow fic in the big year 2026. Hope there are reader's still here lol.
The sun begins to set after an eventful afternoon, its orange rays illuminate the hotel room you occupy for “work negotiations”. The usual chilly evening breeze doesn’t bother you, the thick hotel quilt, or more specifically, the girl wrapped in it with you, provides enough warmth to you.
You rest your chin on her shoulders and admire the scenery with her. “This view is not as beautiful as you, princess.”
Tzuyu giggles at the compliment and she gently rubs her hand over yours, lazily enjoying your embrace. You press yourself tighter against her and kiss the nook of her neck, glancing down the balcony and watching most of the crowd by the pool dissipating. It’s the end of the day but you’re hoping it's not the end of yours. A hand sneaks from her tummy to between her thighs as your lips kiss up the side of her face. “Is it time for you to go?”
Her body tenses for a split second, conflicted on what to do next, but you, ever the devil on her shoulder, pull her waist even tighter against your groin and run a finger across her splayed pussy. “I should, but I,” she lets out a soft moan and snuggles back into you, her shaky hands now gripping the balcony railings, “just, one more time, okay?”
You grin. You’ve won over her once again. “Anything for you, princess.”
She gets rid of the quilt and turns to you, her eyes sparkle with need. You bend her over the railing and spread her legs a little further. Her lower body sticks itself further back, pussy already glistening in anticipation. You can’t wait any longer, desperately wanting to be back in her body just as you’ve been for most of the day, so you position your cock by her pussy and gently thrust it in.
She lets out a satisfied sigh when you’re inside her once again, her body tight but gradually opening up to you. A perfect match for you, you’re glad you didn’t let this gem slip away. Thankfully , she needs you as much as you need her, forming this wicked, dark relationship.
You work your hips harder, your cock hitting the depths of her body. An instant reaction, a loud cry for all still lingering by the pool to hear, and you continuously draw her moans out with deeper harder thrusts. You hold her ass instead of her waist and take a few squeezes, enjoying the feel of her flesh.
Tzuyu is so engrossed in the dirty fucking, barely able to remember that you’re in a very public position. Her eyes blurry, scanning the poolside and hoping no one looks up. Even with her unobstructed cries, you both go unnoticed, that is until you begin to slap her ass.
Not hard enough to inflict too much pain or leave a handprint, but just nice that the spank adds to your noise. It catches Tzuyu off guard and you feel her get wetter and tighter after such an unusually loud moan. You sense her fear soon after, her arm held across her chest and her mouth trying to seal shut and not make any noise.
“What’s the matter, princess? Don’t you want to show off how sinful you are?”
You peel her arm away and tug her body so that it’s upright and flushed with yours. Gently cupping her tits, she’s now leaning back against you, hips rocking back to meet yours, eyes shut as she quietly moans and enjoys the fuck.
“I think there are people watching.”
“Oh?” You’re not fazed, still continuing to fuck her, even planting more kisses on her cheek before you look down. “Let’s go princess.”
In an instant, you pull out of her and pull her back into the room and onto the messy bed. She falls next to you and you both look at each other before bursting into giggles. A lovely different symphony, an anomaly from the usual sounds of pleasure from Tzuyu. She’s staring into your eyes and you’re sweeping stray strands of hair off her face. You lean over her and kiss her forehead, then her cheeks. A warmth washes over both of you, you sense her melting deeper into the bed while your strength begins to fade.
Her eyes, they’re so pretty. You’ve tainted this princess already, ruined her for an entire afternoon, but you see her, for the stunning woman she is at her core, and you lose more control. You’re falling, moving lower, and you’re kissing her, softly. She’s soft too, jelly, and you feel her lips press back against yours.
Mere seconds later, what felt like eternity, you’re right back to watching her, watching her eyes sparkle, her pretty face shine as she smiles oh so beautifully.
You fall even further, this time with her aid. Her palm rests on your cheeks, her chin tilts up just a little to close the gap, and she guides you back onto her lips. A gentle kiss, her mouth parts so slightly to sigh into yours. You smile when your forehead touches hers and you hold her head and kiss her again.
“I want you,” her eyes pleading, her voice almost cracking, so vulnerable, “make love to me.”
“Anything for you princess.”
You’re kneeling between her legs but you nudge it a little wider. The hand on her cheek shifts onto her chest, briefly going over her breast, the slight pressure causes a gasp, until you’re holding her waist. Your tip presses against her wet entrance and you glance back at her. She is an utter mess as you insert yourself inside her body, her walls tightening around you. Perfect, you’re like the missing piece of a puzzle in her life, as wrong as it all is, but she doesn’t care, not in this moment, maybe not ever from here on out.
You take slow and deep thrusts, filling her completely, ensuring she feels every bit of you. She’s melting into the bed, surrendering, giving herself up to you, all thoughts gone except how much she needs you. A whole afternoon later and she still can’t get enough of you. She’s so wet and tight, her legs wrap your waist, as if she doesn’t ever want to let you go.
But it only drives you to go faster. You’re losing control of yourself too, having never seen her this pleasure stricken before. It’s all you. Her face in pure ecstasy is all thanks to you.
“You’re so pretty for me, princess. I love it when you’re like this.”
A blush, a shy smile that’s immediately covered by a hand.
“No no. No hiding from me.”
No, you can’t have that, so you pull it off, hold her hand by her waist. You squeeze her hand, Look deeply into her eyes, you’re met with hers, half lidded from the pleasure, but the glint of affection is still there.
“I’m going to cum.”
“Not yet, just a little longer princess.”
Her back arches, her heels hook around your waist. She pulls you close by the back of your head. Every little sound she makes goes straight into your ears.
“I can't, I can't, I’m cumming.”
Her pussy is so tight and wet around you, making a small mess at your lower body. She’s melting, and even though you’re whispering soothing calming words to her, you’re not exactly helping with your cock still drilling her at full speed. She feels so good, a near perfect fit for you, and a few more rapid pumps into her body later, you’re cumming too.
“I’m going to breed you princess.”
Your words barely reach her ears, a soft moan in return before you shut her up with a deep passionate kiss. You’re shooting hot white cum in her, pumping and burying your load in the depths of her womb.
Your lower body works on autopilot and lazily thrusts a few more times while you’re focused on Tzuyu. Your hand is on her cheek and your lips still on hers, just so gently tasting her sweet lips for the hundredth time but you know deep down it’ll never be enough.
Your body finally cools down from the feral fervour and you slip out of Tzuyu’s body with some of your cum following suit. Tzuyu musters her strength and turns you onto your back while she straddles you. She collects the cum staining her thighs and licks them clean while you’re appreciating her body again and gently caressing her curves.
“It’s time I really should go back home.”
“Clean yourself up before you leave. Don’t want you smelling like sex when you’re with your boyfriend.”
Her lower body stumbles off the bed. Tzuyu pauses, then turns to smiles before entering. She doesn’t need to say anything, you get the message.
~~~~~~
You’re back in that natural, comfortable position, with arms wrapped around Tzuyu’s waist and head resting on her shoulder, this time in the shower. You can’t get enough of her. Her body, her warmth, her relieved smile as you wash off the last bits of soap left on her body.
She hurriedly dries herself off and begins to dress up. She frantically looks around the crumpled dress and presses on any wrinkles, while you lean against a wall, wrapped in a towel and watch in amusement and adoration.
Dressed and about to leave, her hands hesitate at the door. She turns to you, words choked in her throat. But she doesn’t need to say anything.
“Just one more, princess.” You hold her hand and lean into her. “Please.”
Tzuyu nods, closes her eyes and kisses you.
You wish you had more time. You just want to get dirty with her again. You know that she has to go, but you also know that she is yours as much as you are hers and that you’ll see her very soon.
When she pulls away, when your foreheads touch, when she sighs, you fall even deeper.
“My place, this Saturday?”
“I’d love that.”
Her hand slips away from yours and you watch her leave the hotel room.
A regret for you both, but you know this isn’t the end, not by a long shot.
******
A/N: Honestly, this draft was like 90% complete since April last year but I didn't like it enough to post it. A review now made me realise it wasn't as bad as I remembered. Hope yall enjoyed this. More fics to come? Idk. I hope so.
Thank you to everyone who still has faith in this series <3 First fic of May!
It’s funny how life works. You never thought it would come to this point, but you know what they say: expect the unexpected. That’s the only way you can get through your twenties without going insane.
But even so, you still have little recollection of how you ended up sitting in a café, waiting to meet Honda Hitomi.
That’s right: the Honda Hitomi. You can’t believe it either. Years ago, you were mourning IZ*ONE’s disbandment, and now you’ve somehow landed the opportunity to meet the veteran idol of your dreams. Your hand keeps trembling on the table and she isn’t even here yet. What more if she finally shows up? God, you hope you don’t faint.
I’m almost there~ I’m really sorry for the wait!
🍑 xx
You want to text her back and say there’s no need for apologies. You’ll wait for her your whole life if need be, just like how you waited for her to debut again, waited for her merch in long lines—
“Hey there!”
You look up from your phone and your heart nearly stops.
Alright, you can remember how you got here now, actually.
You weren’t even that into K-pop—well, until some of the bigger hits from 2NE1 came out. That got you a little interested. You had this bias against K-pop at first because it seemed incredibly mundane. But then you found out it was just… music, only sang in Korean. Fast forward to 2018, you saw the most beautiful girl on your screen who was competing to be in a produce group. Your life started there.
And now, she’s standing right before you. Her smile is dazzling. It blinds you as you scramble to your feet, frantically bowing.
“Hi, I’m a huge fan!” you say. You’re aware that you’re making yourself look idiotic in front of your ultimate bias but you have no idea how to make it stop. Hitomi just makes your brain short-circuit. “Thank you for coming!”
Hitomi giggles. “I know you are. Otherwise you wouldn’t have joined our contest, right?”
You blush. Strike one, you guess. However, there’s only playful jest written on Hitomi’s round face. That’s just one of the many things you love about her: she’s genuine. The cutie pie public image doesn’t change the fact she’ll make whatever she feels known. You have evidence of it in your gallery: a video of her cursing in Japanese, photos of her smiling brightly, and of course, that wrenching video of her crying after their first win.
It’s parasocial to say, but you’ve been around for each other’s firsts. You were thrust into the real world as an adult the same time she was. She was your first bias who kept you afloat and looking forward to something in college, when all you could think about was if you were going to graduate or not. She introduced you to a whole world of music you didn’t know could be so good.
Funny. You had a lot of biases after IZ*ONE, but none could measure up to Hitomi.
“Right, sorry. It’s so nice to finally meet you in person.’’
“Oh, no need to apologize! I’m actually really thankful you joined.” She shakes your hand. Does she know that one touch almost made you faint? “It’s been a little scary debuting again in Korea. It’s nice to know I have fans who support me either way.”
She’s in this little crochet halter, the dark hues the opposite of that blonde hair. As perfect as she is, you realize that she’s just as human as you are. There’s a bit of sweat on her forehead, courtesy of the April heat. A little bit of her lipstick is smudged slightly around the corner of her mouth. She isn’t just a figment of the pixels on your phone screen.
The only difference is she’s a hundred times more beautiful.
It’s actually crazy—she’s just there, gesturing with her small hands, talking and smiling, and through it all she remains picture-perfect gorgeous. Paparazzi shots have nothing on her. They can look everywhere for an unflattering angle and be greeted with none.
“Well, I’ll always be here,” you say bashfully. “Would you like a drink?”
Hitomi’s eyes sparkle once more as they fixate on the menu. “Sure!” There’s a lot of delicacies worth trying here.
“Unless, uh, of course—” You shrug. “You’d rather go somewhere else. I heard there’s a mall nearby with a new parlor.”
You don’t really know what to do here. You didn’t expect to win the contest her label held for their comeback: a few album purchases in exchange for a whole day with your bias. Was this going to be televised? Were there limits? You should’ve read the fine print.
Hitomi offers you a gentle smile. So many times you found refuge in it. You didn’t know it at the time when you were voting for her on Produce 48, but you were in it for the long ride.
“You really need to stop worrying so much. We can do whatever you like. As far as I’m concerned, I’m all yours.”
-
Now what the hell does that mean?
You’re not completely parasocial, for god’s sake. You’ve been a K-pop fan long enough to know these little sweet lines are scripted. Everything is manufactured and sold to consumers who’d devour anything if it had a pretty girl printed on it: a wink to the camera, outfits designed to hug every appealing curve, words of support in an online fancall. It would be stupid to fall for any of that.
But when Hitomi’s in that tiny little halter, eyes never leaving you and her lithe legs crossed, whatever else should you think about?
Hitomi gives her sugar-coated spoon a long, languid lick. Your gaze lingers a little too much at the sight. Her pretty lips, glossy and soft, succeed in making you jealous of the utensil. Not to mention that tongue…
Shake your head, as if doing it would clear all the dirty thoughts in it. You swore to yourself a long time ago you would not be one of those fans. They were everywhere, even on a small-scale website like Tumblr. It shocked you to see a blog solely dedicated to writing mature fanfiction about her and her former group members, clear from the username already. Whatever that iznsfw person does is disrespectful and dehumanizing.
Besides, Honda Hitomi is like, off-limits. She’s tiny and lovable and has the softest cheeks in mankind. This is the last girl you should think of as sexy.
“Is it as good as you expected?” you ask.
Hitomi nods cutely, as if nothing happened. As if she didn’t ignite a heat inside you that won’t go out.. She looks gorgeous underneath all that sunlight. It seems to bounce off her milky skin and make her one of its own rays.
“I’m so glad you picked the strawberry flavor,” she says, twirling her spoon through the pink ice cream. “Thank you, by the way. Chocolate’s too regular for me, you know? You can get that anywhere.”
“No problem at all. You did say strawberries were your favorite food, right?”
Hitomi looks genuinely touched. The sparkle in her eyes can’t be the cafe lamp’s illusion. She’s probably wondering how the hell you remember that. Even the people around her don’t remember how to spell her name. But it’s simple: you remember because it’s her.
“Aw, our fans are always so thoughtful,” she gushes. “I didn’t think anyone would know that… I said that in a talk show a million years ago.”
You want to tell her the exact date and MC of the show, but you keep that to yourself. The last thing you want to happen is for your ultimate bias to think you’re just another creepy fan. You swear hand to god that you aren’t; you’re just completely, hopelessly devoted to Hitomi.
Okay, so that doesn’t help your case, but still. You take another bite of your brunch pancakes before speaking again.
“AKB48 days, I think?” you say, playing it off casually.
Hitomi juts her lips out, deep in thought. She shakes her head. “No, it’s actually–” Her eyes grow larger than life, disbelief clear in them. “You’re right! How did you know that?”
“I meant it when I said I’m your biggest fan.”
Oh, if only she knew that you led the voting fan union when SayMyName was nominated in music shows. Then there’s your drawer full of her photo cards, the posters of her in your room… she pretty much consumed you. She brought so much light to your life that you didn’t know could deviate from gloom.
There’s a saying that goes something like “never meet your heroes.” It’s better to keep them on a pedestal than get your heart broken knowing they’re nothing like you thought. But you’re glad you broke that rule for Hitomi. She’s as radiant as she is on your television. And above all, she’s actually quite easy to talk to. It’s just like talking to your best friend. You ask her about how it felt stepping back into the industry, and she jokes that it’s all an old game to her.
“I was nervous, of course, but the excitement cancels it out,” she explains. “It’s just work at the end of the day. You get used to doing it.”
The strawberry ice cream melted already into a puddle of pink. Your pancakes are left abandoned on your plate. The two of you don’t mind though. You like listening to Hitomi. And Hitomi loves talking about being an idol. Dancing and singing is something she was born to do.
“It has to feel weird though,” you remark, not quite thinking before you say it out loud.
Hitomi quirks her lip. “What do you mean?”
“You were in a group with eleven members with a leader to rely on. And now you’re a leader yourself. Doesn’t it get hard sometimes?”
She’s silent for a moment, probably reminiscing like you are. You were there for the golden era of her previous group. For the entirety of it, actually. You can see those little moments flash through her eyes—securing a spot in the lineup, performing during the pandemic, ending it all in a tearful yet high note with her purple hair falling around her hoodie.
You wonder if she ever felt sad knowing they never got to tour as a group. At their final concert, she spoke to an empty audience, unable to see who was there for her.
“It does,” she murmurs. “In a line of work like this, you’re gonna get tired. You’ll always think if you’re doing the right thing or if you said the wrong thing. And it gets really lonely sometimes.”
Her voice is as fragile as glass. You begin to fear that you’re making her cry. Hell, even you think you’re going to tear up just recalling all of those memories. You’d hate to ruin a bright day like this.
Hitomi, to your surprise, only offers you a satisfied smile. “But god, do I love doing what I do. It makes it all worth it.”
She reaches her hand out to clasp yours. Her touch is soft as a cloud.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For always being on my side. I’ll never take it for granted.”
“I-I should be thanking you. I’m serious. You make me so happy just by…” You gesture vaguely, an embarrassed little smile on your face. “You know, dancing and singing onstage. You’ve helped me through a lot of sleepless nights.”
She’ll forever be in your heart and head, one way or another. She stayed there during IZ*ONE when you still had a hard time picking her apart from the other eleven girls. She stayed there during the hiatus, when you struggled finding subtitles for her Japanese shows. And she might as well be a second heartbeat but a first thought now that she’s back in the industry you learned to love because of her.
And she tilts her head, blinking innocently. “What kind of sleepless nights?”
You’re beginning to think something’s very wrong with you.
Come on, she doesn’t mean any harm or innuendo. She’s just concerned about you, like she is with all of her fans. It’s natural for her to be after having such a vulnerable conversation with you.
It's certainly inconvenient, though, that the innuendo comes after you’ve been battling thoughts about folding her in half on this table and filling those soft cheeks with something else than ice cream. Just the tiniest physical contact between you and the idol you worship makes you heat up. The way she’s looking at you right now should be a really sweet moment you’d tuck away in your heart and thank the heavens for experiencing. However, it only makes you unable to hold eye contact with her, and drifting your gaze from her face to that tight little body doesn’t help.
“Hitomi…”
She doesn’t have to know what you look at in the night. They’re all photos of her, of course, looking adorable in fansigns and small concerts. But there’s always that one photo sandwiched between wholesome content—something where she’s showing off skin a little more than usual, her gaze piercing through the lens. As if she knew what you were doing.
She’s giving you that exact same look now.
And god, it’s even more dangerous in person. Her head tilts to the side, her eyelashes fanning low. It would look adorable to anyone else. That’s how it should look—her boba eyes are like that of an anime character and she’s so bubbly it’s infectious.
“It’s alright, oppa,” she says with a playful tinge in her voice. “You don’t have to hide it from me. It just makes me more curious.”
This cannot be fucking happening. Is this a prank? The airconditioned café suddenly feels too warm. You need to get rid of your jacket. You need to get rid of her clothes. You need to taste the ice cream sitting on her bottom lip to quench the thirst in you.
“It really doesn’t matter,” you stutter, searching for a lifeline. Your voice draws thinner with anxiety. “I think you’d be more interested in knowing how many albums I bought just to meet you. Everyone says it’s crazy.”
Hitomi pouts. “But I already know that. My manager said you got twenty copies of all versions.”
“Twenty-six of each, actually. To celebrate your birthday in advance.”
“Then shouldn’t you tell me what you think about in those sleepless nights?” Hitomi leans forward, knowing exactly what that pout does to you. “I always want to give back to my fans, especially when they’re as… big as you are.”
The innocent giggle that follows is just too much. Her cute voice should not entice you like this. This day has taken twists bigger than meeting Hitomi herself. You have no idea what to do.
Are you really going to be cornered by a Japanese girl who’d fit in your pocket? You hate to say that the answer is yes, especially when the girl you’re horribly down bad for is Honda Hitomi.
You shift in your seat. “You’re trying to get me in trouble.”
She laughs, biting her lip a little. Another obscene fantasy crosses your mind just this second. One of her doing that same expression as she takes that top off, eyes never leaving yours. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. But let’s not pretend you don’t want me.”
This would be so much easier if she was wrong—a weight off your shoulders, a lack of a guilty conscience. Nobody should be thinking of a girl like Hitomi like that. It’s exactly why she garners the kind of audience she has. She’s too precious. Miniscule, pretty, a permanent giddy smile glued to her face. It felt wrong to even consider her as someone sexy.
“I wasn’t lying when I said I’m yours for the day,” she says. “So please, do whatever you want to me.”
Then Hitomi spreads her creamy thighs under the table and you realize you actually, truly do not give a fuck about what’s right or wrong.
-
This has got to be illegal. You didn’t read the terms and conditions, haven’t the slightest idea of what goes and what doesn’t, but you’re pretty fucking sure you should not be taking Hitomi to a hotel.
This whole situation has just been a battle of your morals. Because here’s the thing:
You believe that no label, as big as SM or as small as Hitomi’s, should risk their idol hooking up with a fan. And if this is just elevated fanservice, they should be sued for fortunes.
Then again, why would you pass up the opportunity? Hitomi initiated this herself after all.
Still, there should be boundaries. Artists hooking up with their fans is a tale old as time, but that doesn’t make it less wrong. You only know Hitomi from a camera-captured perspective. She’s a celebrity with a reputation at risk. That alone is a good reason for the two of you to call this off.
But Hitomi’s plump ass looks too good in that skirt, and she’s kissing the hesitation out of you before you could speak.
“God, you’re already so hard,” Hitomi moans against your lips. Her hand cups your bulge through your jeans and you jolt. “Mm. Is this what gets you off, oppa? Getting to fuck me after waiting for so, so long?”
You want to tell her that she shouldn’t say things like that. But the evidence is all there, in the heavy breaths you have to take before kissing each other again, in the way you’re holding her right now. Her waist fits oh-so-perfectly in your hands that you’re pushed to think this was meant to happen.
You lift her up. This still feels like a dream; your head isn’t all there so this could just be some lucid dream. Hitomi’s slim legs wrapped around your hips break the illusion. They feel too soft, too warm to be a dream. Her core presses hotly against your bulge while your fingers explore every unmapped inch of her body.
“Fuck, Tomi…” You pin her to the door and waste no time. You start devouring her neck, the pressure firm on her skin and your teeth sinking into it. Hitomi’s whiny gasps spur you on. You could record them and work hard to make it another chart-topping song.
“That’s the plan,” giggles Hitomi, her eyes rolling back. “Come on, oppa. Do what you want to me. Hitomi’s your little fuckdoll for the night.”
The obscenity coming from the mouth of such a cute girl is appalling. It’s the kind that should make you scold her instead of grinding down on her core. Don’t ever say that again, you would tell her, and Hitomi, with her eyes welling up with tears, would meekly say she’s sorry.
That’s how you’d go about this situation if you were a good man.
Here’s the thing, though: she’s corrupting you as much as you’re corrupting her. You’re not a good man. And you think you like it that way, with how good Hitomi’s tight little body feels underneath you.
You take her slim wrists and pin them above her head. All of her is on display now: those perfect shoulders, the smooth flesh of her arms and underarms, the neck you’ve peppered with purple love bites. It’s so easy to manipulate her into submission. She’s so small that it takes zero effort to get her where you want.
You’re drunk with power. “You promise to do what daddy tells you?”
“Yes.”
Her vanilla scent is addicting. She looks and smells delectable, and you can’t wait to ruin her. Each part of your body is screaming at you to pounce on her, but you haven’t quite heard what you wanted yet.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, daddy,” whines Hitomi. Her eyes are glassy. You can quite literally feel her body quake with anticipation. It does things to your ego, knowing she wants this as much as you do.
You’re not thinking straight. All you can process is the carnal, almost dangerous desire you have to ruin her. It’s not even desire anymore. You’ll find that you’ll die if you don’t get to fuck Hitomi. It’s as big a need as food and shelter, right up there on the Maslow hierarchy.
You need to push her legs apart as far as they could go while you fuck her little pussy.
You need to hear her beg for it even when you’ll give her a good dicking down anyway.
You need to see that innocent little face look corrupted and sinful when it’s painted with your cum.
That gives you an idea.
“Get on your knees.”
How many times have you dreamed of doing this? It’s a secret you’ll never admit to anyone, how you’d let your mind wander when you watch fancams of her and notice the eye contact she maintains with the lens. The smile would disappear from her face and be replaced with a sultry look whenever she did a particularly bold choreography, letting the skirt fold up her thighs and the neckline of her blouse hang low.
You can trace these moments all the way back to the One the Story concert. The lighting was similar in a way to this hotel room, the reds and hues dancing off Hitomi’s slim figure. Even that tiny skirt parallels the one she wore with Minju and Yuri. It hikes up her knees as she slowly descends to the floor.
It feels like deja vu now. Her years of experience as an idol makes everything seem like effortless choreography. The fabric of her skirt rolls even further up her thighs, showing off her enviable legs. She bites her lip while she unzips your pants. Without having met you before, she has the shape of your body known by heart. Her eyes never leave yours as she frees your aching cock.
Hitomi lives for the roughness. “Want it so bad, daddy.” She starts to jerk you off, attempting to cover all of your girth with her tiny hand. The sensation is sharp and hot. “Want daddy to feed me his big cock and stick it down my throat. Because I’m his pretty little girl. All yours.”
“All mine.”
She automatically gets what she's supposed to do. She’s made for it, even. Her handjob is professionally done to get each drop of hot cum out of you. Her nimble fingers caress each sensitive spot before she opens her mouth.
The sight of Hitomi sticking her little tongue out to taste you makes you groan. She holds you by the base and coats each inch with her drool. Her lips seal around your shaft, dragging the pleasure out, while she stimulates you with eager swipes of her tongue.
“Love this cock, daddy,” Hitomi moans. She’s basically making out with your dick. Her hot, messy kisses on your tip send electricity bolting throughout your body. “So so big, can’t live without it. How are you gonna fit this inside me later?”
She knows what she's doing. She knows exactly how to rile you up.
You pray for her sake that she’s as good of a fuckdoll as she says, for you take a hold of her Rapunzel locks to push her pretty face further between your legs. Your cock slips past her glossy lips and dents the side of her fluffy cheeks.
It’s so incredibly wrong. She’s too adorable to be fucked like this. She’s the sort of girl you kiss on the forehead and do more wholesome things together, preferably activities that do not involve fucking her innocent face.
You can’t stop now though. Satisfied with the depth, you start off strong with several, rough thrusts into her throat. You hear—feel her fragile gasp around your shaft. It takes you even higher.
“Come on, take it, Hitomi.” Your thrusts get messier. Her cheeks grow pinker with a deep, satiated blush that no stylist can get from a palette. She just loves to be taken like this, like she was made to service your every need.
The innocence never quite leaves her eyes despite the facefucking. It’s permanently stitched into her gaze. What ought to make you feel guilty tempts you further. You want to see all the sweetness leave her. You want her to take it.
Hitomi’s hands, having previously shifted nervously on her lap, now return to your body. Her forehead wrinkles slightly at the difficulty of taking you. The impact of your rapid thrusts makes her unable to breathe. Her breaths quickly stagger into nothingness.
Rather than run from it, she chases the feeling. She wants more of the lightheadedness, the thrill of being owned and used like the toy she promised she was.
Hence, she works to double the pleasure. Her hands hold your hips for leverage. The little oxygen she can take from her nostrils is blocked when you go in particularly deep. She makes an audible moan (or perhaps a gag? You’re too turned on to differentiate the two), opening her mouth wider and letting you drag your tip across the textured flat of her tongue.
You’re nearly there. You gather Hitomi’s hair into a fisted ponytail, mindlessly fucking her mouth. Your cock never leaves the wet seal of her pretty mouth. Your groans mix with hers. Her tongue keeps licking, her hands keep fondling with your balls, her eyes keep looking up at you with all that ruined sanctity and naivety—
You pull out. Hitomi has the good sense to close her eyes as you cum all over her. The orgasms buzzes and flickers in your veins, a humming within them that grows louder as you realize she’s jerking you off. Her gasps sync loudly with yours.
“Fuck, such a good girl,” you moan. Her grip milks you to sensitivity, rendering your knees buckling and shaking. Your semen seems to come out in endless spurts.
By the time the adrenaline dies down, you’ve completely painted your ultimate bias’ face with your cum. There’s some in her hair, on the seam of her lip. It drips heavily down her chest as if it were her own sweat.
Hitomi dips her middle finger into the cum that pooled in her collarbone. She tastes it with a coy little giggle. “God, daddy came all over me.”
She doesn’t look like the idol who danced energetically onstage and blew kisses anymore. She looks like your fucktoy, forever tied to your cock and lap. You’ve marked her all over so no one can ever call her theirs. She’s all yours.
Yours…
The thought puts you in a frenzy again. You don’t have to think twice about it. No, you’re not even thinking at all. You grab Hitomi’s feeble body and nearly slam her on the bed. You forget that she’s so small that it isn’t impossible that one bump into her could break her. In fact, it becomes your goal.
You take her clothes off in an instant. The lamp draws attention to the tags on them. God, these must belong to the company, not Hitomi herself. They’ll wonder how the expensive fabric came back stained. They might even punish her.
Whatever. She looks better without them anyway. Your eyes feast upon Hitomi’s slim, tight body. Her abs are composed of angry, structured lines on her flat tummy. And of course, those pink nipples beg for your attention. They stand erect, waiting to be played with.
Your greedy hands claim Hitomi. You pinch her tight nipples, wrenching desperate whines from the column of her throat. Run your hands along those toned thighs and the heated core between them. One finger has her shaking. You rub your fingertip along her wet slit and the forward arches of her body greet you.
“You’re such a bad daddy,” Hitomi whimpers in between heavy, trembling breaths. “Look at what you did to me.”
You do as she says. Observe her glistening pussy, the cum that now drips from her face to her chest. Watch how she craves for your touch more than anything else in the world. She’s a far cry from the beloved K-pop idol with whom you shared a brunch date.
The arousal is thick in the air. You don’t bother for foreplay. She’s teased you for longer than she should have. This is a golden opportunity you would never dare let go of.
You swiftly enter her waiting cunt. The reaction you draw from her is priceless. A loud cry is punched out of her, her eyes going doe-wide. You keep your stomach tight to keep from cumming again, cumming too soon. She’s so unbelievably tight. It’s as if her whole body, every nerve and muscle within it, is working together to clench around your erection.
Your strokes drive Hitomi further into the bed. You constantly remind yourself to be careful. Fucking her doesn’t change the fact that she’s your favorite idol. Fucking her doesn’t mean you can destroy the only bed you can afford in Seoul after allotting your funds into her albums. But all these reminders prove to be fruitless. You just keep railing Hitomi, grasping the small of her waist to bury your shaft deeper inside her hole.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Hitomi surrenders to you completely. She lets you mark her up and tell the world that you own her. She goes as far as to spread her legs wider for you, bearing the sharp, full sensations of your cock destroying her. “God, daddy, I can’t believe you had the balls to fuck me like this. You’re so big inside my little pussy.”
Her words are vulgar when put next to her adorable face. But now the innocence is gone from it. It was gone from the moment she got a feel of your cock. Your mission to destroy it is successful. The sparkle in her eyes is replaced with a deep, crazed hunger for your dick.
The pride in knowing that you did this to her, knowing this isn’t something to be proud of somehow has more blood pumping into your length. You’ve closed your eyes through the unbearable pleasure but the image of Hitomi, with her glazed eyes and marked neck, is burned into your head. You can’t escape her.
Your own moans deafen you, but her voice powers over it. She’ll never tire of reminding you of what you did to her.
“You really are so bad, daddy. Before I met you, I was a good girl who just did her job. I-I danced and sang and did… fuck, everything I can to make people think I’m sweet and innocent. I was doing so good.”
The waves of pleasure aren’t merciful on her. Her frame trembles beneath yours as she struggles to keep up with each big stretch, each large inch.
“But now look at what you did to me,” she cries out in a ragged breath. “You made me into your personal sex slave. I don’t think I can go a day after this without daddy’s fat cock in me. I dunno what to do.”
She consumes you, body and soul. It’s the same on your end. Hitomi and her tight little pussy are all you can think of.
As her sick, twisted mantra goes on, you become aware of how close you are. The heat climbs up to your neck. Your whole body feels like it’s imprisoned in a cage of hot arousal and sin. You settle a thumb over Hitomi’s pearl and start rubbing frantically, eager to get her over the edge as well.
“Oh fuck, daddy, what will I do if I can’t have your dick inside me? Need to feel your cum filling my womb up every second. I don’t want condoms either. You don’t need to be gentle with me. You can go as hard or as soft as you like because I was made for your cock.”
Your breath hitches. The messy, sloppy sounds of your cock entering her pussy are up to par with the loud sounds Hitomi’s making. She’s wildly bucking into you to meet your thrusts. Those talented hips draw your cock into her with dizzying circles as you hammer into her.
“Mmm, I don’t care what the fans say, daddy. Not even the company. You can cum inside me anytime, fuck me wherever you want… I want to feel you breed me. You can paint me with your cum before every stage and the fans wouldn’t even know I have your baby inside me. But they don’t have to… right, daddy? We can keep this between you and me, between daddy and his good little girl—”
With a final, feral shout, you thrust as deep as you can and bring her desires to reality. The orgasmic pulses of her walls squeeze the ropes of semen out of you. They spill into her fertile womb like a waterfall. Her screams are melodic background music to it all.
You lay your head on top of Hitomi’s chest, panting for life. Her dripping pussy warms you as you go soft once more. You never thought it could happen. It seemed an unlikely scenario, with how hard Hitomi’s worked for her orgasm, how she’s clinging onto you right now.
You forgot about the idea of unlikely scenarios a long time ago. While there was a time you thought this pornographic fanservice was only a dream, you’d argue you’re doing her a good favor as well. You’ve never seen her in such a state of bliss.
You watch the semen fall in thick drops from her bred hole. If only there were no consequences.
You can't keep coming home to this—close to midnight, front door left swinging open and every light from the entrance to the kitchen switched on. It's fucked up how you're hoping you've been robbed, or that a serial killer is waiting around the corner to put you in the dirt, but instead it's much, much worse.
Ningning, leaning against your fridge, helping herself to a glass of milk.
"You're late," you hear, followed by, "Date went well then?"
Yeah, the best possible thing you could do is ignore her, open your apartment window, and throw yourself out. Or, better yet, pick her up, and toss her instead, or fuck, get your hands around her throat and squeeze—if only you weren't certain that she'd be so happy when you did, that she’d lift an eyebrow, flash that smug grin, all delighted that you've added a new dimension to whatever doomed tangle the two of you are in, and say:
"Didn't know you had it in you."
So you just slump.
Drop your bags, your jacket on the floor—whatever, you'll get to them later. Walk past her, like if you don't acknowledge her existence you can delay the inevitable for a touch longer, stop her from digging any deeper into your brain. But if there's anything you know about Ningning—she has all the patience in the world.
Happy to keep raiding your kitchen, letting the milk sit on her lips, timing it to the exact second you slip up and look her way—then licking it clean with one swipe of her tongue.
You ache more than you'd ever willingly admit.
Not that she'd have any trouble making you.
It’s who she is: Queen of dark corners and thick fucking air that suffocates your lungs. A tiny little nightmare half your size, always one careless glance away from splitting you open like it’s nothing.
She doesn’t even need to try.
Hair a messy shawl down to her shoulders, lips a light pink hue. Traces of eyeshadow, curled lashes, chipped nail polish. She clearly had something far more important to deal with earlier—you're just another box to check off today’s to-do list.
She pushes off your fridge. It’s inhuman. She knows exactly where your eyes will go.
You can’t stop it, you’re staring straight at her tits the moment her body shifts—the tiny crop top clinging snug, doing obscene fucking things to all the soft weight underneath. And below all that, just a scrap of panties. Nothing else. Makes you complicit the second you look.
"Had fun playing hero?" The glass makes a hollow ring when she sets it aside. "Yuha's been blowing up the group chat since you left her—oh, forty minutes ago?"
You freeze when you reach your kitchen island. Lean back, and wait for her to come to you. It’s the only scrap of resistance you can still muster at this point.
"Sounded fun—going to the movies, holding hands in the dark, hugging her close when she got scared. Did you like the outfit she was wearing?"
It only takes one step.
She crowds you against the counter, hands planted on either side of your waist, caging you in. Even her smile is pissing you off. Her top’s cut low, and it hits you like a vision—this exact angle that's been burned behind your eyelids.
One thin strap still clings to that dainty shoulder. The collarbone you’ve licked and sucked and worshipped more times than you can count staring back at you.
And it’s slipping lower still, a small shift and the whole top will give—tits spilling free, nipples begging for your mouth.
She leans in, a whisper sticking against your skin that she stamps in with a kiss. "I helped pick it out for her, you know."
Your breath catches. You groan. You need to move, shove her away, tell her that this needs to end tonight; the guilt, the depravity is a mountain looming over any blackmail she hangs over your head.
But you can't do anything. Not until you have her permission.
Instead your hips twitch towards her, and your cock hits her belly like a trained dog.
She pushes forward, a shoulder into your sternum, backing you up as far as you can go into the countertop, and reaches down.
Her fingers skate up the inside of your thigh, and the strap of her top drifts down until she's exposed and she doesn't seem to mind at all.
No, she's flawless. Devastating. Pushes her body against yours and her tits are so full and plush and squash against your chest and you need her to fucking stop before—
She squeezes you tight, and you inhale sharp, choking on her scent.
And it fucks you up, because she smells exactly like Yuha.
"Yeah," she says, twisting her wrist, her grip, careless with how she fists your cock, your balls through your slacks. "She let me borrow her perfume as a thank you.”
Ningning leans, grinding the fragrance deeper down your throat.
“Isn't she so nice? Isn't this so nice? You get to think about her while you're with me."
She doesn't expect an answer.
But it drives you mad—she tilts her head so you can see how it clings to her; her throat, her collarbone, her tits. It’s sweet, it’s soft. It’s wrong. It makes your cock throb.
And you'd touch her, reach for her, run your hands over that smooth skin, the soft curves; take a handful of her in your palms and squeeze her right back, twist that nipple and tell her you can dole out the same amount of punishment—but Ningning drives her shoulder into you again, fists clenching around you, and pulls, and it's with deft hands and practiced fingers that your belt clinks open, the button and the zipper fall apart with it.
"Turn around."
For the first time, you manage some small protest. "Yizhuo."
She smiles at that, tricks you into thinking it’s fond. Glances low and yanks down your briefs. Frees your cock and lets it slap against her palm. Hard, throbbing, undeniable evidence of everything she does to you.
And she is—what the fuck is she to you? Your girlfriend's friend. Her senior, her pseudo-older sister.
Your client. Or, your boss.
Or just—she's the person that caught you sneaking around backstage—bored, horny, stupid.
You're the help, security—company’s hired muscle. Already neck-deep in the shit by dating Yuha; and you dug your grave and carved your own tombstone the second Ningning caught you in their dressing room—panties smothered over your face, cock in your fist, chasing a peak you couldn’t quite summit.
That was the first time you gave her everything she wanted.
She was smiling then too. Like she'd been waiting for the excuse.
She looks back up at you, fixated on your lips.
"Yizhuo?" She mocks you, and reaches up with her other hand, pressing it to your lips. You let her in, as easy as you let her into your home, let her force two fingers in until you gag, until she has you choking on her digits when they tickle the back of your throat.
She twists her fingers in your mouth, has you drooling down them, leaving them slick with your own spit.
And then she drags them out, pulls the strings of your saliva down to your cock, and runs her hand over it in one, decisive, torturous pump.
"Yizhuo is what my friends call me," she says, taking you from head to base, and slathering the underside, underneath your balls. "Are we friends now?"
You choke down another breath when she starts to stroke, achingly slow, always patient. You buckle under her gaze and it has you confessing, "No."
"I didn't think so," she tuts. "Don't make me repeat myself again. Turn around."
Ningning steps away, gives you just enough room to move. To show her your back, make yourself vulnerable to her.
Let her know she could do anything at all and you'd just take it.
And it's fucking embarrassing when she reaches around and finds you so humiliatingly hard. You know the look on your face must be even worse, because Ningning's laughing.
"My, my, my," she says, clicking her tongue against her teeth as she gets the full measure of you. Taking her time—she needs it to navigate the length of you—revelling in every second. "So hard already? You look so ridiculous in my hand."
And then:
"This would snap tiny, pretty Yuha in half," and it does its job, provokes you, but every chance of resistance is drained from you when she wrenches her hand tight and takes your cock rough from base to tip. "How nice of me, doing both of you a favour."
Your knuckles go white against the counter, there's plenty you could do, but with Ningning all you can ever manage is brace yourself—ride it out, let her have her way.
She keeps herself busy, crafting slow, deliberate strokes. Getting off on this, her skin so deliriously hot against you, burning, like she knows—knows if she twists her grip like this she can rip out something raw from your throat; knows if she rushes her palm down it'll make you hiss through your teeth.
And she knows if she squeezes and pumps you fast—filling your kitchen with these slick, messy noises, this rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick—you'll call her name again and she'll have to bite into your shoulder and warn you: "What did I say about calling me Yizhuo?"
You close your eyes. It's just a hand—it could be any other girl, you spend your days in proximity of so many of them.
"I'm the only one for you," she tells you, finishing a thought you didn't realise she could hear. "No other girl would know how to use you right."
She pulls a moan out of you when she palms your tip, smearing the beads there, before gliding her hand down—and you hate that it sounds like an affirmation.
"They wouldn’t even know where to start,” she continues on, steady torment. “They’d need you to teach them, guide their small hands, be their first big strong man.”
You open your eyes, catching her other hand tugging your pants down and under your ass; your shirt’s already unbuttoned, dropping down your shoulders and leaving your chest bare, free for her nails to mark up and dig into.
"Yuha sure as hell expects that." She laughs again and it's evil and she's on her toes now, sucking something hard into the line of your throat—and it's going to leave a mark, something you won't be able to hide, will need to explain away to your girlfriend, to the other girls, to the company in the morning, but that's the last thing in your mind when Ningning adds her teeth and makes it hurt.
"Fuck," spills out, and you're seething, seeing red, gripping into the counter so hard you could make a dent.
"You love it." She kisses into your new scar, soothes you, the sick kind of tenderness only she can grant, and it makes you bend into her, lets her fold her body over yours, and her words hit you like a healing balm, the feeling of her body slotting over yours, enveloping warmth, tits slick with sweat squashed against your back, leg hooking around your knee like she's trying to crawl inside you, lips so close to yours and reflex has you turning to meet them.
"Please."
"Just this once," she tells you, and you’re so thankful when the pace of her hand builds, and her nails start to draw a circle around your nipple, and you twist your head far enough that she can breathe in every sigh and pained gasp she drags out of you before swallowing it all in a kiss.
She leads it with her tongue, and you're falling into her, into her grip, into her mouth, into the soft wet of her lips against yours, and there's so much she's doing, forcing on you—pumping, squeezing hard, pinching, twisting your nipple, and there's something in this that you want to deny so much: her control, her promise of where she can take you, it feels so good now, she can make it feel even better later.
Until she bites into your bottom lip, and you’re tasting copper, and she pulls away.
"Baby," she says, with a last, messy peck on your chin, the strands of saliva hanging there, another binding she has on you. "You're so pathetic."
You groan when she gets close, thigh brushing the back of yours, knee splitting between your legs to keep you spread open. Grinding herself into you, forcing you still with a single hand wrapped around you, and you can hear how hot both of you are—the squelch of your spit, your slick making your cock all glossy.
Her fingers tighten—just enough to make your knees buckle. And she builds, this aching pace, she knows the rhythm, knows how to make your skin crawl.
"You're a pervert, a filthy degenerate," she lists off, breath scalding the shell of your ear. "Bet you were sweet and gentle with Yuha on your little date. Calling her baby, telling her how pretty she looks in that dress. Kissed her like a good boyfriend would."
You wouldn’t dare, it’d be fucking audacious, to read anything into it—believe there’s a twinge of jealousy there, envy at her own junior. Pure disaster. Your brain’s already too fried to untangle the implications of that anyway.
"Tell me, tell me how good you were to her," she says, and she twists on your nipple again, pierces you with her nails. "Or were you too distracted counting down the minutes until you could come crawling home to me."
"I was good," you rasp; you're barely keeping it together. There's no hiding anything now—your body, your moans, it all betrays you any time you try to do anything other than what she wants—and if that wasn't enough it's the sound of her stroking you, so goddamn loud it rings in your ears and laughs at your whines. "I am good to her."
She punishes you with these fast, brutal strokes, and snaps, "Liar. How can you say that when you love this so much?"
"I—"
But you can't finish, Ningning gives your nipple one last tug and slides her hand around your body, dragging a nail down your lower back, engraving a path that ends right at your ass, between your cheeks.
"Yizh—"
"That's the third time," she grunts, and pushes her finger against the tight ring of your asshole. "The third time you've tried to call me by my name. But that's not what you get to call me, is it?"
Something raw, something that doesn't belong to you surges from your throat when she pushes, finger tight against your rim, and it's just a fingertip inside but it has your knees banging against the marble in front of you and you're not sure what hurts worse but you're absolutely sure of what feels best.
"Don't say another fucking word, unless it's the one I want to hear," she says, and she's grinding herself harder against your leg, fucking herself on your thigh, soaked panties dragging hot and slippery over your skin. She's so warm, like a sick, twisted embrace and through the corner of your eye you can see her—the delirious grin on her face, the violent delight she's taking from you and you can't help but think it:
She's so gorgeous.
Ningning pushes until she's knuckle-deep inside you, your whole world narrowing to this single point. It’s sharp, burning, before melting into something disgustingly good as she curls it, squeezing that spot that rips the word out of you like it was always waiting underneath your tongue:
"Mommy."
And she chuckles, twists her finger, driving it all the way in, forcing you to fuck yourself deeper into her hand.
"Mommy, it's—"
"I know," she kisses it into your neck, licks it across your cheek, tastes the tears that you can't stop leaking from the corner of your eyes. "Mommy's got you."
She fucks you like this—like there's no time left, like either of you might drop dead any second now so there's only this—fucking your ass like it's the light at the end of the tunnel, having you fuck her hand just the same.
“This is all you’re good for, isn’t it?” Her breath hitches, she pants against you, wet, parted lips sliding across your cheek. “Being a good slut, a fucktoy for your Mommy, isn’t that right?”
And you’re already so far gone, air’s going thin, it’s getting worse with every press, and she just keeps pushing deeper, punishing you into this merciless pace.
“All of this—all of you. Your cock, your tight little asshole—mine, mine, mine—say it.”
“Yes—fuck—it’s yours—it’s yours—” You’re whining, exhaling hard with every stroke, there’s nowhere else to go, just do your best to tell her whatever she wants to hear. “Always been yours.”
And it's pressure building, cooking inside of you, the marks she left on you, the pain you'll remember—blood in your mouth, your shoulder, red on your chest, blooming around your asshole, she's fucking banging you into the counter now, and whatever squeeze your ass has on her finger she's matching around your cock.
"Come on, baby, just for me," she coos, and you try to close your eyes but her voice stops you in place—"Don't look away—look me in the eyes, so I can see you. See who you really are—a filthy boy who gets off on getting broken by his Mommy."
So you look, stare, see that glassy wash of pure joy, the hunger there, how she's living for this, dominating, being in control of you, punishing you with this ruthless, this rough, this brutal kind of fucking.
“Nothing will ever make you feel as good as me. You want me to make you feel so good, don’t you? Suck your worthless cock. Fuck every drop of cum out of you—take every single inch,” Ningning tells you so easily, sincerely, like it’s already planned, destined, it’s all in the cards, and—“I can do it for you, baby, I can do it all.”
She shoves her whole body into your back, fucking her finger deeper; it’s insane, all of it—her digit curling inside your ass, stretching you out, finding all sorts of angles to exploit.
“I’ve got a surprise. Mommy’s got a gift for you. A nice, big toy. A brand new cock. I’ll show my cute little slut how to really fuck.”
That makes you cry out something guttural, makes your cock throb painfully in her grip, another thick bead of you sliding over her knuckles.
“You'd love that, wouldn’t you? Love to have Mommy ruin your tight, tiny asshole. Stretch it out wide.” Ningning bites it into your ear, “Greedy.”
“Yes—please—Mommy—fuck—please—” You’re sputtering, it’s all too much, a miracle you’re still somehow coherent, just repeating the same begs, the same pleas, the same prayers because you're feeling it—feeling her everywhere. “Please—my ass—I can’t take it—”
And that's your excuse—your out, this is all just a bodily reaction, inbuilt instinct, natural chemistry, biology, whatever the fuck.
She's stroking every sensitive nerve of your cock; fucking you deep, reaching mind-numbing points you could never dream to find yourself each time she invades your asshole and god, Jesus, fuck, Mommy, she's forcing a second finger inside you, splitting you open raw and—
"Cum for me, cum on my finger, cum all over Mommy’s hand, do it for me—now."
Maybe it's not so bad that it feels so fucking good to not be ashamed, not try to hide, you can embrace who you really are around her.
Maybe it’s right to listen to her—do what she says, tell her you’ll be good and obedient for her; your body’s already ahead of you, so, so close, every nerve of yours in a chorus of agreement with how she’s fucking you.
It's for the best—it's what you need—let her have her way, let her call you her bitch, her slut, her tight, perfect hole, let her get deep in your guts, let her pull every shameful drop of cum from your cock—it's protection, it's your job, that's what it is.
You're protecting Yuha, protecting your relationship, so it's fine, it's okay, it’s okay, she can fuck you like this, make you cum, and later when she swallows your cock whole and rides you until you’re screaming, and rails your ass with her strap until you’re in tears and cumming all over her cock, you’ll be good, it’ll be over, because it's not like you need her, not like you need your—
"Mommy, I’m going to cum!"
“So cum then.”
It's a split second, like a gunshot—hot searing pain firing through your body and tearing a hole right through you—and it must look the same, it's written all over Ningning's face, hanging off the tilt of her plush lips.
All of a sudden: you're gushing, spewing cum all over her hand, shooting past her grip and her fingers go deep inside you and you're hitting the marble, splashing all over, across the bench, serving dessert for Ningning on the same counter you've prepared so many dinners for Yuha on so many nights before.
Ningning’s all over you, her full weight on you, she's been moaning in your ear this whole time, chewing up your lobe, tonguing inside, she's in your ass, she's in your fucking head, flooding your mind, telling you:
"That's it,” she coos, the praise dripping straight into the mess she’s made of you, “Keep going, keep going for Mommy, my good boy—"
And you’re gone.
It's splatter after splatter of cum across the counter, and she's pushing you into it and you would be face-first in your own release but you're somehow able to keep yourself propped up.
You cry for your Mommy one last broken, wrecked time—and everything blurs into a flash of white—painting the counter, your stomach, your open shirt, Ningning's hand.
She doesn't stop. Milks you through every pulse until your thighs shake and you're not sure you can stand on your own anymore—and you're leaning on her for support, whimpering into her shoulder, oversensitive, over-fucking-whelmed, spent dry.
Only then does she ease up.
You sob when her fingers leave your ass. Groan when her hand pulls back from your cock.
She looks at the mess, the art she's made.
Leaves you to collapse in your own heap over the counter next to it. Catch your breath.
And then she takes a small step to the right, leans forward over the counter, bending low—and drags her tongue up the island in one, long scoop. Taking care to collect every single drop, every spurt you had, getting it all on her tongue, slow and thorough, and you just lie there, heaving, cock still twitching, ass still flexing open and close, staring, hooked on her.
She takes her time, tongue dragging slow, savouring it, leaving not a single inch of the counter unclean. Reclaiming every drop you wasted on anything that isn’t her.
Then, she drops to her knees, licks a long stripe up your cock, runs a finger under your balls, over the twitching shaft, wringing out the last pathetic beads that never reached the marble.
Ningning rises, presses her cum-slick lips to your chest, slurps the rest off your skin, and hums the entire time, like it's Sunday cleaning, like you're her furniture she's putting back in order.
And when she finally gets to her feet, towering over you, eyes on yours, lips sealed shut, you realise she’s kept it all, every single drop—hasn’t swallowed once, holding it all just for this. For you.
For a second, you wait.
You open your mouth.
She drools your cum inside.
Globs of it, sticking to the inside of your mouth, salty-sweet, making you cough, gag, filling up your head with the scent of you, but you can't do anything about it because she's taking you by the chin and kissing you before you can breathe.
It's hard, it's full of her tongue, full of your cum, it's—it’s so fucking hot. It’s dirty. Almost loving. She makes you feel it, fastens her body to yours, has you collapsing to the ground and she straddles you so easily, so naturally, and it feels so right and good that it has you swelling angrily against her and you’re finding new ways to hate her all over again.
She takes your hand, fills it with her pretty tits and squeezes your palm against her, mewling into your mouth when you find a nipple and twist.
Rolling her hips against your cock, she's fucking drenched, cunt drooling all over you, and you’re bucking up to meet her, struggling against the lace she's left on but you think if you try hard enough you can rip straight through.
Her hands are in the back of your hair, and she's pulling, tugging, wrenching you closer, breathing all of you in and sucking every drop of cum back into her mouth before pushing it down your throat with her tongue and making you swallow it all.
You know what she's declaring, loud and clear.
She could have you anytime, anywhere, any way she wants.
And when she's done, she slides her lips off yours, down your cheek, to your ear and tells you what you already know.
"You're disgusting."
She breaks away, stands tall. Peels her top off her body, tosses it onto the counter. It never mattered. Steps out of her panties without breaking her stride, rounding the island, hips swaying down the hallway towards your bedroom.
You hear her when she’s out of sight, "Do you need me to say it?"
You’re scrambling to your knees. You’re not sure if you'll make it to your feet.
You'll crawl if you have to.
"I'm coming, Mommy—"
"Crawl faster, baby. Mommy’s cunt isn’t going to fuck itself."
A/N: Prompt for @mysonesecret. Thank you for hosting!
Fanprose link here.
Enjoy.
There’s this one girl, right?
Always orders the same thing—one iced cafe latte with almond milk instead of the usual whole milk that you use, less sugar and an extra shot. Before, you would make her order whenever she would come visit, nowadays you make it a part of your routine because she—
Always comes in on the weekdays just shy of the arms of your clock meeting nine, her bag slung over her shoulder, greeting you with a shy smile as she orders her regular drink. Sometimes she’ll order a pastry, but most times she’ll just get her latte.
She always pays with her card, oftentimes giving you a small tip after she’s gone and realized she’ll be visiting this place more often than she was expecting.
Always sits down by the window, always sets up her laptop and works (you assume) for a good while before she leaves.
Normally (and by that, you mean never) you don’t keep track of all the nuances. Orders for specific regulars, sure; it’s part of the job. But when you start to notice the little things that she does, you start getting to know her just a little bit more.
Which is odd, when you don’t even know her name.
But what you do know, is that she always takes a deep breath before her first sip. She stares out the window when she looks stuck on something. Doesn’t seem to like getting calls whenever you hear the ringing come from her laptop. And on the extremely rare occasions that she smiles, it makes you pause whatever you’re doing.
And even with all these things in your head, you still don’t know her name. What she does for a living, what she likes about your cafe, whatever.
It’s not like you care, much.
She’s a customer. Considered a regular. Someone you see on the daily for a few hours, even if you two don’t really talk except for when she pays for her order.
So when Thursday comes by and you do your usual routine of prepping your coffee machine, checking the pastries, turning the sign to tell everyone that your shop’s open and serving a few customers that managed to beat the rush hour, you finally had a chance to sneak in her order only a few minutes short of when she usually comes in.
Except she didn’t.
You think—hey, traffic is a bitch and she must’ve gotten stuck or something. She’ll probably come by a few minutes late.
Half an hour goes by and you’re remaking her order because the ice has melted. An hour passes, and now you’re looking up every time the bell on your door rings.
Probably just busy today. Must have a lot of things to do, other places to be. You’re totally not worrying about her at all.
Swear you didn’t screw up any orders the entire day. Or clean the already shiny counter. Or keep making her order every other hour.
Really, it did not happen.
So when the door rang once more minutes before you were about to close, you thought it must’ve been one of the guys who were on the night shift. Didn’t even bother looking up anymore, not when you were already moving to make the order.
“The usual?”
“Please.” That didn’t sound like a guy.
You look up and lo and behold—it’s her. Looking a lot worse for wear. A hand bag instead of her usual one, eyes looking a little red, hair a little messy.
You blink. “Rough day?”
She smiles, scoffing through her nose. “You could say that.”
Your head nods to her spot. “Take a seat, I’ll bring it to you in a bit.”
Her order’s made within minutes, and you walk over to her window seat. Her drink in one hand, a plate of croissant in another, you place it down on her table. “On the house tonight.”
“You’re generous today.” She glances down then looks up at you. “You do this for all your customers?”
“Course not,” you reply. “You’re probably the third.”
“Lucky me,” she muses. She takes another look down at her plate, a hand reaching out to her drink. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” you say, taking a few steps back and looking around. “You’re welcome to stay while I clean up.”
She smiles at you as she takes a sip of her drink, giving you a thumbs up. You take it as your cue to finish up with your closing ritual.
Put the chairs up, pack up any leftover pastries for food donations—you maybe make her a small box of it—and clean the coffee machine, the counter, the floor. All while she’s over at her regular spot, enjoying her iced cafe latte and dessert.
You two don’t make much conversation aside from the fleeting comments she makes—
“You clean your machine everyday?”
“Can’t exactly afford to have the food inspectors shut me down.”
And the curious questions you ask—
“How’s the food?”
“Good. I shouldn’t be having coffee this late, but after today I think I deserve it.”
You don’t question her about it, as much as you wanted to. The chance to ask passes when she’s surrendering her cup and plate to you, her smile looking a little brighter than it was when she entered. “Thanks for the food.”
“Anytime.” You take the glass and porcelain from her, placing it down at the counter then handing her a pack of pastries. “Here, for you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“You look like you could use a pick me up.”
She takes it with a thank you, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Her mouth hesitates, until she speaks.
“My name’s Sakura, by the way.”
You tell her yours, and she lets out a laugh.
“I know.” Her smile turns into a grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Your cup’ll be waiting,” you reply, and she’s out the door with a wave and a smile.
