get to know me better/a little about me tag (luné ver.) 🐺
name : moka !! ꒰ঌ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა໒꒱
zodiac : aries sun leo moon virgo rising
height : 153cm ~~ 5ft exactly
orientation : bisexual (¯ . ¯;) i think
ethnicity : mixed
bias line : taki, k, fuma, maki
bias wreckers : yuma, nicholas, harua, jo, ej
how long have you been a luné? : since i-land / &audition
favorite &team song right now + your ultimate all-time fave : right now i really like magic hour and blind love ! my favs of all time are under the skin & firework ~~
what's your favorite &team comeback or era : i really love all of the 4 seasons eras,, jyuugoya, samidare, yukiakari, & aoarashi ~ but i also really loved btl music wise + concept wise (im obsessed w the gaze ver...)
favourite fruit : strawberry !! 🍓
favorite season : spring~ (ノ*>∀<)ノ♡
favorite fictional characters : kenma & atsumu from haikyuu, nagi from blue lock, alma, nei & tao from gokurakugai, marin from my dress up darling, tamon from tamons b-side, chii from chobits, daeho from cupids chatroom, tahel from dark moon: grey city, hinako & kotoyuki from silent hill f, ada wong from resident evil ~~
OH MY GOD I LOVE THESE STUFFSSSS THANK YOU FOR THE TAG @smidare
name: izzy
zodiac: virgo!!
height: 171cm/ 5'6?
orientation: straight unfortunately
ethnicity: asian
bias line: nicholas, yudai, jojo, harua
bias wreckers: juju, fuma, yuma, taki, maki
how long have you been a lune: since i-land/under the skin
favorite &team song right now + your ultimate all-time fave: right now its bewitched, and all time fave? firework, war cry and buzz love!!!
what's your favorite &team comeback or era: yukiakari? idk i just love that album with my whole heart and deer hunter is my favourite and comeback? WAR CRY DJSJNFNDNFNDNS I LOVE WAR CRY OMG
favourite fruit: strawberry!!!
favourite season: well we dont have it but i would love to experience winter!!!
favourite fictional characters: IM HOWLING RIGHT NOW. okay so nagi and sae from blue lock (and no not cause of yudai), isabelle from the shadowhunters, josh chen from twisted hate, percy and luke from the percy jackson series and jean from aot (there are many more but i forgot😭😭)
favourite scent: surprisingly im into floral scents and i love vanila asw
favourite colours: black and red
if you were an animal, which would you be: A BLACK CAT, i love black cats idk why but i really wanna be a black cat!!!!!??
favourite band/artist: andteam(duh), chase atlantic, azee, weeknd, seventeen, p1harmony, cortis, beabadoobee, wave to earth and there's many moreee
average sleep hours: 3-4 hours
number of blankets you sleep with: hm 1-2?
dream trip: japan!!!
last thing googled: "synonyms of immortal" 😭😭😭 english isnt my first language so
acc created: i think november 2025?
whats your aesthetic: i would like to call myself a streetwear enthusiast? i love to wear dark colours and baggy clothes that literally my lecturers get surprised whenever i wear light clothes. and i love silver accessories, gonna buy vivienne westwood and chrome hearts one day for sureee. and yepp
TYSM FOR THE TAG @nichozzystuffs & @solairemelo !!
name: kay!!
zodiac: cancer
height: 4’11 unfortunately
orientation: bisexual
ethnicity: half mexican half colombian
bias line: euijoo, nicholas, yuma & maki
bias wreckers: fuma, kei, & jo
how long have you been a lune: since i-land/&audition but i took a break and came back for the release of deer hunter (my cunty queeeeen)
favorite &team song right now + your ultimate all-time fave: as of right now its definitely buzz love and all time favorite is deer hunter, under the skin & firework ofccc
what's your favorite &team comeback or era: definitely yukiakari & jyuugoya!!
favourite fruit: strawberries & apples!!
favourite season: autumn!! my love for autumn is extremeeeeeeeee
favourite fictional characters: SNOOPY i own like 7 snoopy blankets, i also loveeeeeee pompompurin smmmmm he gives me smm cuteness aggression!!
favourite scent: i LOVE coconut scents & vanilla!!
favourite colours: i LOVE butter cream or like a neutral crème color!! ALSO LOVEEEEE ME SOME PINK + GREEN COMBO!!
if you were an animal, which would you be: CAPYBARA!! i love capys soooooo much, but definitely a capybara…
average sleep hours: bc im on summer vacation rn & i have a part time job that i work at like 5-6 days a week id say about 6-7 hrs
number of blankets you sleep with: 1 but if the ac makes my room super cold def 2
dream trip: need to book the next flight to japan
last thing googled: dafont.com bc i needed a cute font for my edit!!
acc created: i think late december early January of this year
whats your aesthetic: cute chaotic mix of twee,cute webcore, and soft 2000s internet girl nostalgia, also some shouju style & with my fav color combo pink + green!!
Omg i hope i did it well, I'm kinda nerveus ngl, thanks for the tag🫰
Name: Coni 🐰
Zodiac: Pisces hehehe
Height: 5'6 (omg she's so small only need one popcorn)
Orientation: Bisexusl ofc
Ethnicity: Mexican
Bias line: Nicholas, Taki and Maki
Bias werecker: Fuma, K and Harua
How long have you been lune: Omggg i guess since deer hunter
favorite &team song right now + your ultimate all-time: Jyuugoya and i guess derr hunter HAHAHA
favourite fruit: Strawberries, watermelon, mango and grapes
favourite season: Winter
favourite fictional characters: omgggg, añañou, i guess cinnamonroll, atom eve from invisible, Jasmine of bratz, iron man, doctor strange and starfire.
Favourite Scent: Omgg, fruity, sweet and citric.
favourite colours: Pink, red, black and white.
if you were an animal, which would you be: omg definitely a bunny, i really love bunnies so fucking much, I feel that they represent me in every sense of the word, and the animal, even the people around me, often associate bunnies with me, which is something very cute and kind to know.
favourite band/artist: &team, Ateez, ashnikko, katseye, margarita siempre viva, Melanie Martinez and Magdalena Bay
average sleep hours: Omg... when i have school period i sleep like a 3 hours max, and in vacations i sleep like 9 hours.
number of blankets you sleep with: i only sleep with one, sometimes it don't sleep whit blankets i don't like them at all😭
dream trip: I want to go to italy or french, japan too ofc!
last thing googled: Chrome Hearts LOL
acc created: Omggg, my acc it's pretty new, i guess that i made it at the beginning of this month.
whats your aesthetic: Weird core, soft core, bunny core, cute weird core and i want to try frutiger aero hehehe.
get to know me better/a little about me tag (luné ver.) 🐺
name : elizabeth
zodiac : libra sun gemini moon cap rising
height : 158cm | 5.2
orientation : bisexual
nacionality : brazillian
bias line : taki & yuma
bias wreckers : nicholas & k
how long have you been a luné? : since back to life
favorite &team song right now + your ultimate all-time fave : right now is bewitched but my all time fave is probably scar to scar?
what's your favorite &team comeback or era : maybe im biased but back to life 😭 shes that girl
favourite fruit : watermelon 🍉
favorite season : winter!
favorite fictional characters : hutao and columbina from genshin impact, nana osaki from nana, twilight sparkle from mlp, laura palmer from twin peaks, tomie, fukawa toko and celestia ludenberg from danganronpa, yohane, setsuna and kotori from love live, fleabag, hannibal, ahri and jhin from league of legends, elissabat from mh... the list goes on ◉_◉
favorite scent : any tropical scent tbh
favourite color : red
if you were an animal, which would you be : fox. fox fox fox fox!
favorite band/artist : my chemical romance, loona, shinee, ethel cain, nicole dollanganger, nmixx
average sleep hours : 8-10 hours!
number of blankets you sleep with : 1
dream trip : japan, south korea & germany!
last thing googled : ad nauseam by ethel cain 👀
acc created : may 2026 maybe
what’s ur aesthetic : uhmmm maybe morute? gothic lolita, eroguro, religious elements, haunted dolls, haunted houses, decaying places, macabre stuff, horror movies
tagged : @wenomaid @yuversi @yumanohime — not required ♪~(´ε` )
get to know me better/a little about me tag (luné ver.) 🐺
name: nia’lah
zodiac: leo sun virgo moon taurus rising
height: 171.5 cm | 5’6.5 😭
orientation: bisexual
ethnicity: half indian + half black
bias line: k, nicho, ej, taki
bias wreckers: yuma, fuma, maki, jo, harua
how long have you been a luné?: since i-land / &audition
favorite &team song right now + your ultimate all-time fave: as of right now it’s bewitched & my all time favorite is beat the odds and illumination
what's your favorite &team comeback or era: …go in blind era was my absolute fav era 😩
favourite fruit: strawberries & oranges! 🍓🍊
favorite season: autumn!
favorite fictional characters: hajime hinata from drv2, yoichi isagi, nagi seishiro & meguru bachira from blue lock, kim momi from mask girl, oh from home, bob the minion, spider man, yoshiki from tshd, there’s a lot more but i’m gonna stop here.
favorite scent: anything sweet & vanilla!
favourite color: blueblueblueblue
if you were an animal, which would you be: bunny.
favorite band/artist: mitski, txt, &team, nct, beabadoobee, kali uchis, HIM, mcr, fallout boy, pierce the veil, brent faiyaz!
average sleep hours: hmhm around 7-8 hours
number of blankets you sleep with: 2
dream trip: japan, hawaii & jamaica!
last thing googled: belvita banana bread 😭
acc created: june 2022 i believe
what’s ur aesthetic: colorful, those yellow smiley face stickers, crystal blue water, a lot of gold, blue ramune, idkk really, maybe spider lilies too! :P
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄,at your strict all-girls religious university, you’re the picture of purity: modest skirts, bruised knees from prayer, a cross that hangs from your neck, and a rosary that quite leaves your side or field of vision. but one winter afternoon behind the chapel, changes that all when you catch wang yixiang—a rebellious, pierced-and-tattooed taiwanese exchange student with her tongue down another girl’s throat—silver piercings flashing, tattoos peeking from her unbuttoned uniform, that crooked half-smile dripping with sin.
from that moment, your carefully built world begins to crack.
every touch leaves you soaked in guilt and shame. you run back to the confessional booth, whispering sins you can’t stop committing. you pray until your knees bleed. yet night after night you keep crawling back to her, letting the “corrupted” girl unravel your purity with reverent fingers, soft praises, and filthy, worshipful kisses.
torn between the fire of damnation and the heaven she pulls from between your thighs, you sink deeper into forbidden desire, religious guilt, and aching addiction—unsure if yixiang is your downfall… or your salvation.
❪ MASTERLIST ❫ ✶ corrupted fem!nicholas x church girl!𝗳 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 20k wc⠀→ plot with porn ░ angst, smut, religious guilt, dubcon, kinda dead dove do not eat, mentions of church, oral, slight emotional manipulation, religious guilt, brief mentions of self-harm, brief mention of bullying/shaming, gay guilt, nicholas referred to as yixiang, wlw, slow burn, opposites attract, service top!weno, fingering, humping, size difference, manhandling, teasing, marking, rough sex, hair pulling, yixi is a lil mean, guided masturbation, petnames, dacryphilia, sissoring, soft sex, clit play, body worship, nipple play, corruption kink, thigh riding, overstimulation, semi-public sex, hurt/comfort, dark romance, aftercare.
you sit in the wooden booth, knees pressed together so tight your bones ache, the air thick with incense and the faint rot of old velvet.
“forgive me father it’s been three weeks since my last confession.”
the words scrape out like gravel from a throat that still remembers her name whispered against it. three weeks. not months. three sharp, aching weeks since you last knelt here begging for absolution you’ll never quite receive. the lattice between you and the pastor blurs your vision, turns him into a shadow shaped like judgment. you clutch the hem of your skirt, fabric damp from nervous palms.
“i’ve been…impure,” you whisper. the word tastes like rust. “in my thoughts. in my body.”
silence on the other side, heavy as scripture. you close your eyes and there she is anyway—yixiang, pushing you flushed against the bookcase, that crooked half-smile like she already knew every secret you were trying so hard to bury. the way her lips had brushed yours. silver on her tongue grazing the roof of your mouth—deliberate, lingering. how the heat of it all had traveled straight between your legs and stayed there, a low pulse you couldn’t pray away.
“i met someone,” you continue, voice cracking on the edge of a sob you swallow back. “a girl.”
the pastor shifts. leather creaks. “a girl?”
you nod even though he can’t see. the cross around your neck feels tighter, chain pressing into skin like a warning. you remember her mouth on your collarbone only a few nights ago, slow and worshipful, like she was rewriting every verse that ever called this wrong. the way she looked up at you through dark lashes, eyes full of something too gentle to be sin. let me take the weight, she’d murmured against your ribs. just for tonight.
but nights bleed into days and the guilt only grows teeth.
“i let her touch me,” you confess, barely audible. “i wanted it. i still want it.”
a short, broken line hangs in the air between you and the shadow.
“i can’t stop.”
the pastor’s voice rolls out, measured and cold as baptism water. “this is the devil’s work, child. unnatural. you must renounce it. cut it off like a diseased limb before it drags your soul into the fire.”
you bite your lip until copper blooms. fire. you think of yixiang’s hands sliding under your shirt, thumbs tracing the line of your waist like mapping holy land. the way she kissed you like she was trying to save you and damn you at the same time. how good it felt. how right. how every prayer since has tasted like ash.
“yes, father,” you lie.
outside the booth the church is quiet, stained glass bleeding red and gold across the pews like open wounds. you walk down the aisle on legs that don’t feel like yours, heart hammering against your ribs. your phone buzzes in your pocket—a message from her.
yixiang: i miss you, pretty girl. come over when you’re ready to stop running.
three weeks earlier.
the courtyard outside your all girls private catholic university rested under a pale winter hush, stone paths worn smooth by obedient steps, hedges trimmed into quiet submission. everything here bowed its head. you walked with books clutched to your chest like a shield, skirt brushing your mid thighs in the rhythm of good girls who never stray.
you rounded the corner behind the old chapel wall and froze mid-step.
there she was.
a girl you had never seen before, pressed against the ivy-covered stone. blonde hair falling just above the middle of her neck—messy strands litter across her forehead, a silver curved barbell on her brow glinting in the winter sun, you could see the faint shine of a similar silver metal on her tongue as it moved against the other girls, tattoos snaked up her wrist and disappeared beneath the rolled sleeve of a shirt that broke every rule this campus owned. she was kissing another girl—deep, unhurried, one hand gripping the girl’s jaw like the world owed them this moment.
you had never seen anyone like her.
not here. not in these walls built to keep sins chained down and quiet.
you gasped.
the other girl made a small sound, then gasped—sharp, startled—when her eyes flew open and found you standing there. she pulled back fast, cheeks flushed, and bolted without a word, loafer scraping stone as she disappeared behind the hedges like smoke.
leaving only the two of you.
yixiang turned slowly. sharp eyes metting yours, calm at first, then darkening with something like amusement laced in exhaustion. her lips were still shiny. a thin silver cross chain rested against the ink on her collarbone, rising and falling with her breath. she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, casual, like she hadn’t just been caught sinning in broad daylight.
you stood rooted, heart hammering so loud it drowned the distant chapel bell. heat flooded your face. something hotter, lower, twisted traitorously between your thighs.
“you—you can’t do that here,” you choked out, voice trembling but rising. “that’s…that’s a sin. you’re sinning right in front of god’s house.”
she leaned back against the ivy, arms crossing loose over her chest. the movement pulled her shirt open a little more, revealing another small tattoo just above her heart.
taiwanese exchange student, you would learn later. shipped here by parents who could no longer stomach the shame of a daughter who kissed girls, pierced her skin, dyed her hair, and let ink tell stories they wanted erased.
“a sin,” yixiang repeated, tasting the word like it amused her. she wiped her bottom lip with her thumb, silver bracelet catching light. “that what they told you?”
you clutched your bible like a shield, knuckles paling. “pastor says liking the opposite gender is…unnatural. the devil’s temptation. a sin. you’re going to drag your soul to hell and—and you’re bringing others with you.”
she laughed then, soft and bitter, leaning against the stone wall like the weight of two continents and a thousand expectations didn’t press on her the way yours did on you. “my parents sent me here for the same reason. the piercings. hair. tattoos. kissing girls in taiwanese back alleys. they thought this place would fix me.” her gaze dragged over you slowly—your modest skirt, your trembling hands, the rosary hanging heavy in your hands, the cross hanging over your sweater.
then she licked her lips.
“guess they picked the wrong school for that.”
slow. deliberate. the silver piercing on her tongue flashed, catching the thin winter light and sending it straight into your chest. your breath hitched. the cross at your throat suddenly felt too tight, chain digging into skin like it wanted to remind you who you belonged to. but your eyes stayed locked on her mouth anyway, on the wet shine left behind, on the way the corner of it curved like she could read every filthy thought you’d never dare speak aloud.
“ya, you’re staring,” she murmured, voice low, almost gentle. she pushed off the wall, took one step closer. not enough to touch. just enough to make the air between you thicken, heavy with strawberry scented lip gloss and something warmer that smelled like ruin. “does it burn, pretty girl? watching me kiss her like that?”
your thighs pressed together under your skirt. shame curled tight in your belly, but the heat only spread, slow and treacherous, like ink bleeding through paper. you wanted to run. but another part of you was curious, you wanted to step closer. you wanted to know what that silver tongue would feel like against your own. if it was a sin, why did it look so…tempting? so pretty.
“stay away from me,” you whispered instead, the words cracking like thin ice. your books slipped in your arms; one fell, pages fluttering open to a passage about temptation you knew by heart. you didn’t pick it up. you just turned and fled down the stone path, legs unsteady, soul already fracturing along bright, dangerous lines.
then a week passed. you prayed everyday.
every dawn you dragged yourself to the small campus chapel, knees finding the same cold wood until bruises bloomed like dark flowers beneath your skin. every dusk you knelt by your dorm bed, rosary wrapped so tight around your fingers the beads left little red crescents. you whispered the same words over and over—lead me not into temptation—but her face kept slipping in between them like smoke through cracks in the wall.
you prayed until your voice went hoarse.
until the memory of that silver flash burned behind your eyelids instead of the cross.
until your body ached in places you refused to name, wet and restless under modest sheets you changed every morning like hiding evidence.
you avoided every corner of campus that might hold her. took detours that made you late to class. kept your eyes on your shoes so you wouldn’t catch even a glimpse of her blonde hair or her inked wrists. but the campus was small and cruel and it seemed god had a sense of humor.
on the seventh night the guilt sat so heavy on your chest you couldn’t breathe. you pressed your forehead to the floor until the world tilted, until tears slipped hot down your cheeks and soaked into the wood. you begged god to take the wanting away. to scour you clean. to make you good again.
seven days of pretending the memory wasn’t living under your skin. seven days of kneeling longer at night, forehead to the floor until the wood left red marks like stigmata. seven days of your rosary beads clicking between shaky fingers while her voice kept curling around the edges of every prayer—does it burn, pretty girl?
god did not answer.
day eight found you in the library basement, the one with the low ceilings and flickering lights. no one came down there, hell—no one even came to the library anymore. girls your age, even if said to be dedicated to god were far too busy gossiping about boys.
you were reaching for a dusty theology book on the highest shelf when a warm body pressed in behind you, close enough to feel the heat but not quite touching.
“still running?”
yixiang’s voice, low and amused, accent wrapping soft around the words. you startled so hard the book slipped. she caught it with one hand, the other bracing on the shelf beside your head. the cross chain around her neck swayed forward, brushing your shoulder like an accidental benediction. the chain wasn’t even a proper cross, not one blessed. it looked like a…brand made item?
you turned. trapped between her arm and the shelves. her shirt was unbuttoned one button lower today. the tattoo above her heart peeked out—a wolf…biting a lamb.
how ironic.
“i told you to stay away,” you breathed. but your voice cracked—thighs pressed together again, same traitor heat flooding low and heavy.
your gaze betrayed you again, dropping to her lips.
you wondered, shame flooding hot behind your eyes, what it would feel like dragging slow across your collarbone. across the inside of your thigh. across every place your own hands had touched in the dark and then begged forgiveness for.
she didn’t move back. just tilted her head, tongue piercing flashing when she smiled that lopsided grin. “you did. yet here you are. breathing my air, anddd staring intently at my mouth.”
“i’m not staring,” you lied, small and paper-thin.
yixiang hummed, the sound vibrating low in her chest. she leaned in a fraction closer, not touching, never quite touching, but the space between you felt alive, electric, like the air right before lightning splits the sky. her fake cross brushed your real one. metal against metal. rebellion against obedience. symbolism that made your stomach twist.
“liar,” she whispered, almost tender. “your cheeks are red. your breath is shaky. and you haven’t even tried to push me away.” her eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, dark and knowing. “so, tell me, pretty girl… when you kneel at night, is it my face you see behind your eyelids? do you still try to pray me away?”
you swallowed hard. the basement lights flickered once, twice, casting strange shadows across the ink on her skin. the lamb seemed to move, writhing in pain. you wanted to touch it. you wanted to run your thumb over the lines and ask if it hurt when they put it there. you wanted a lot of things you had no name for.
“this is wrong,” you managed, voice barely above the hum of the old fluorescents. “you’re wrong. what you do. what i’m feeling—”
the sentence fractured. hung there like incense that wouldn’t rise.
yixiang’s eyes softened at the edges, the way storm clouds sometimes do right before they break open. she lifted her hand, slow enough that you could have moved, could have run, but you stayed pinned by the weight of your own want. two fingers brushed your jaw—barely there, cool metal from her rings kissing your skin and tilted your face up towards hers.
“what you’re feeling,” she echoed, soft as a secret, “isn’t wrong, baby. it’s just honest.” her thumb traced the edge of your bottom lip, light as breath. “your body knows what it wants. why would your god create a body that craves sin, hm?”
heat pooled heavier between your legs. your rosary felt like it was burning a hole through your sweater pocket. you thought of the pastor’s voice calling this devil’s work, of your mother’s face if she ever saw you here, trembling under a girl’s touch in a dusty basement no one visited.
you thought of how good it felt anyway.
a broken sound slipped from your throat—half sob, half sigh.
“i don’t know”
yixiang’s gaze darkened, hunger flickering behind the gentleness like flame behind stained glass.
“tell me to stop,” she breathed, forehead almost resting against yours, strawberry and smoke and ruin filling every breath you took. “say it like you mean it and i’ll walk away right now.”
your lips parted. the word stop sat on your tongue, heavy as communion wafer. but it wouldn’t leave. instead your fingers curled into the front of her uniform shirt, knuckles brushing the warm skin above her heart, right where the prey sat, being consumed by it’s predator.
silence stretched. thick. trembling.
then you whispered, so quiet it barely existed, “i can’t.”
yixiang let out a shaky exhale that sounded almost relieved. her hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle, possessive, pulling you in until her lips hovered a breath away from yours. the silver on her tongue glinted like temptation made holy.
“then let me take the weight,” she murmured against your mouth. “just for a minute. just until you can breathe again.”
your eyes fluttered shut. the cross around your neck dug in harder, a warning and a brand at once. but you leaned forward anyway, chasing the warmth, chasing the fall.
yixiang closes the distance.
soft at first. so soft it feels like sin wearing silk. her lips part against yours, warm and strawberry-sweet, the faint metallic click of her tongue piercing brushing your bottom lip like a secret code only your body understands. you make a small, wounded sound into her mouth—half prayer, half surrender—and she swallows it whole.
the kiss deepens slowly, her hand stays gentle at the back of your neck, thumb stroking the delicate skin there as if you might shatter. but her tongue slips in anyway, silver barbell dragging slow and deliberate over yours, cool metal against wet heat. it sends sparks straight down your spine, pooling heavy and aching between your thighs. you clutch her shirt tighter, knuckles paling, pulling her closer even as guilt clawed its way up your throat.
this is wrong.
yet, it is everything.
her free hand finds your waist, fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your modest blouse that’s tucked neatly beneath your sweater, tracing the line of your ribs like she’s memorizing scripture. the fake cross on her chain tangles with your real one—metal clicking, rebellion kissing obedience—and the sound is so loud in the quiet basement it feels like the whole campus might hear.
you taste strawberry and something darker, something that feels like falling. your legs tremble. your mind fractures. somewhere inside, the girl who once knelt for hours is screaming, but the girl pressed against dusty shelves is melting, opening, letting yixiang lick into the hollow places no prayer has ever reached.
she pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against yours, breathing ragged, silver tongue darting out to wet her lips again. her eyes are blown dark, lashes low.
“still think it’s wrong?” she whispers, voice rough like gravel under bare feet.
you can’t answer. your mouth chases hers instead, clumsy and desperate, and she meets you halfway this time—hungrier, deeper. the kiss turns messy. tongues sliding, teeth grazing, soft little gasps slipping between you like confessions. her thigh presses between yours, firm pressure right where you ache most, and you whimper into her mouth, hips twitching before you can stop them.
shame floods hot behind your eyes. pleasure follows right behind it, brighter, sharper. you feel split open, exposed. the cross at your throat digs in like a knife, each edge a fresh accusation for every sin you just committed, while her hands are the only thing holding you together.
when you finally break apart, lips swollen and shining, a thin string of spit connects you for half a second before it breaks. you stare at her, chest heaving, soul raw and bleeding light.
yixiang brushes a tear from your cheek with her thumb. gentle again.
“breathe, pretty girl,” she murmurs. “i’ve got you.”
but you don’t breathe. you just stand there trembling in the flickering light, the broken lamb on her skin watching you with quiet, hungry eyes, while your own rosary burns a hole through your pocket like a second heart.
the guilt doesn’t leave.
it only learns your name.
and somewhere in the silence between heartbeats, you realize you don’t want it to stop.
and it doesn’t. even if you truly wanted it to and it seems like god only knows how to play the cruelest jokes on people like you.
you sit at the edge of your narrow dorm bed, knees drawn up to your chest, the project rubric crumpled in your fist. group assignment. theology and ethics, of all damned things. the professor’s voice still echoes—pairings chosen by lot, no appeals. yixiang’s name landed next to yours like a stone dropped in still water, ripples already spreading under your skin.
a knock. soft, deliberate. you open the door and there she is, backpack slung low, blonde hair tousled from the wind, silver brow barbell catching the hallway light like a dare. she smells of strawberry perfume and cold air, ink peeking from the cuff of her oversized hoodie. a new fake cross at her throat sways as she steps inside without waiting for permission.
“hey, pretty girl,” she murmurs, voice low enough to slip between your ribs. the door clicks shut behind her. the room feels smaller instantly, air thickening with the scent of old books and your half-burned prayer candle.
you don’t answer at first. just gesture vaguely at the desk, notebooks already open like shields. but your hands tremble. the stolen touches of just 2 days ago flash behind your eyes—her mouth on yours in the basement, her thigh pressed between yours, the way she’d whispered let me take the weight until you finally pushed her away. running off into the cold winter. the guilt never left. it only learned to wait quietly, teeth bared.
she drops her bag. sits on the bed instead of the chair. close. too close. her knee brushes yours and heat licks up your thigh like flame along paper.
“we should…start,” you whisper, but the words fray at the edges. your rosary sits on the nightstand, beads gleaming accusingly. you can feel god watching, or maybe just the version of him they hammered into you since you were small.
yixiang leans back on her elbows, head tilted, wolfish grin curving her lips. piercing on her tongue flashing when she speaks. “yeah. ethics. what’s right. what’s sin.” her eyes drag over you slow, deliberate—modest sweater, skirt pooled around your thighs, the faint flush already climbing your neck. “funny subject for us.”
you swallow. the cross around your neck feels heavier, chain pressing against your skin like a quiet reminder of who you are. who you are supposed to be. but your body remembers her hands. remembers how gentle they were. how hungry.
minutes bleed. notes scatter across the comforter. her voice wraps around concepts of temptation and free will, accent soft, teasing the edges of every word. you try to focus. but you fail. her fingers keep brushing yours when she points at the page. accidental, maybe. then not. her pinky hooks yours and then stays.
silence stretches, thick as incense.
“you’re staring again,” she says quietly. no mockery this time. just truth, warm and inevitable.
you blink, the words tumbling out clumsy and half-formed, a shield made of nothing. “sorry—i just—didn’t notice your ears are pierced too…”
yixiang’s mouth curves, slow, that crooked half-smile blooming like ink in water. she leans in a fraction closer, blonde strands brushing your cheek, and the silver in her ears catches the lamplight—small hoops, delicate, one with a tiny dangling cross that mocks the one heavy at your throat. ironic. deliberate. she turns her head just enough to let you see, the movement pulling the collar of her hoodie lower, revealing more ink crawling along her collarbone like secrets refusing to stay buried.
“yeah,” she murmurs, voice low and warm, laced with that soft accent that curls around your ribs and tugs. “got them done the same day as the tongue. parents lost their minds back in taipei. said it made me look like a whore for the devil.” a short laugh, bitter-sweet, then gone. her pinky stays hooked in yours, thumb now tracing idle circles over your knuckle, each pass sending tiny sparks racing up your arm, pooling traitorously low.
“it… suits you,” you whisper. the confession slips free before you can cage it. your free hand twitches, wanting to reach, to trace the curve of her ear, to feel the cool bite of metal against warm flesh. instead it stays fisted in the comforter, knuckles paling.
silence again. thick. breathing.
then her fingers uncurl from yours, rise slow enough that you could pull away. you don’t. she tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, lingering, her touch feather-light yet heavy with everything unsaid. the pad of her thumb brushes the shell of your ear, then lower, along the lobe, as if testing how you’d wear silver if the world weren’t built to keep girls like you modest and afraid.
“you’d look pretty with one,” she breathes against your temple, lips barely grazing skin. “just a small hoop. something that catches the light when you turn your head in the chapel. something only i’d notice when you’re trying so hard not to look at me.”
your breath hitches. thighs press tighter together under your skirt, the ache building again, slow and insistent, like a prayer you can’t finish. wrong, the old voice hisses—pastor’s cold water, mother’s disappointed eyes, the cross digging into your sternum like a brand. but her mouth is so close now, strawberry lip gloss and the faint metallic promise of her piercing hovering just out of reach.
you turn your face. not away. towards.
the kiss lands soft at first, almost hesitant, your lips brushing hers like testing the edge of a blade. then deeper. her tongue slips in, silver barbell cool and deliberate against yours, sending a shiver straight down your spine that pools hot between your legs. you make a small sound—half sigh, half surrender—into her mouth, and she swallows it whole, hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you there like absolution in the shape of want.
you fall back as she crawls on top of you—notes scatter away further. the project forgotten under the weight of your body shifting on the pink sheets, her knee pressing between yours, thigh firm and warm where you need pressure most. your fingers find her hoodie, curl into fabric, pulling until her chest brushes yours.
yixiang kisses you until the room tilts, until your lips feel swollen and raw and every breath tastes like strawberry and surrender. her tongue works slow and deep, silver dragging heavy over your tongue, cool then warm then cool again, sending sparks that race straight down to where her thigh rocks against you in lazy rhythm. you whimper into her mouth, hips chasing without shame, skirt bunched high around your waist, damp cotton the only thin thing left between you and ruin.
then she pulls back.
just enough.
her forehead rests against yours, breath hot and shaky, blonde hair curtaining the world so all you see is dark eyes and silver glinting like forbidden stars. the wolf on her collarbone watches you, mouth full of lamb, hungry.
“hey, pretty baby” she whispers, voice low and rough, accent curling thick around the words. her thumb brushes your bottom lip, slow. “wanna show me how you touch yourself?”
the words land heavy in your chest. heat floods your face, shame and want twisting so tight you can’t tell which is which. your hands tremble where they clutch her hoodie. you’ve never—not really. especially not with someone watching.
“i…” the word cracks.
you try anyway. because her eyes are soft and dark and waiting, because her thigh still presses warm between yours like a promise. your hand slips down, shaky, under the hem of your skirt, fingers brushing damp fabric. you press—clumsy, unsure—circle once, twice, but it feels wrong. too direct. too exposed. your breath stutters. the cross at your throat digs in harder, cold against flushed skin, reminding you who you’re supposed to be.
nothing builds right. only frustration, hot and sharp behind your eyes.
“i can’t—just—i don’t know how—” the confession spills out broken, voice small and wet. your fingers still. you pull your hand away like it burned you, tears pricking hot at the corners. “i’ve never…not properly... it feels…stupid. wrong. i keep thinking about the pastor and my mother and god and—”
yixiang catches your wrist gently. brings your trembling fingers to her mouth. kisses them, slow, tongue flicking out to taste the shame still clinging there. her eyes never leave yours.
“shh, little lamb,” she murmurs against your knuckles. “no rush.” she shifts her weight, settles beside you instead of over you, one arm sliding under your shoulders, pulling you close. her free hand trails down your stomach, light as breath, stopping just above where your skirt sits twisted. “let me show you, then. yeah? just feel.”
her fingers slip under the fabric. not rushing. just warmth. just pressure. she touches you like something sacred—slow circles where you ache most, then firmer, learning the rhythm your body already knows but your mind still fights. you gasp, hips jerking, a broken sound tearing from your throat that sounds too much like relief.
“there,” she breathes against your temple, lips brushing skin. “see? your body knows. it’s just been waiting for permission.”
you bury your face in her neck, breathing her in—strawberry perfume lingering on her pale skin. the wolf keeps watching. guilt paces the corners of the room, but for these long, trembling minutes it stays back.
her fingers keep moving, steady and sure, drawing soft whimpers and shaky gasps from you that echo in the small dorm like half-prayers. every stroke unwinds you a little more. every kiss she presses to your hair, your cheek, your swollen mouth, loosens the knots guilt tied so tight.
“that’s it,” yixiang murmurs, lips brushing your temple, voice a low hum that vibrates straight through your ribs. “feel how wet you are for me, pretty baby? all that shame and still your body opens up like this.” her fingers circle slow, then dip lower, teasing at your entrance before sliding your panties aside. finger tip pressing gently against your entrance, then just an inch slides within you. just one, then two—soon stretching you in a way that makes your breath fracture into tiny, wounded sounds. the silver rings on her fingers catch faintly against slick heat. cold metal. burning skin. she adds another one just as you adjust to the feeling of the first.
your hips jerk. thighs tremble around her wrist. you swear you can feel the cross at your throat burn brighter with every gasp, chain stinging like it wants to remind you of how your body belongs to god and not the girl with her fingers buried within you. but her thumb finds that spot—soft, insistent, perfect—and the prayer dies on your tongue, replaced by her name, broken open.
“nghhh—yixiang—”
short. sharp. like a sob wearing silk.
she doesn’t speed up. just stays there, deep and steady, curling her fingers in a slow rhythm that matches the uneven hammer of your heart. her free hand strokes your hair, tucks it behind your ear where she’d whispered about silver hoops earlier. “no thinking,” she breathes. “just my hand. just how full you feel. let the rest burn off.”
you try. god, you try. but thoughts still flicker—your mother’s face if she saw you like this, legs spread under another girl, skirt rucked up like you’ve completely discarded modesty. the pastor’s cold voice calling it unnatural. the devil’s plan to send you to hell. yet every curl of her fingers pushes those voices further back, drowns them under wave after wave of liquid heat coiling tighter in your belly. your hand finds her wrist, not to stop her. just to hold. to anchor. nails digging crescent moons into her tattooed skin.
the pleasure builds strange. uneven. long, dragging strokes that make your toes curl and your back arch off the pink sheets, then sudden sharp thrusts that rip little cries from your throat and leave you shaking. you feel raw. split open. the rosary on the nightstand watches, beads silent and accusing.
“yixi—mmgh—wait—i feel weird—”
the words tumble out fractured, small, almost panicked. your thighs tremble around her hand, muscles tight and fluttering like they don’t know whether to pull her closer or push her away. something is gathering low in your belly—too big, too bright, like a storm you were never taught how to weather. pressure and heat and a terrifying edge you can’t name. you clench around her fingers, slick and desperate, breath coming in short, wounded gasps against her neck.
yixiang stills for half a heartbeat. not pulling out. just pressing deeper, steady, her thumb circling slow and sure over that swollen, aching spot. her lips find your temple, soft as forgiveness.
“shh, little lamb,” she whispers, accent thick and warm like honey over gravel. “that’s not weird. that’s it. you’re right there. let it take you.”
you shake your head against her shoulder, tears slipping hot down your cheeks, but your hips keep rolling, chasing her hand like a traitor. the wolf on her collarbone presses into your skin, mouth full of helpless lamb. you are the lamb, and now you reside in the jaws of your very own wolf.
her fingers curl again—deliberate, perfect—and the coil snaps.
you come hard, sudden, like a prayer torn from your throat. a broken cry fractures the quiet dorm room—her name, half moan half sob—and your whole body bows tight, thighs clamping around her wrist, walls pulsing around her fingers in long, shuddering waves. heat floods through you, slick and overwhelming, soaking her hand and the sheets beneath.
time fractures.
you cling to her, boneless and trembling, face buried where her pulse beats steady under ink and silver. the guilt creeps back slow, teeth bared at the edges of the room, but it feels smaller now. pushed back by the weight of her arm around you, she slips her fingers free with quiet devotion and brings them to her mouth. slowly, deliberately, that silver tongue drags across them, licking every trace of you while her eyes stay locked on yours—dark, hungry, and somehow also devastatingly soft.
she pulls you closer, legs tangling, pink sheets twisted around you both like a half-hearted shroud. the crosses brush against each other between your hearts. wolf and lamb. saint and sinner. saved and damned.
you breathe her in—sweet strawberries, and the scent of something holy that’s just been desecrated—for these uneven, trembling minutes, the only prayer left is the quiet thud of her heart against your cheek.
you don’t ask forgiveness.
not yet at least.
by friday, you come to a conclusion.
you are a sinner.
and the word no longer tastes like ash. it tastes like her mouth at 12 a.m., like the slow drag of her pierced tongue along your inner thigh while the television flickers in the corner with some late-night preacher screaming about fire and brimstone and the wages of flesh. his voice cracks through the tinny speakers—repent, before the devil claims your soul—while yixiang’s fingers curl deep inside you, steady and sure, thumb circling lazy and perfect where you need it most. the christians screaming to you through your tv. they don’t save you, they certainly don’t save her.
you come with a broken little sound muffled against her shoulder, thighs shaking around her ears, the preacher still howling about eternal damnation. she doesn’t stop. just licks you through it, slow and sweet, silver barbell clicking soft against slick heat like a secret code only your body understands now.
on monday she had you bent over the desk, skirt shoved up, two fingers deep while some televangelist begged viewers to send money for their souls. you came so hard the rosary on the nightstand rattled.
on wednesday she laid you out on the pink sheets and took her time, tongue piercing dragging slow and deliberate until you sobbed her name louder than the choir singing on the screen. guilt flickered somewhere behind your ribs, but it felt distant now. like smoke you could breathe through.
by friday the project was mostly done. mostly. the final slide still blank except for one line she typed while you were still trembling from her mouth: what is sin, if not the shape love takes when the world calls it wrong?
you don’t see her all weekend.
the dorm room feels too big without her laugh curling around the walls, too quiet without the wet sounds of her mouth between your thighs. pink sheets still smell like strawberries and sex and you can’t bring yourself to wash them. you curl into the scent instead, face buried, breathing her in until your chest aches so sharp it feels like glass under your ribs.
when you realize what you’d done, the guilt comes back like a flood.
it doesn’t knock. it breaks the door down.
you kneel on the cold floor until your knees bloom purple, rosary wrapped so tight around your fingers the beads cut little red smiles into your skin.
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. the words scrape out raw, over and over, but every syllable tastes like her name. like the way she whispered “all mine” while you came apart shaking on her tongue. you bang your forehead against the wood until it leaves a bruise, until tears soak the floorboards, until the cross at your throat digs in so hard you’re sure it’ll scar.
god doesn’t answer.
it seems he never does anymore. at-least not when you need him the most.
saturday blurs into a long, gray ache.
“wash me from my guilt, and cleanse me of my sin. i acknowledge my offense; my sin is before always.”
you cry so hard your ribs hurt. ugly, gasping sobs that echo off of the walls. you press your palms to your eyes until stars burst, try to scrub the feeling of her tongue dragging slow and deliberate from your body, the way she looked up at you from between your legs with dark eyes and that crooked half-smile like she already knew you’d break for her again.
sunday morning you drag yourself to the chapel.
“i have given myself over to sin and exposed myself to the evils of the world without, thinking
twice about how that would affect the eternal salvation of my soul.”
outside, the world keeps moving. students laugh past the chapel doors, shoes squeaking, backpacks rustling. normal. untouched. you envy them.
envy how you know everything is fine in heaven but you’ll never get to know. that certainty sits in your chest.
you stay until the service ends. until the last footstep fades and the silence rushes back in, heavy as wet velvet. you press your forehead to the pew in front of you. wood cool and unforgiving. the bruise from last night sings back, sharp and honest.
the tears come hot and endless. tears slip hot down your cheeks, onto your clasped hands, onto the hem of your skirt, onto the rail, pool in the grooves worn by better girls. you don’t wipe them away. you let them fall—let them stain. ugly, gasping sobs tear out of you, echoing off the vaulted ceiling until the saints seem to flinch in their niches.
you see her everywhere—the curve of the altar rail like the arch of her back, the silver chain on the virgin mary’s neck mocking the hoops in her ears.
you bang your forehead against the rail once, twice. the bruise blooms fresh. pain sharp and honest. why won’t you take it away? the silent scream rattles inside your ribs while your thighs press together under modest fabric, traitor heat still lingering there like a memory that refuses to die no matter how hard you claw at it.
“god, i come before you and repent of my sinful ways. i hand over to you my heart infected with the evils. root out the ties that bind me to these and all the sins my heart has committed. i ask that you cleanse my heart.”
you are a sinner.
the truth sits heavy in your throat like communion gone sour. you rock forward, arms wrapped around the rail like it might hold you together when everything inside is fraying at the seams. the cross at your neck feels cold against your skin that burns. you wonder if hell is burning you from the side out.
but you also wonder if she misses you. if she’s waiting for monday like you’re waiting for the guilt to loosen its jaws. if she knows you’d crawl back.
monday comes, and you aren’t prepared.
not when you see her kissing another girl again—same spot by the ivy wall—and something sharp cracks open in your chest. jealousy. shame. want so vicious it crawls within you, begging to be released.
you walk straight up. voice shaking but loud.
“you said i was yours.”
yixiang pulls back from the other girl, eyes widening when she sees your face. the girl leaves fast. again. always leaving yixiang standing there with swollen lips and that crooked half-smile that now looks cracked at the edges, like cheap paint over something older and sharper.
you stop just close enough to smell strawberry and someone else’s lip gloss. jealousy claws up your throat like bile and prayer mixed together. all weekend you knelt until your knees split open, banged your head against wood until bruises bloomed like stigmata, whispered every mea culpa you knew while her name kept slipping in like smoke. and here she is. mouth still wet from another girl. like the weekend never happened. like your tears never soaked the chapel floor.
“you said i was yours,” you repeat, smaller this time. the words crack on the last syllable. your hands fist at your sides so hard the nails bite crescents. the cross at your throat feels heavier than it did on sunday, chain pressing into skin that still remembers the shape of her teeth.
yixiang’s smile fades completely. she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand—slow, deliberate, silver rings flashing—and steps toward you. not away. never away.
“pretty girl…” her voice is rough, accent curling soft around the edges like it wants to soothe the wound it made. “you disappeared. again. i thought you were done. on your knees somewhere begging god to cut me out of you.”
you laugh. it sounds like breaking.
“this was a mistake.”
the words leave your mouth sharp and final, like a blade dragged across scripture. they hang between you in the cold winter air, cutting through the faint scent of strawberry and someone else’s cherry gloss. your chest heaves. the cross at your throat suddenly feels like a noose, chain biting deep into skin still tender from two nights of desperate clutching. you take one step back. then another. the ivy wall blurs behind her, green fingers reaching like they want to pull you both under.
yixiang’s face fractures. uneven smirk shatters completely. for once she looks small—blonde strands messy across her forehead, silver piercings catching the pale light like broken stars, fake cross rising and falling too fast against the wolf on her collarbone. the lamb inside its jaws looks almost sorry.
“don’t,” she whispers. voice rough, accent thicker with something that might be panic. she reaches for you anyway, fingers brushing your hand. cool metal from her rings—warm skin underneath. you flinch like she burned you but don’t quite pull away. can’t.
“you don’t get to disappear all weekend, leave me with nothing but the smell of you on my sheets and the taste of guilt in my throat, then kiss someone else like i was just—” your voice cracks, wet and ugly. tears burn hot again. you hate them. hate how they fall anyway, tracking down your cheeks like penance you never quite finish. “like i was practice. like i was nothing to you but a lamb to consume.”
and for the first time ever in your life. you curse.
“fuck you, wang yixiang.
you don’t see her until wednesday. you make sure of that.
you dodge every corner of campus where her blonde hair might catch the light. you take the long way past the chapel. when class ends you go straight to your dorm.
but the school throws some winter mixer in the old hall—string lights draped like cheap halos, punch that tastes like watered-down fruit punch, laughter bouncing off wooden beams. you go because your friends drag you. because hiding forever feels too much like surrender.
because you don’t expect her to be there.
but yixiang never does what you expect.
she appears through the crowd like smoke, hoodie half-zipped, silver catching the fairy lights—brow, tongue, ears, the fake cross swaying against ink. her eyes find you instantly. dark. burning. the wolf who smelled blood across a crowded room.
you turn away too fast. heart hammering against the cross at your throat.
your friends notice anyway.
“wait—yah? you know yixiang?” one of them leans in, voice low and scandalized, eyes wide like she just spotted the devil in modest clothing. “why are you hanging out with someone like that? did you hear she kisses girls? like actually kisses them. even does it right here on campus. no shame.”
another giggles behind her hand. “probably a rumor, right? but still. you should be careful. that kind of thing…it rubs off.”
you laugh. it sounds tinny. wrong. the same breaking sound you made in the courtyard on monday.
“ahah whattttt that’s crazy—” your voice pitches high, cheeks burning hot as fresh stigmata. “plus that’s a sin. probably just a rumor. we just know each other from a project. we aren’t friends. we barely know each other.”
the words taste like ash on your tongue. like every prayer you whispered into cold floorboards. your friends nod, satisfied, already moving on to safer gossip. gossip that doesn’t hold sin.
but yixiang hears.
of course she hears.
her face changes. that signature tilted grin cracks clean in half. something darker flashes behind her eyes—hurt, anger, hunger all braided tight. she crosses the room in three strides, fingers brushing your elbow like a question and a threat.
“can we talk?” her voice is low. too low. accent thick enough to wrap around your throat.
you nod before you can stop yourself. your friends wave you off with raised eyebrows but no real suspicion. good girls don’t see wolves until the teeth are already at their necks.
the moment the side door shuts behind you the air changes. colder. thicker. yixiang doesn’t speak. she just grabs a fistful of your hair—firm, possessive, right at the roots—and drags you across the frost-bitten grass toward the dorms. not gentle. not careful. the sting blooms sharp and sweet down your spine. you stumble after her, breath catching, thighs pressing together under your skirt like your body already knows what will come next.
“barely know each other,” she mutters, voice rough gravel and smoke. she yanks harder when you whimper. “project partners. not friends. that’s what i am to you now?”
the dorm hallway blurs. her keycard beeps. door slams shut. the second it closes she spins you, back hitting wood, mouth crashing into yours—angry, desperate, silver tongue pushing past your lips like she can taste the lie still sitting on it. you moan into the kiss, small and broken, hands fisting in her hoodie even as tears prick hot at the corners of your eyes.
she pulls your hair again, tilting your head back, exposing your throat where your cross sits heavy and accusing.
“you kissed another girl.”
the accusation slips out hoarse against her mouth, cracked open like the rest of you.
your back stays pressed to the door, wood cold through thin fabric, while her body burns hot against yours—hips pinning, thigh already sliding between your legs like it belongs there. the accusation still burns on your tongue—you kissed another girl—but it tastes smaller now, almost childish, under the weight of her stare.
yixiang stills for half a heartbeat. fingers tighten in your hair, pulling until sparks dance down your scalp and heat floods low in your belly. her dark eyes flicker.
half laugh, half growl, accent wrapping thick and warm around the words like smoke curling through chapel incense.
“that’s what this is about?” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, silver hoop in hers catching the faint light from the window. “you’re jealous?”
the question lands soft. devastating.
you try to look away, but can’t as her grip keeps your head tilted, throat exposed. tears prick hotter at the corners of your eyes, slipping free before you can cage them. you hate how small you feel. how wet you are against her thigh. how the weekend of kneeling and begging and bruising your forehead against wood all collapses into this one trembling truth.
“no.”
the lie slips out thin and trembling, barely louder than the thud of your heart against the door. it tastes like ash and communion wafters stored wrong—gone stale on your tongue. you hate how small it sounds. how obviously false.
yixiang’s laugh is low, rough, almost pitying. her fingers stay twisted tight in your hair, pulling just enough to make your scalp sing. she presses her thigh higher between your legs, denim grinding slow and deliberate against the damp heat soaking through your panties.
“no?” she echoes, lips brushing the shell of your ear, silver hoop cool against flushed skin. “then why are you shaking, pretty girl? why is your cunt dripping through your panties and onto my thigh like you’ve been starving for me since the second you ran?”
you whimper. the sound betrays you before the words can. your hips twitch forward without permission, chasing pressure, chasing her, even as fresh tears slip hot down your cheeks. the guilt bites deeper instead—cold, sharp, and impossible to ignore. but not the guilt of sinning, the guilt of lying to her.
she doesn’t let you hide. tilts your head further back until your eyes meet hers—dark, knowing, hungry. the wolf who already swallowed the lamb whole and is still licking its lips.
“liar, do you always fuckin’ lie?” she whispers, almost tender. almost cruel. her free hand slides under your skirt, fingers pushing soaked fabric aside and sinking in deep—two at once, curling perfect and immediate. you gasp, back arching off the door, walls fluttering around her like they forgot how to do anything but open for her.
“you know thats a sin too, right? proverbs 6:17 says lying is an abomination to the lord.”
“i’m not—” the denial fractures before it can finish. another thrust, deeper, and your head falls back against the wood with a dull thud. the cross knocks hard against your chest, chain biting at the hairs on your neck, a reminder you keep ignoring. tears slip free, tracking down your cheeks, and dripping onto your cross.
“leviticus 19:11,” she murmurs, almost gentle, mocking, fingers curling slow and perfect inside you. “go on, i know you know it.”
the verse rises unbidden, automatic, drilled into your bones since you were small enough to sit in sunday school with trembling hands. you choke it out between broken breaths, voice thin and shaking like the rest of you.
“do not lie. do not deceive one another.”
yixiang’s laugh vibrates against your throat, low and warm and cruel-sweet. she thrusts again, deeper, thumb pressing firm circles over your clit until your knees threaten to give. the silver rings on her fingers drag cool against slick heat, a constant contradiction—metal and flesh, judgment and mercy, wolf and lamb.
“good girl,” she breathes, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“you are sick,” you choke out, voice cracking open. “and i hate you and love you for it. you’re a wreck… but i think i’m always going to want you.”
yixiang’s fingers still inside you, buried to the knuckle, curled just right against that spot that makes your vision spark white at the edges. she doesn’t pull them out. she just holds them there, deep, letting you clench and flutter around her like a prayer you can’t finish.
her dark eyes search your face—wet lashes, flushed cheeks, trembling mouth still shiny from her kiss. that skewed smile returns, slower this time, sharper. the silver bar in her tongue flashes when she licks her lips.
“you hate me,” she repeats, voice low, almost thoughtful, like she’s tasting the words. “and you love me. and you think you’re always gonna want me.” her thumb strokes lazy circles over your swollen clit, slow enough to torture. “that’s a lot of big feelings for a good little church girl who just told her friends i’m nothing.”
you try to answer, but she chooses that moment to thrust again—pushing a third in, stretching you impossibly open with a wet sound that should mortify you. but instead it rips another broken moan from your throat. your knees buckle; she pins you harder against the door with her hips, thigh still damp with your shame.
“i prayed,” you whisper, voice raw as scraped knees on chapel stone. “every night. begged him to take this want out of me. but it only grew. bigger. hungrier. until even the taste of communion wine reminded me of your tongue.”
yixiang’s forehead drops to yours. blonde strands tangle with your own, sweaty and messy, her piercings cool against your fevered skin. for once she doesn’t mock. doesn’t laugh that low cruel laugh. her thumb still circles your clit but gentler now, like she’s tracing a prayer into your body.
“you think i don’t know?” the words slip out hoarse, accent thicker, curling around the vowels like smoke from votive candles. “every time you ran, i felt it. left me empty. chewing on nothing but your scent on my clothes and the memory of how tight you get when you’re trying so hard not to sin.”
you whimper. hips rolling forward without permission, chasing her hand even as shame burns hotter than pleasure. tears keep falling, silent now, tracking down your cheeks and catching on your trembling mouth. she licks one away. slow. the silver bar in her tongue flashes like absolution you don’t deserve.
“i’m not good for you,” she murmurs, almost to herself. fingers still buried deep, holding you open, keeping you full while the confession spills. “i kiss other girls because they don’t look at me like you do. like i’m both damnation and salvation wearing the same skin. they don’t make me feel… this.”
her free hand slides up. cupping your cheekss. thumb brushing the wet trail your tears left, silver rings catching faint light from the window. outside, the winter mixer still hums—cheap halos and watered punch and laughter that has never tasted guilt like this. inside her dorm the air is thick with her strawberry perfume and your own desperate want.
you search her eyes. the fracture is still there, raw edges gleaming. the wolf looks tired. almost human. the lamb in its jaws has stopped struggling. even if its just a little while.
“then why do you keep letting me come back?” the question cracks open between you, small and trembling. your walls flutter around her fingers again, involuntary, like your body is answering for you. “why chase me when i disappear?”
she stills completely. fingers deep. body pressed flush. her breath fans hot across your lips.
“because you’re mine,” she says, simple. devastating. “even when you run. even when you kneel for him instead of me. even when you tell your friends i’m nothing.” her voice drops lower, almost broken. “i saw the cross around your neck and how your face flushed seeing my lips on another girl and thought—yeah. this one will hurt, but this one i’ll keep anyway.”
she pulls her fingers out slow, torturously slow, leaving you empty and aching. you whine at the loss, thighs shaking. but before you can beg she’s lifting you—strong arms, hoodie sleeves pushed up, ink and muscle flexing—and carrying you the two steps to her bed. sheets smell of her.
she lays you down like you’re fragile. climbs over you. pulling the hoodie off—the fake cross swings between her breasts, brushing your own as she settles her hips between your thighs.
she kisses you like the world might end if she stops.
slow at first, almost careful—mouth brushing your forehead where the bruises from sunday’s kneeling still linger faint under your skin. then down the slope of your nose, the tremble of your eyelids, the tear tracks drying on your cheeks like salt left from an ocean you keep trying to leave behind. each press of her lips lands soft as whispered absolution, but there’s weight in them. hunger folded quiet between the gentleness, like she’s mapping every place you’ve tried to offer up to someone holier than her.
your breath catches when she reaches your throat. the cross there feels heavier, chain biting as she mouths along its edge, tongue flicking silver against silver
“tell me,” she murmurs against your collarbone, voice rough velvet, accent curling thick through the words. her hands push your modest blouse higher, bunching fabric. cool air kisses your skin; then her mouth follows, hot and open, sucking a slow mark just above your ribs. “what do you want, pretty girl?”
you shiver. the question sinks into you deeper than her fingers ever could—simple, devastating. your hips lift without thinking, seeking her weight, but she holds back, thighs bracketing yours, hoodie gone now so the wolf on her chest stares down at you with bared teeth and that sad little lamb caught forever in its jaws.
another kiss, lower. between your breasts where your heart hammers loud enough to shake the foundations of every sunday school lesson. the bar on her tongue drags cool and wet, leaving a shining trail that cools too fast in the dorm’s quiet air. you whimper, fingers threading into her messy blonde hair, pulling without meaning to. or maybe meaning to. everything blurs.
“i want—” the words fracture. she kisses down your stomach, slow, reverent, teeth grazing the soft skin just above your navel like she’s tasting how much you’ve starved for this. your skirt is rucked up around your waist, panties long since pushed aside or maybe torn—you don’t remember. don’t care. her breath ghosts over the slick mess between your thighs and you jolt, thighs trying to close around her head.
“say it.” her voice drops lower. almost pleading under the roughness. she presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then higher, open-mouthed and filthy-sweet, lips brushing where you ache.
"make something gross feel romantic. make me so no one will ever want me again,"
yixiang’s breath stutters hot against your soaked folds. her dark eyes flick up, slightly glassy, smirk cracking wider like she’s been given permission to sin in the most beautiful way possible.
then she buries her face between your thighs.
mouth open wide, tongue flat and greedy, licking through the slick that’s been dripping out of you since even before the door slammed shut. the silver ball on her tongue drags heavy over your clit, then lower, pushing inside you alongside two fingers that stretch you open with a loud, wet squelch. she moans into it, deep and grateful, like the taste of you is better than air itself. her chin grinds messy against you, nose bumping against your swollen clit, cheeks already messy with your slick as she sucks and laps and drinks every bit you give her.
your thighs start shaking. hips jerking up into her face without shame. the cross bounces against your sternum, chain sticky with sweat, and she reaches up without looking, wraps the chain around her fist and tugs just enough to remind you who owns the throat it circles.
when you come it’s loud and ugly and perfect.
your back arches clean off the bed, a broken cry ripping out of you—half sob, half her name—while your cunt pulses hard around her fingers and floods her mouth.
slick gushes, messy and warm, soaking her chin, dripping down her neck, running in shiny trails over the fake cross between her breasts. she doesn’t pull away. she drinks you through it, moaning like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted, swallowing what she can and letting the rest paint her face, her throat, even the wolf inked on her skin.
she keeps licking even after the worst of it fades—slow, filthy drags of her tongue through the oversensitive mess, cleaning you with long strokes that make your legs twitch and more slick leak out. when she finally lifts her head her face is destroyed. lips swollen, chin dripping, strands of your cum stretching from her mouth to your cunt like silver threads of damnation.
“there you are,” she murmurs, crawling up your body, trailing kisses smeared with your own mess across your belly, your ribs, the soft underside of your breasts. “my pretty girl… coming so hard you soaked my whole chest. look at you leaking everywhere.”
she kisses your mouth then—deep, open, pushing the taste of your orgasm onto your tongue so you can swallow it with her.
“stay tonight,” she says against your lips, so quiet it’s almost not there. “don’t run. don’t pray it away. just… stay here with me.”
you close your eyes. thighs sticky. throat marked. cross heavy with both of you.
and you don’t run. not this time.
the lamb lies down in the wolf’s jaws, warm, and lets itself be consumed.
the weekend comes, the campus is soaked in pure white. saturday.
snow falls like it’s trying to bury every sin under something clean, but you carry the mess with you anyway—thighs still tender, the memories of wednesday soaked into your skin like a secret tattoo no soap could touch. you tried. alone in your dorm after evening prayers, hand between your legs chasing the ghost of her fingers, her tongue, the way she drinks you down.
nothing.
just ache.
just pressure building and breaking into nothing, like your body still repented better than it did letting go. guilt sits heavy in your chest, thicker than the cross at your throat, and the want only sharpens—vicious, hollow, unfinished.
so you walk.
snow crunches under your loafers, flakes catching in your lashes, melting cold against cheeks still burning from the failure. you don’t mean to end up here. yet your feet carry you straight to her dorm like the wolf’s jaws have their own gravity. fist raised, hesitation thick in your throat, then three quiet knocks.
the door opens and yixiang is there—in a tank top, blonde hair messy from sleep or boredom, silver catching the hallway light like broken stars. her eyes widen, then soften, smile blooming slow and wide when she sees the snow dusting your coat, the tremble in your hands, the way you can’t quite meet her gaze.
“oh hello pretty girl,” she murmurs, accent curling warm through the cold. she doesn’t ask why. just pulls you inside by the sleeve, door clicking shut behind you like a covenant resealed. the room still smells like both of you—strawberry and sex and sheets that haven’t been changed because she said she wanted to keep the evidence of your sin.
you stand there dripping melted snow onto her floor, words sticking. “i couldn’t—i tried—nothing comes. it just…stops. like he won’t let me.” you whisper the last part, pointing at the sky.
yixiang laughs, just a soft huff of breath, warm and startled, like the sound slipped out before she could cage it.
her shoulders shake once, silver piercings catching the dim lamp light, smile cracking wider for a second.
you frown. sharp. immediate. the heat in your cheeks flares hotter than the snow melting down your neck, and the ache between your legs twists meaner, like even your body is scolding her for laughing at something so raw.
“sorry, sorry,” she says quickly, voice dropping low and rough. she steps in closer, hands rising like she’s approaching something skittish. one palm cups your jaw, thumb brushing the frown line between your brows.
“didn’t mean it like that. just…you standing here, covered in snow and guilt, pointing at the sky like god is personally blue-balling you? fuck, pretty girl. you are tragic and perfect. i love how ruined you are for me.”
her forehead presses to yours. blonde strands damp from a shower, tangling with your own slightly damp hair. the laughter is gone now, replaced by something heavier.
she walks you backward until your knees hit the bed and you fold down into the mess of sheets that still smell slightly of wednesday’s sin. yixiang follows, crawling over you slow, tank top hugging her body, her breasts—the wolf on her chest stares down at your trembling form.
and then you see them. pressed against the black fabric of her tank, barbells.
two silver bars, one through each nipple, straining the thin cotton like secret sins pushing to be known.
your mouth goes dry. the ache between your legs pulses harder, fresh slick slipping out just from the sight. yixiang notices. of course she does. a cock grin spreads scross her face, slower this time, almost shy underneath the hunger.
“ah, guess you haven’t really seen these before” she murmurs, voice rough velvet as she peels the tank up and off in one smooth motion. “like em’?”
you can’t answer at first.
just stare.
then you swallow hard, you whimper. the sound cracks open in your throat like thin ice.
“they’re…pretty,” you manage, voice small and trembling, but the word feels ridiculous. pretty doesn’t cover the way your cunt clenches hard around nothing just from the sight of them.
“wanna taste them?”
your cheeks flush hot, a sudden burn that spreads down your throat and across your chest like spilled communion wine. you gasp, small and sharp, the sound cracking open the quiet dorm air.
“w-what—?!”
“you heard me,” she murmurs, voice sweet and rough as honeycomb. she shifts her weight, letting one pierced breast hover closer, the cool metal barbell brushing feather-light over your bottom lip. “wanna taste them? put that pretty tongue on me, and suck em’ slow while i touch you?”
the words sink into your belly like stones into deep water. you feel them settle. heavy. irreversible. your cunt gives another helpless flutter and leaks more—warm, slow, shameful—sliding down to ruin the sheets that already carry wednesday’s ghost. the ache blooms wider, sharper, never cresting, just pressing and pressing until your cunt trembles around nothingness.
you stare at the silver barbell. at the flushed, tight peak it pierces. your lips part. just a little. breath trembling out.
yixiang’s eyes darken, something almost gentle cracking through the hunger. she cups the back of your head, not pushing, just guiding, and lowers herself until the cool metal kisses your tongue.
you lick.
once. shy. tentative. the silver tastes cold and clean against the heat of her skin. then again—hungrier—closing your mouth around the whole thing, sucking soft and slow like it might quiet the storm inside your ribs. yixiang lets out this low, broken sound, half groan, her back arching so the barbell presses deeper between your lips.
“thereee you go,” she breathes, accent thick and shaky. “good girl. suck a little harder, pretty thing. let me feel how much you need me when you can’t come.”
two of her fingers slide inside you at the same time—easy, wet, filthy. they curl lazy and deep, stirring the endless leak while you nurse on her pierced nipple like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to earth. every pull of your mouth makes more slick flood out around her knuckles. it drips. it glistens on her wrist.
“fuck—so good—”
her voice fractures around the words, low and ragged, like the sound itself is leaking out of her the same way you’re leaking onto her hand. she rocks a little harder into your mouth, the silver barbell sliding deeper between your lips, cool metal warming fast from your tongue. you suck harder without thinking, cheeks hollow, eyes looking up at her half-lidded and wet, chasing the broken little noises and faces she keeps giving you like they’re the only grace you’re allowed anymore.
yixiang’s fingers keep moving inside you—slow, lazy circles that stir the mess without ever promising an end. every pull of your mouth around her nipple drags another warm gush out of you, slick sliding down her wrist, pooling sticky between your bodies, painting the wolf darker and wetter and more alive.
she pulls back just enough for the barbell to slip from your lips with a wet sound that should shame you. it doesn’t. her dark eyes search your face—flushed, teary, lips shiny with spit and want.
“pretty girl,” she murmurs, accent thick and gentle, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “you trust me?”
you nod before the question even finishes landing. stupid, trembling lamb nod. your thighs keep twitching around her hand, leaking more because even the question makes the ache bloom wider.
yixiang smiles, crooked and soft. she leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth, then whispers against it like a secret between sinners.
“wanna try something new?”
you blink up at her, breath shaky, confusion curling soft in your chest like incense that won’t quite rise. “new?” the word comes out small, cracked, almost childlike. your thighs press together instinctively, slick sliding warm between them, and you feel the cross at your throat grow heavier, waiting.
yixiang smiles that crooked half-smile, almost shy again. she shifts, turning so her hips settle beside yours, one strong thigh sliding between your legs. “scissoring. me against you. cunt to cunt. slow. messy. i wanna feel you leak all over me.”
your face burns hotter. the words that come from her mouth sound filthy in your head—raw, animal, nothing like the quiet guilt of fingers in the dark or a mouth between trembling thighs. you bite your lip, eyes flicking down to her shorts.
“i…i don’t know how,” you whisper, voice barely there, but your hips twitch anyway, seeking.
“you don’t have to,” she says gently, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your throat right over the cross. “just open for me.”
you hesitate one heartbeat longer—shame and hunger braiding so tight it hurts—then nod, small and trembling.
“okay.”
yixiang’s breath catches, softly—like you just handed her something so sacred. she kisses your forehead, then your trembling eyelids, then the tip of your nose, then your lips—slow, careful.
“good girl,” she whispers, the words warm against your skin. she shifts again, peeling her shorts down and off in one fluid motion, then guides your leg over hers until your bodies slot together like two broken pieces finally remembering they were once whole.
the first press of her cunt against yours is slick hot heat and nothing else. wet folds sliding against wet folds, your leaking mess meeting hers in one slow, filthy glide that pulls a broken sound from both your throats.
she’s soaked already—hot, silky, pulsing—and the way she rolls her hips makes everything smear. your slick. her slick. the endless drip you can’t stop giving her. it mixes between you like warm oil, messy and loud and so grossly intimate your cheeks burn hotter than hellfire.
“oh—fuck,” she breathes, forehead dropping to yours again. blonde strands stick to your damp skin. one of her hands grips your thigh, holding you open wider so she can grind deeper, slower, letting your clits catch and rub in these lazy, devastating circles. every drag sends sparks shooting up your spine.
“haaah…nnngh!—yixi—a-ahh!”
you sob her name like it’s the only word you still know how to say.
her hands crawl up to your face, holding your cheeks in her hands as her hips roll deeper, faster. the pressure coils tight in your belly—vicious, familiar, cruel—building and building until your back arches and your nails dig into her shoulders and your mouth falls open on a silent cry.
and the pressure doesn’t scatter this time.
it snaps.
it snaps hard.
for both of you.
your orgasm hits first—violent, sudden, beautiful in its ugliness. your back arches clean off the sheets, thighs locking tight around her hips as your cunt pulses hard against hers. slick gushes out in thick, hot waves, soaking her folds, her clit, running down between you in messy rivers that make every slow grind wetter, filthier, louder. you come so hard your vision whites out, a broken cry ripping from your throat while your walls flutter and clench and spill everything you’ve been holding for days.
yixiang follows right after.
her hips stutter, lose their rhythm, then slam forward once—twice—grinding down desperate and deep. she comes with a low, shattered groan that vibrates straight into your chest, her cunt pulsing hard against yours, fresh heat flooding out to mix with your own release. the two of you leak together, slick and cum and spit and tears all braiding between your bodies until there’s no telling where you end and she begins. her thighs shake. her pierced nipples drag across your skin. the fake cross knocks wildly against your real one, metal singing like cracked church bells.
you keep coming. long, shaking pulses that won’t stop, each one pushing more out of you until the mess is everywhere—sticky, warm, romantic in the most disgusting way. yixiang grinds through it all, slow and greedy, smearing your shared release until both of you are trembling and gasping and leaking into the same warm puddle.
when the waves finally ease you’re both wrecked.
yixiang collapses against you like the snow finally giving in to gravity.
her weight is heavy and perfect, warm skin slick with sweat and everything else you poured out together. your cunts still kiss, soft and pulsing and dripping in lazy aftershocks, the mess cooling between you into something thick and tacky and undeniably yours. every tiny shift sends another slow trickle sliding down your thigh, and she doesn’t wipe it away. she just breathes you in, forehead pressed to yours, blonde strands glued to your damp temples like golden threads tying sinner to saint.
“shhhh…i’ve got you,” she whispers, voice hoarse and cracked open, accent curling gentle around the edges. her hands slide from your cheeks to your hair, fingers panting your head with softness you never expected from a wolf. “breathe, pretty girl. just breathe with me.”
you tremble beneath her, body still twitching, cunt fluttering weakly against hers like it doesn’t know how to stop leaking. tears keep slipping hot down your flushed cheeks, not from shame this time but from the sheer weight of breaking open. she kisses them away, slow and sweet, tongue catching salt like it’s communion wine.
carefully, so carefully, she eases her hips back. the wet sound of your bodies separating is obscene and tender all at once.
“let’s get you cleaned up a bit, yeah?” she murmurs, voice rough and low. not a demand. not really. more like a promise wrapped in honey and smoke.
you nod, small and shaky, still floating somewhere outside your own skin. your thighs tremble when she shifts off of you.
the sudden absence of her weight leaves you cold, shivering in the wreck of damp sheets and cooling slick.
you hear the soft pad of her bare feet, the quiet creak of a drawer, water running in the tiny sink. the sounds feel far away, like they belong to some other world that still believes in clean things.
then she’s back.
she returns with a small pink towel—threadbare and soft from too many washes—and a bottle of water, condensation already beading like morning dew on chapel glass.
her blonde hair sticks messy to her forehead, silver barbell on her nipples catching the low light every time she breathes. the wolf on her chest shines with the faint of sweat. she looks almost shy now, like the afterglow had stripped the last of the predator away and left only the girl who wants to keep you.
“open,” she whispers, kneeling beside the bed.
you part your lips and she tilts the bottle, cool water sliding down your throat in slow swallows. a few drops escape the corner of your mouth; she leans in without hesitation and licks them away, tongue warm against your chin, then your bottom lip, like even spilled water is something she refuses to waste.
then the towel.
she starts at your throat. gentle presses over the cross, wiping sweat from your skin. the cloth drags lower, over the flushed peaks of your breasts, across your stomach and then between your thighs. every stroke is slow, almost worshipful. she folds the towel again and again, collecting what she can, but her touch lingers like she’s memorizing the shape of your ruin.
when she reaches your cunt—you whimper, oversensitive and raw.
“shhh, pretty girl. i know.” she parts your thighs with careful hands and presses the warm, damp towel to your swollen cunt. soft circles. no rush. she cleans the slick from your folds, from the creases of your thighs.
her breath ghosts warm over your cunt, blowing cool air upon your heat before she leans in and presses one last open-mouthed kiss there—not hungry, just grateful.
then she’s crawling back up.
blanket tugged over both of you, the same ruined one that still smells like sex and snow and strawberry sin. she pulls you into her chest until your cheek rests right over the wolf, right over the fake cross, right over the steady thump of a heart that learned how to beat for you. one arm wraps tight around your back.
“sleep now little lamb.”
you slip out while she sleeps.
the blanket is still warm where your body had been curled around hers, but you peel yourself away anyway—quiet as confession, guilty as sin. your thighs stick together with the evidence she tried to gentle away; every step reminds you. a slow, tacky pull between your legs. the cross at your throat feels heavier than ever, chain pressing into skin still marked by her mouth. you don’t look back. you can’t. if you did, you might crawl back into her arms and never leave.
the snow has stopped. the campus is white and silent under the thin sunday light. you walk the long way, boots crunching into the snow like bones breaking, until your own dorm door clicks shut behind you. you fall to your knees on the thin carpet and softly pray until your voice aches just as your thighs do.
sunday passes in a blur of scripture and shame.
monday comes cruel and bright.
the halls are quiet. weirdly quiet. your friends avoid your eyes when you pass, heads turning too fast, whispers tucked behind hands like knives. you tell yourself it’s nothing. you clutch your books tighter. you keep your head down like a good girl should.
until the snicker slices through the air behind you.
“y/n is a homosexual. did you hear? seems like she caught it from that exchange student.”
“yeah, apparently someone saw y/n sneaking out of yixiang’s dorm at like…dawn.”
“who would’ve thought? she’s like the picture-perfect church girl.”
“she’s definitely going to hell.”
your blood runs cold. your stomach twists sharp and violent. the hallway tilts. vision blurs at the edges until the pristine tiles look like they might swallow you whole. you swear you may vomit right there—all over the clean floor, all over your modest shoes, all over the lie you’ve been trying to keep breathing.
the words blare louder than any sermon. louder than any prayer you recited. louder than her moans in your ear. louder than your own broken cries when you finally came against her.
homosexual.
caught it.
going to hell.
you turn on your heels and run.
books forgotten. coat flapping open. breath ragged and ugly in your throat. snow kicks up behind your boots as you sprint across campus, lungs burning, cross bouncing hard against your chest like it wants to remind you what you are. what you’ve done. what you let her do.
you don’t stop until you’re faced with a door that isn’t yours.
yixiang’s.
your fist hovers. shaking. but you knock anyway.
too hard.
too desperate.
three times.
she opens the door mid-brush, foam at the corner of her mouth, eye brows quirked into confusion.
the toothbrush almost slips when she sees you—really sees you—cheeks streaked with mascara, eyes wide and drowning, coat hanging loosely off of your body.
for one heartbeat the wolf is gone. just a girl with toothpaste on her lip and sleep still clinging to her lashes.
then her face fractures.
“pretty girl…” the words come out muffled, toothbrush forgotten as it clatters somewhere behind her. she steps forward, bare feet on cold tile, and pulls you inside without asking. the door shuts with a soft click that sounds louder than any judgment.
you stand there in the middle of her room, snow melting off your boots, chest heaving like you ran all the way from hell itself. the rumors are still screaming behind your eyes—homosexual, caught it, going to hell—each word carving deeper than her teeth ever did.
“they know,” you choke out, voice cracking open like thin ice over deep water. “someone saw me. sneaking out. they’re saying i’m— i’m—”
the word sticks. homosexual. it tastes like poison on your tongue. forbidden. evil.
the moment her arms open, the moment she tries to fold you into that warm, strawberry-scented safety, but your hands fly up.
you push her away.
palms flat against her chest, shoving hard enough that she stumbles back a step. the fake cross bounces against her collarbone. your own feels like it’s choking you now, chain digging in like judgment has finally tightening its grip.
“t-this can’t continue,” you whisper. then louder, cracking, ugly. “this can’t—yixiang, if my mother found out…she would exile me. cut me off. i’d be alone. completely alone. no family. no church. no nothing.”
the words spill out raw and shaking, snow still melting off your coat onto her floor like tiny dying stars. you wrap your arms around yourself instead, attempting to hold the pieces together the way she can’t anymore.
yixiang’s face fractures. sly grin no longer on her lips. not even a quirk on the side of her mouth. it all dies completely. her sharp eyes search yours, something you cannot quite name blooming behind them.
“do those people really love you,” she says slowly, voice low and rough with hurt, with anger and something slightly gentler lying underneath, “if they can’t accept you for who you are, is that really love? is that what you want? to carry this weight forever? carry that lie?”
she steps closer again, not touching, just close enough that you feel the heat radiating off of her. “you know lying is a fucking sin, y/n. you’ll be living it every single day. what are you gonna do—suppress this? bury it so deep that you can get married off to some ugly man who’ll turn you into a twenty-four-seven baby machine? you’ll be just an appendage, you’ll just live to attend him, cook for him, smile for him while he never lifts a finger. is that what you want? a white-picket-fence cage where you rot quiet and holy and dead inside?”
her voice cracks on the last word. she reaches for you again, hands hovering like she’s afraid you’ll shatter if she actually makes contact.
you step back. the backs of your knees hit the edge of her bed and you almost fall, but you catch yourself. tears burn hot down your cheeks, tracking through the mascara already ruined from running.
“it’s what’s right,” you choke out, the words tasting like ash and hurt. “it’s what god would want.”
the silence that follows is heavier than any snowdrift.
yixiang stands there, hands still half-raised like she forgot how to lower them. the wolf on her chest rises and falls too fast. her dark eyes—those eyes that once looked at you like you were something holy, something hers—they crack open now. something raw and bleeding spills out.
she laughs. not the low, cruel one you know. this one is small. broken. the sound of a jaw closing on its own heart.
“god,” she repeats, soft and bitter—hand running through her messy hair. “you really think that old man up there cares who you fuck as long as you keep lying about it? as long as you keep killing yourself quiet so everyone else can stay comfortable?”
you shake your head. keep shaking it like that might make the truth stop existing. “please. just— leave me alone. i can’t do this. i can’t be this. if my mother finds out—”
your voice cracks on the last word. no one. it echoes worse than any hell they whispered about in the hallway.
no one.
it echoes worse than any hell they whispered about in the hallway.
the room feels too small suddenly. too full of her scent and the ghost of your own moans still trapped in her sheets. yixiang stands there, chest rising fast under the wolf and the fake cross, silver barbells catching the thin light like accusations. her hands twitch at her sides like they want to reach for you but know better now.
“you’re already no one to them,” she says, quiet. devastating. the accent curls around the words like smoke refusing to rise. “if they only want the version of you that’s half-dead and smiling. if they’d rather you kneel in that chapel until your knees bleed than see you alive and real. that’s not love, pretty girl. that’s ownership in different lighting.”
you step back again. the backs of your knees hit the bed and you almost fold, almost let the weight pull you down into the mess you once made together. but you catch yourself. arms wrapping tight around your middle like you can hold the breaking pieces in.
tears fall hot and fast now. carving tracks through the dried mascara. you can still feel her between your thighs—that slow, stubborn leak she left you with, warm and tacky and impossible to ignore. it makes everything worse. makes the want twist sharp under the fear.
“i have to,” you whisper. the words taste like rust and communion wine. “it’s what’s right. it’s what god would want. a husband. a life that makes sense. quiet. clean. i can’t— i won’t drag my mother through this shame. i won’t be alone.”
yixiang’s face does something awful then. not anger. not the wolf baring teeth. just this quiet, cracking hurt that looks too much like love wearing bruises.
she doesn’t move closer. she just stands there, barefoot in her own room, hoodie sleeves too long over her hands, and looks at you like you’re already a ghost walking away.
“then go,” she says. soft. raw. the words scrape out of her like they cost something. “run back to your prayers and your lies and your white-picket hell. but when you’re lying under some man who doesn’t even see you, when you’re choking on that perfect silence…remember how my mouth felt. remember how you came so hard you soaked us both. remember that for one weekend you weren’t alone.”
“remember that when you are good, you’re very good, but when you are bad, you’re even better.”
you walk past her before she can say anything else. before her eyes can pull you back under. the door handle is ice under your fingers. you yank it open and the cold rushes in—snow and wind and the sharp sting of everything you’re choosing.
you run.
again.
but this time, its away and not to.
boots slipping on fresh powder, coat flapping open, cross bouncing hard against your chest like it’s trying to knock the truth back into your ribs. every step sends another reminder of your aching legs.
the lamb flees the only jaws that ever held it gently,
snow swallowing your footprints behind you,
heart splitting clean between terror and the ghost of her hands.
and somewhere in that small warm room, yixiang stays standing.
toothpaste still drying on her lip.
arms empty.
eyes dark with the kind of ache that doesn’t scream.
just waits. like she already knows the weight of that lie will drag you back bleeding.
like the wolf has learned how to be patient
when the lamb keeps choosing the hunter over the teeth that only wanted to kiss.
a week passed by, seven days of white noise and colder silence.
you move through them like a ghost wearing your own skin. head down in the chapel every morning, knees raw again on the same hard floor, whispering the same prayers until your voice frays thin. the words feel hollow now. they rattle around inside your ribs like loose teeth. every time you close your eyes you see her—feel her.
you scrub harder in the shower. scalding water. harsh soap. but the ghost of her still clings between your thighs, faint and stubborn, a memory your body refuses to release. at night you lie awake, cross clutched so tight the chain leaves red lines on your palm, trying to pray the ache away. it only grows teeth. sharper. hungrier.
your friends smile again. careful, brittle smiles. they pull you into their circle like nothing happened, like the rumor was just wind that passed through. they talk about boys and future husbands and purity like it’s a language you still speak fluently. you nod. you laugh when you’re supposed to. the lie sits heavy on your tongue, thick as the taste of her slick still haunting the back of your throat.
you see her once.
across the snowy quad. blonde hair bright against all that white, silver catching the weak sun like tiny stars. she’s laughing with someone—not you—head tilted, crooked half-smile sharp and easy. for one heartbeat her eyes find yours. they hold. something raw flickers there, then shutters closed. she turns away first.
you cry. cry harder than each time you begged god for his forgiveness. your body trembled, it aches. this time as your forehead hits the floor sound is dull, hollow, like something inside you finally gave up and lay down to die.
“please,” you sob into the floor, the word fracturing. “please take her out of me. i can’t— i can’t carry this anymore.”
but he doesn’t. or won’t. or maybe he never listened in the first place.
all you hear is the echo of her laugh from the quad. the way her eyes had found yours for one heartbeat—raw, aching, alive—before she looked away like it hurt too much to keep looking. that wolf-like grin you loved. the silver in her skin catching the sun like it was mocking you. she was laughing with someone else. smiling like the world hadn’t ended for her when you left.
yours shouldn’t had ended either.
but it did.
your shoulders shake so hard it feels like your ribs might split. tears pool under your cheek, soaking into your pink cotton sheets. you miss her.
god, you miss her so much it feels like dying slow.
the lamb inside you bleeds.
you walk faster past her in the halls. books clutched to your chest like armor. the cross bounces against your sternum with every step, cold metal reminding you what you chose. what you’re supposed to want. quiet. clean. a life that makes sense. a husband who will never make you leak and shake and come so hard you forget how to breathe.
but at night the dreams come anyway.
her mouth between your legs. her pierced nipples dragging over your skin. her voice low and rough in your ear—sleep now little lamb—while you drip and drip and never quite finish. you wake gasping, thighs slick again, shame burning hotter than any hell they warned you about.
you don’t go back to her door.
you don’t text. you don’t call. you carry the weight like it’s penance, like if you just keep walking straight the lie will eventually feel true.
but the lie is heavy and gets heavier every day.
and somewhere across campus the wolf still waits—patient, quiet, arms empty but never closed.
the snow keeps falling.
soft.
white.
merciless.
covering your footprints, covering your sins, covering everything except the slow, stubborn leak between your legs that still whispers her name every time you are alone in your dorm room.
it’s sunday and you sit in the wooden booth, knees pressed together so tight the bones ache, the air thick with incense and the faint rot of old velvet.
“forgive me father it’s been three weeks since my last confession.”
the words scrape out like gravel from a throat that still remembers her name whispered against it. three weeks. not months. three sharp, aching weeks since you last knelt here begging for absolution you never quite receive. the lattice between you and the pastor blurs your vision, turns him into a shadow shaped like judgment. you clutch the hem of your skirt, fabric damp from nervous palms.
“i’ve been… impure,” you whisper. the word tastes like rust. “in my thoughts. in my body.”
silence on the other side, heavy as scripture. you close your eyes and there she is anyway—yixiang, leaning against the bookstore shelf, that crooked half-smile like she already knew every secret you were trying to bury. the way her lips had brushed yours. silver on her tongue grazing the roof of your mouth—deliberate, lingering. how the heat of it all had traveled straight between your legs and stayed there, a low pulse you couldn’t pray away.
“i met someone,” you continue, voice cracking on the edge of a sob you swallow back. “a girl.”
the pastor shifts. leather creaks. “a girl?”
you nod even though he can’t see. the cross around your neck feels tighter, chain pressing into skin like a warning. you remember her mouth on your collarbone two nights ago, slow and reverent, like she was rewriting every verse that ever called this wrong. the way she looked up at you through dark lashes, eyes full of something too gentle to be sin. let me take the weight, she’d murmured against your ribs. just for tonight.
but nights bleed into days and the guilt only grows teeth.
“i let her touch me,” you confess, barely audible. “i wanted it. i still want it.”
a short, broken line hangs in the air between you and the shadow.
“i can’t stop.”
the pastor’s voice rolls out, measured and cold as baptism water. “this is the devil’s work, child. unnatural. you must renounce it. cut it off like a diseased limb before it drags your soul into the fire.”
you bite your lip until copper blooms. fire. you think of yixiang’s hands sliding under your shirt, thumbs tracing the line of your waist like mapping holy land. the way she kissed you like she was trying to save you and damn you at the same time. how good it felt. how right. how every prayer since has tasted like ash.
“yes, father,” you lie.
outside the booth the church is quiet, stained glass bleeding red and gold across the pews like open wounds. you walk down the aisle on legs that don’t feel like yours, heart hammering against your ribs.
and then your phone buzzes in your pocket—a message from her.
yixiang: i miss you, pretty girl. come over when you’re ready to stop running.
months bleed into one long winter that never quite thaws.
you and yixiang do not speak.
not a word.
not a glance that lasts longer than a heartbeat before one of you turns away. the distance grows teeth. it gnaws at the soft parts of you until even the memory of her mouth feels like something you dreamed in fever.
graduation looms close now, heavy as the cross you still wear every day. the campus is loud with futures and goodbyes and you move through it all like smoke—quiet, obedient, hollow. your friends set you up various dates that never end well—never end it love. they say the guy was just not right for you, but you know the truth.
then one thursday, the day after a particularly horrible date, on a whim sharp enough to cut, you walk into the little shop downtown.
the bell above the door jingles like cheap absolution. you’re still in your uniform—modest skirt, crisp white blouse buttoned to the throat, cross hanging visible and heavy. the piercer, a girl with faded pink hair and tattoos crawling up her arms, lifts an eyebrow when she sees you.
“all girls catholic school uniform and ear piercings?” she asks, smiling slow. “that’s might be a new one. what’s the occasion, sweetheart?”
you sit in the chair, fingers twisting in your lap. the words come out small.
“someone once told me…i’d look pretty with my ears pierced.”
the piercer’s smile softens, turns knowing. she cleans your lobe with something cold that smells like rubbing alcohol and new beginnings.
“someone, huh?” she teases gently, needle glinting in her hand. “boyfriend? or…maybe a girlfriend?”
your face burns instantly. heat floods your cheeks, your throat, the lobes of your ears she’s about to mark forever. the cross at your neck suddenly feels like it’s trying to choke you.
“homosexuality is a sin,” you blurt, voice cracking like thin ice. the words taste old. rehearsed. dead.
the piercer pauses. looks at you for a long second—not judging, just seeing. then she laughs, soft and kind, the sound like someone opening a window in a room that’s been sealed for years.
“nah, baby,” she says, gentle as summer rain. “love isn’t a sin. it’s just being human. god made us messy on purpose, i think. otherwise what’s the point of all this feeling?”
the needle goes through quick. a sharp pinch, then cool metal sliding in. you breathe out, shaky. something inside your chest cracks open—not painful. just…wide. like stained glass finally letting the light through after years of being covered by dust.
“why would he make you feel this way if it was just supposed to be wrong?” she says, gentle, almost sad. “why give you a heart that beats harder for a girl if the answer is always supposed to be no?”
she finishes the second piercing, wipes your ears carefully, and hands you the mirror.
“there. you look pretty. just like she said you would.”
when you stand up, the little silver studs catch the light every time you move your head. you look in the mirror and for once you don’t flinch from the girl staring back. she looks…like someone who might be allowed to want.
you pay. then walk out of the shop with your heart hammering so loud it drowns out every sermon you ever memorized. every prayer you had said over this past month.
your phone feels heavy in your pocket the whole walk back to your car. three months of nothing. three months of pretending you weren’t aching. you flop down in your front seat, seat still warm. you hesitate.
and hesitate. until the words of the piercer replay in your head over and over.
finally you break.
your fingers tremble when you finally pull it out.
the message types itself.
you: i’ll be there in 20 minutes.
you hit send before you can delete it.
snow is falling again—soft, white, almost tender. your new earrings sting a little with brush of chilled air, a quiet reminder that something in you has finally been pierced open and left that way on purpose.
you know if this is somehow still sin—that one day, hell will catch up with you.
and you are sure that you will burn eternally.
you reach her door in fifteen minutes exact. five minutes early.
snow clings to your coat, melts against your flushed cheeks, but you don’t quite feel the cold. your new earrings sting with every heartbeat, tiny silver points of proof that something inside you finally gave way. the cross at your throat moves with each breath—not heavier now. just there. just a thing you carry instead of something owning you.
you knock.
two times. soft and unsure.
the door opens almost immediately, like she’d been waiting on the other side the whole three months.
yixiang stands there in an oversized hoodie, blonde hair messy, her sharp eyes soften and widen when they land on you—really land on you—taking in the snow in your hair, the tear tracks you didn’t bother wiping, the new glint of silver at your lobes.
for a second neither of you speaks.
then a bright smile breaks across her face, slow and cracked and so full of relief it hurts to look at. the wolf softens. the girl underneath looks like she might cry.
“pretty girl,” she whispers, voice rough from disuse. “you really came.”
you don’t answer with words. you just step forward, coat still heavy with snow, and let her pull you inside. the door clicks shut behind you like the end of a long, cruel sentence. the room smells the same—strawberry perfume and warm sheets and the ghost of every time you fell apart in her arms. it hits you so hard your knees almost give.
“i got my ears pierced,” you whisper, voice cracking like thin ice finally giving way. “because you said they’d look pretty. and i— i couldn’t stop thinking about you. not for one single day. not even when i tried. i tried so hard”
the confession spills out raw and ugly, hanging between you like smoke that won’t clear. your hands tremble at your sides. the new silver studs sting with every small movement, tiny points of proof that you finally let something in.
yixiang’s breath catches. she lifts a hand, slow, like she’s afraid you’ll flinch away, and brushes her thumb across one of the fresh piercings. her touch is so gentle it hurts worse than anything.
“you did that for me?” she asks, voice low and rough, accent curling soft around the edges. her eyes are wet but she doesn’t even bother hiding it.
you nod, small and shaky, tears slipping hot and fast down your cheeks.
“i couldn’t pretend anymore,” you choke out, voice thick and wet, breaking on every other word. “every prayer—every single one—felt like a lie. i’d sit there on my knees and the words would just…stick in my throat.”
you swallow hard, a sob catching somewhere behind your ribs, making your shoulders shake.
“every time they set me up with those boys… i smiled like i was supposed to. but inside i was dying. it felt like dying a little more every time one of them tried to touch me. i—i thought i’d throw up when one leaned in to kiss me.”
your breath hitches, ugly and ragged. fresh tears spill over, dripping off your chin onto her hoodie as you lean against her and you clutch the fabric between your fingers.
“the lady at the piercing shop…she said that love isn’t a sin. that it’s just being human. that god made us messy on purpose.” your voice cracks completely, barely above a whisper now, trembling and small. “she said… why would he make me feel this way if it was just supposed to be wrong? why give me a heart that beats harder for a girl if the answer is always supposed to be no?”
the last words dissolve into a quiet sob. you press your face into her shoulder, ashamed of how broken you sound, how the tears won’t stop, how everything you’ve been holding for months is pouring out of you right here in her arms.
yixiang doesn’t say anything at first.
she just holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head like it might break, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades like she’s trying to keep your pieces from scattering across her floor. her hoodie grows damp where your face is pressed, tears soaking through cotton and into skin, but she doesn’t pull away. she never pulls away.
“shhhh, pretty girl,” she finally whispers, voice low and cracked, accent thick with everything she’s been swallowing for months. “i’ve got you. i’ve got you.”
you sob harder, ugly and wet and relieved, fingers twisting tighter in her hoodie like she might vanish if you let go even a little. the new silver in your ears stings every time you tremble. the cross at your throat presses between you both, warm now, almost gentle, like it’s finally learned how to breathe with you instead of against you.
“i missed you,” you choke out, the words muffled against her shoulder, broken into pieces. “i missed you so much it hurt to breathe. every night i—i still felt you. still wanted you. even when i begged god to take it away.”
yixiang’s arms tighten. she presses her lips to the top of your head, then your temple, then the wet curve of your cheek, tasting salt like it’s something sacred.
“i know,” she murmurs. “i felt you too. every damn day. thought i was going crazy watching you walk past me like i was a stranger. thought maybe i’d ruined you for good.”
you shake your head, pulling back just enough to look at her. your eyes are swollen, lashes clumped together, but you don’t hide. not anymore.
“you didn’t ruin me,” you whisper, voice still trembling, still thick with tears. “you…you woke me up. and it scared me so bad i ran. but i’m done running. i’m so tired of running.”
her thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away fresh tears. her dark eyes search yours, raw and open and full of that same quiet wonder she used to look at you with in the middle of the night.
“then stay,” she says simply. no pressure. no demand. just the softest plea. “stay messy. stay scared. stay mine. we’ll figure out the rest later. just…don’t leave again.”
you nod, and then—you lean forward and kiss her.
it’s desperate. clumsy. teeth clicking, noses bumping, three months of aching poured into the space between your mouths. yixiang makes this soft, broken sound against your tongue—half whine, half growl—and then she’s pulling you closer, hands sliding under your coat, under your blouse, palms hot against your skin like she needs to feel you’re real.
you tumble back onto the bed together. her weight settles over you, heavy and perfect, hoodie half-zipped and slipping off one shoulder. your fingers find the hem and tug. she helps, yanking it over her head in one rough motion. the wolf stares down at you again. the fake cross swings between her breasts. those silver barbells catch the low light, glinting like tiny sins you’re no longer afraid to taste.
“please,” you whisper, voice still thick with tears. “i need—i need you.”
“i got you, little lamb” she breathes.
her mouth finds your throat first, sucking a slow mark right below the cross. you arch into it, a broken whimper slipping out as her teeth graze skin still sensitive from months of trying to forget her. she moves lower. hands tugging off at the buttons of your blouse before peeling it off—littering kisses between your breasts—dragging her tongue over one nipple, then the other, barbell cool against your flushed skin.
you sob her name when she closes her mouth around it and sucks, gentle then harder, like she’s trying to pull every buried sound back out of you.
your skirt is pushed up around your waist. panties tugged aside with nimble fingers. when she finally presses two fingers inside you, you’re so wet it’s embarrassing—slick and warm and still remembering her after all this time.
“fuck,” she groans against your stomach, accent thick. “still so ready for me. still leaking like you never stopped.”
you cry out when she curls her fingers, slow and deep, thumb circling your clit in lazy strokes that make your thighs shake. the new earrings sting every time you turn your head. the cross bounces against your chest with every ragged breath. everything feels too much and not enough all at once.
“yixiang— please— i—”
“i know, pretty girl. i know.”
she shifts down your body, blonde hair brushing your thighs, and replaces her fingers with her mouth. the first slow drag of her tongue rips a sob from your throat. she licks through the mess you’ve already made, silver barbell pressing firm against your clit, then lower, pushing inside you like she wants to taste every month you spent trying to erase her.
her tongue digs into your walls, lapping at the release that was not yet spilled. thrusting her tongue deeper, fucking into you slow and deliberate like she’s trying to reach every hidden month you spent trying to forget her. the wet sounds are filthy, obscene, echoing soft in the quiet room, but you can’t bring yourself to care. you just sob, hips twitching helplessly against her face, chasing the heat of her mouth.
“yixi—mmmh—!—please—”
she moans into you, the vibration rolling straight through your core. ball on her tongue dragging heavy over your clit again and again, cool metal against burning heat. she pushes her tongue back in, thrusting, curling, tasting every desperate flutter of your walls. you’re dripping down her chin, down her throat, soaking the fake cross that swings between her breasts, but she doesn’t stop. she drinks you like she’s starving, like she’s been empty for years and only you can fill her.
your hands fist in her hair, pulling, pushing, not sure if you want her closer or if it’s already too much. tears slip hot down your temples. your thighs shake around her head. the new silver in your ears stings every time you turn your head, little sparks that remind you this is real. you chose this. you came back.
“that’s it,” she gasps against your cunt, voice wrecked and muffled. “let go for me, pretty girl. give me everything. i want all of it.”
you can’t help it.
your hips jerk forward on their own, grinding against her mouth with shy, desperate little rolls. you hump her face — slow at first, then harder, chasing the heat of her tongue, the cool press of that silver barbell, the wet mess of her lips and chin. every roll smears your slick across her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, but she only moans louder, encouraging, letting you use her.
“that’s it— fuck, yes—” she gasps between licks, the words vibrating right against your clit. “use me, pretty girl. ride my face. take what you need.”
you sob, broken and shameless, fingers tightening in her blonde hair as you rock against her tongue. your thighs tremble around her head, squeezing, holding her there while you grind down in messy, needy circles. the wet sounds are filthy — loud, slick, obscene — but they only make you wetter. you’re dripping down her chin, dripping onto her neck, soaking the fake cross that swings between her breasts like it’s being baptized in you.
“yixi—yixi—oh god—”
she grips your hips tighter, pulling you down harder onto her mouth, tongue thrusting deep while her nose grinds against your clit. she takes everything you give her—every desperate hump, every broken whimper, every fresh gush of slick—like she’s been starving for exactly this.
you come hard with a shatter cry, it’s sudden, hips jerking messily against her face, cunt pulsing hard around her tongue as you flood her mouth.
all the months of scattered failed orgasms ripping through you faster than you can process. your back arches clean off the bed. thighs clamp around her head. slick floods her mouth in hot, messy waves and she drinks it down like communion, moaning low and grateful into your cunt, tongue working you through every pulse, every after-shock until you’re shaking and whimpering and writhing—too sensitive to take any more.
but she doesn’t stop.
she crawls back up your body, chin still shining with your slick, eyes half-lidded, dark and hungry. she kisses you deep, letting you taste how badly you fell apart for her. then she rolls onto her back, pulling you with her until you’re straddling her thigh. the fabric of her sweats dark and wet from where you’ve dripped on her.
yixiang looks up at you, lips swollen, breathing hard. her hands settle on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles over your skin.
“prove it,” she whispers, voice rough and low. “prove that you want me just as bad as i want you.”
she pats her thigh once. twice. the sound soft but heavy with meaning.
“ride me, pretty girl. use me. show me how much you missed this. how much you missed us.”
your breath catches. heat floods your face, your chest, the place where your cunt still throbs and leaks against her leg. but you don’t hesitate. not anymore.
you start to move. slow at first. shy. then harder. needier. hips rolling in messy, desperate circles while she watches you with sharp dark, wolf-like eyes. every slide makes damp sounds fill the quiet room. every grind drags your clit against the soaked fabric and pulls broken little whimpers from your throat.
“that’sssss it,” she breathes, hands guiding your hips, helping you find the rhythm. “look at you. so pretty when you’re desperate for me. so wet you’re ruining my sweats.”
you lean forward, bracing your hands on her chest, the wolf and the fake cross under your palms. your new earrings swing with every roll of your hips. the cross at your throat bounces between you both. tears still slip down your cheeks but they’re different now—not shame, not fear. just release. just want finally allowed to speak.
her hands slide up your back, pulling you closer until your chests press together, crosses clicking softly. she kisses you then—slow, deep, tasting every tear and every quiet sob—while you keep rocking against her thigh.
then she pulls back for just a second, barely an inch, breath mingling hot between your mouths.
you breathe it out like it’s been trapped inside you for months.
“i love you—”
the words slip free, small and cracked and trembling, almost lost in the wet sounds of your hips still moving. your voice breaks on the last syllable, fresh tears spilling over as you keep grinding slow and desperate against her, chasing that ache you no longer want to hide.
yixiang stills beneath you.
her dark eyes widen, lashes wet, smirk dropping from her face like she can’t believe what she just heard. for one heartbeat the wolf is gone again—just a girl, bare and open and staring up at you like you handed her the whole damn universe wrapped in shaky confession.
then something raw and bright cracks open in her gaze.
“say it again,” she whispers, voice hoarse, accent thick and shaking. her hands grip your hips tighter, guiding you to keep moving, slower now, deeper, like she needs to feel the truth in every roll of your body against hers.
you lean down, forehead pressed to hers, new earrings brushing her skin, tears dripping onto her cheeks as you ride her thigh in these slow, messy circles.
“i love you,” you choke out again, softer this time, but steadier. “i love you. i love you so much it scared me stupid. i ran because i loved you and i didn’t know how to carry it.”
a broken sound leaves her throat—half laugh, half sob. she surges up and kisses you hard, tongue sliding against yours like she’s trying to drink the words straight from your mouth. her thigh tenses up firmer between your legs, helping you grind down, the soaked fabric dragging perfectly over your clit until your whimpers turn into little sobs of pleasure and relief all tangled together.
“i love you too,” she gasps against your lips, voice wrecked. “fuck—i’ve loved you for so long. even when you ran. even when you tried to forget me. stayed right here waiting like an idiot because i knew…i knew my pretty girl would come back to me.”
you moan into her mouth, hips moving faster now, slick and desperate, chasing the edge while she holds you like you’re something holy and breakable and finally, finally hers again. the cross at your throat bounces between you both with every roll. your new silver earrings catch the low light every time you tilt your head. tears keep falling but they don’t feel heavy anymore.
you come like that—gasping her name and those three trembling words into her mouth, soaking her thigh in hot, messy pulses while she holds you through every shake and sob and aftershock. she doesn’t let go. not even for a second.
yixiang holds you like the rest of the world can burn. arms locked around you as her lips press to your temple again and again, gentle kisses that say everything words still can’t carry.
“i love you,” she whispers once more, the words sinking into your skin like quiet prayer. “i love you. i love you.”
you close your eyes. new silver in your ears. old cross warm between your hearts. the wolf’s ink rising and falling beneath your cheek. everything feels heavy and light all at once—like you’ve finally been allowed to set the lie down and just be.
no more running.
no more kneeling until your knees split open just to feel clean.
no more pretending the ache between your thighs is anything but her name.
you tilt your head just enough to kiss the corner of her mouth, tasting salt and relief and the faint strawberry ghost of home. your voice comes out small, cracked, but sure.
“i’m staying.”
yixiang’s breath catches. then she smiles — that crooked half-smile you thought you’d lost forever — soft and real and a little bit broken, just like you.
“good,” she murmurs, pulling the blanket higher around your shoulders. “because i wasn’t letting you go this time anyway.”
just breathing. just staying. just loved.
outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and white and indifferent.
inside, you stay tangled with her under the ruined blanket, hearts beating slow and steady against each other, crosses clicking gently every time one of you shifts.
the lamb curls deeper into the wolf’s jaws. just where it belongs.
bonus.
you leaped into her arms without thinking, without breathing, the thin booklet pressed between your chests like a fragile promise.
yixi caught you—steady, always steady—arms wrapping tight around your waist as if she’d been waiting for this exact weight since the day the world narrowed to lecture halls and final exams. her laugh hummed low against your hair, rough and warm and disbelieving, the sound sinking straight into your ribs.
“you got it,” she whispered, a small laugh coming from her lips. her fingers spread wide across your back, holding you like something that might still vanish if she loosened her grip even a little. “you really got it.”
“let me see,” she murmured, voice soft as folded silk. you pulled back just enough, cheeks warm, and thrust the passport into her hands. her thumb brushed the cover—your face printed there, serious and small, like you still couldn’t believe the camera had caught you at all.
she opened it slowly, reverently, as if turning pages might scare the future away. her eyes lingered on the blank visas, empty fields waiting to be stamped with cities you’d only whispered about in the dark. kyoto. taiwan. cebu. paris. switzerland. some nameless beach where the tide sounded like forgiveness.
“you look terrified in this photo,” she said, a smile curving her mouth like a secret.
“i was,” you admitted, the confession slipping out light as breath. “still am.”
graduation had come and gone in a blur of polite applause and hollow smiles. your mother had hugged you once, stiff and proud, already talking about “suitable matches” and “settling down.” you had smiled back the way you were taught—small, obedient, empty.
but this—this little blue book with your name on it—felt like the first real breath you’d taken in years.
“we can go,” you breathed, voice cracking open. “anywhere. somewhere no one knows us. somewhere we don’t have to pretend anymore.”
yixiang stayed quiet for a moment, thumb still tracing the edge of your photo. then she closed the passport gently and set it aside, pulling you back into her arms like the decision had already been made months ago.
“seoul,” she said against your temple, accent curling warm around the word. “we start in seoul. i have a friend there—euijoo. she’s very tall, orange hair, very kind. kinda looks like ponyo, she’ll let us crash with her until we figure out the rest. no questions. no judgment. just… space to breathe.”
you let the name settle in your chest—euijoo. tall girl with orange hair. a stranger who might become safety. the idea felt terrifying and perfect at the same time.
“seoul,” you repeated, tasting it. foreign. far. free.
yixiang’s fingers slipped under your shirt, tracing slow circles against your bare skin, grounding you.
“yeah,” she whispered. “we’ll get lost in the city lights. eat too much street food. kiss in alleys where no one knows our names. and when you get scared… i’ll be right there. holding your hand. reminding you that you’re allowed to want this.”
you pressed your face into her neck, breathing her in—strawberry and rain and the faint smell of new beginnings. the cross at your throat rested warm against her collarbone, no longer a weight, just a quiet reminder of where you’d been.
𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: this is my longest fic so far and i absolutely loved writing it. god, i am so proud. took me 10 listens of nicole dollanganger, a bowl of pho, 2 midol and no sleep. i did lots of research.. i read the bible for this guys. it may not be completely accurate as i do not have experience with growing up in the church. if you are curious on why i write religious fics if i have "no religious trauma", i struggled a lot with being "pure" when i was assaulted for the first time. and as it kept happening the idea of being pure felt more and more far away. i think i associate purity with god, religion and stuff like that. i didn't want to be "impure" because that word somehow got tangled up with being unworthy—of love, of safety. when i was really young i would pray even though i wasn't religious, because i didn't know who else to go to to make the hurt stop. it was like i was bargaining: if i stayed good enough, maybe the hurting would stop. sometimes it felt like the only control i had left. i felt it was my last resort a lot of the time. sometimes i still do pray when things get bad. i also think my mental health issues play into it because i feel "broken" and a weird part of me believes if i could be fixed it would be the doing of a higher power. anyway thats just some knowledge in cause someone wants to make assumptions. 90% of my dark fics come from experience or issues i face.
i cant believe i wrote 20k words.. how do some writers fo 40-50k? anyway i really hope you guys like it !! i love writing more poetic fics~ ( ⸝⸝´ ᵕ `⸝⸝) aaaa im so excited for your reactions! please, if you can. share your thoughts. comment, anon inbox message, priv message, in the discord server, quote reblog. dont just like. i want to see how this made you feel 。°(°¯᷄◠¯᷅°)°。 !! anyway, thank you for 1k, this is for you.
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄,at your strict all-girls religious university, you’re the picture of purity: modest skirts, bruised knees from prayer, a cross that hangs from your neck, and a rosary that quite leaves your side or field of vision. but one winter afternoon behind the chapel, changes that all when you catch wang yixiang—a rebellious, pierced-and-tattooed taiwanese exchange student with her tongue down another girl’s throat—silver piercings flashing, tattoos peeking from her unbuttoned uniform, that crooked half-smile dripping with sin.
from that moment, your carefully built world begins to crack.
every touch leaves you soaked in guilt and shame. you run back to the confessional booth, whispering sins you can’t stop committing. you pray until your knees bleed. yet night after night you keep crawling back to her, letting the “corrupted” girl unravel your purity with reverent fingers, soft praises, and filthy, worshipful kisses.
torn between the fire of damnation and the heaven she pulls from between your thighs, you sink deeper into forbidden desire, religious guilt, and aching addiction—unsure if yixiang is your downfall… or your salvation.
❪ MASTERLIST ❫ ✶ corrupted fem!nicholas x church girl!𝗳 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 20k wc⠀→ plot with porn ░ angst, smut, religious guilt, dubcon, kinda dead dove do not eat, mentions of church, oral, slight emotional manipulation, religious guilt, brief mentions of self-harm, brief mention of bullying/shaming, gay guilt, nicholas referred to as yixiang, wlw, slow burn, opposites attract, service top!weno, fingering, humping, size difference, manhandling, teasing, marking, rough sex, hair pulling, yixi is a lil mean, guided masturbation, petnames, dacryphilia, sissoring, soft sex, clit play, body worship, nipple play, corruption kink, thigh riding, overstimulation, semi-public sex, hurt/comfort, dark romance, aftercare.
you sit in the wooden booth, knees pressed together so tight your bones ache, the air thick with incense and the faint rot of old velvet.
“forgive me father it’s been three weeks since my last confession.”
the words scrape out like gravel from a throat that still remembers her name whispered against it. three weeks. not months. three sharp, aching weeks since you last knelt here begging for absolution you’ll never quite receive. the lattice between you and the pastor blurs your vision, turns him into a shadow shaped like judgment. you clutch the hem of your skirt, fabric damp from nervous palms.
“i’ve been…impure,” you whisper. the word tastes like rust. “in my thoughts. in my body.”
silence on the other side, heavy as scripture. you close your eyes and there she is anyway—yixiang, pushing you flushed against the bookcase, that crooked half-smile like she already knew every secret you were trying so hard to bury. the way her lips had brushed yours. silver on her tongue grazing the roof of your mouth—deliberate, lingering. how the heat of it all had traveled straight between your legs and stayed there, a low pulse you couldn’t pray away.
“i met someone,” you continue, voice cracking on the edge of a sob you swallow back. “a girl.”
the pastor shifts. leather creaks. “a girl?”
you nod even though he can’t see. the cross around your neck feels tighter, chain pressing into skin like a warning. you remember her mouth on your collarbone only a few nights ago, slow and worshipful, like she was rewriting every verse that ever called this wrong. the way she looked up at you through dark lashes, eyes full of something too gentle to be sin. let me take the weight, she’d murmured against your ribs. just for tonight.
but nights bleed into days and the guilt only grows teeth.
“i let her touch me,” you confess, barely audible. “i wanted it. i still want it.”
a short, broken line hangs in the air between you and the shadow.
“i can’t stop.”
the pastor’s voice rolls out, measured and cold as baptism water. “this is the devil’s work, child. unnatural. you must renounce it. cut it off like a diseased limb before it drags your soul into the fire.”
you bite your lip until copper blooms. fire. you think of yixiang’s hands sliding under your shirt, thumbs tracing the line of your waist like mapping holy land. the way she kissed you like she was trying to save you and damn you at the same time. how good it felt. how right. how every prayer since has tasted like ash.
“yes, father,” you lie.
outside the booth the church is quiet, stained glass bleeding red and gold across the pews like open wounds. you walk down the aisle on legs that don’t feel like yours, heart hammering against your ribs. your phone buzzes in your pocket—a message from her.
yixiang: i miss you, pretty girl. come over when you’re ready to stop running.
three weeks earlier.
the courtyard outside your all girls private catholic university rested under a pale winter hush, stone paths worn smooth by obedient steps, hedges trimmed into quiet submission. everything here bowed its head. you walked with books clutched to your chest like a shield, skirt brushing your mid thighs in the rhythm of good girls who never stray.
you rounded the corner behind the old chapel wall and froze mid-step.
there she was.
a girl you had never seen before, pressed against the ivy-covered stone. blonde hair falling just above the middle of her neck—messy strands litter across her forehead, a silver curved barbell on her brow glinting in the winter sun, you could see the faint shine of a similar silver metal on her tongue as it moved against the other girls, tattoos snaked up her wrist and disappeared beneath the rolled sleeve of a shirt that broke every rule this campus owned. she was kissing another girl—deep, unhurried, one hand gripping the girl’s jaw like the world owed them this moment.
you had never seen anyone like her.
not here. not in these walls built to keep sins chained down and quiet.
you gasped.
the other girl made a small sound, then gasped—sharp, startled—when her eyes flew open and found you standing there. she pulled back fast, cheeks flushed, and bolted without a word, loafer scraping stone as she disappeared behind the hedges like smoke.
leaving only the two of you.
yixiang turned slowly. sharp eyes metting yours, calm at first, then darkening with something like amusement laced in exhaustion. her lips were still shiny. a thin silver cross chain rested against the ink on her collarbone, rising and falling with her breath. she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, casual, like she hadn’t just been caught sinning in broad daylight.
you stood rooted, heart hammering so loud it drowned the distant chapel bell. heat flooded your face. something hotter, lower, twisted traitorously between your thighs.
“you—you can’t do that here,” you choked out, voice trembling but rising. “that’s…that’s a sin. you’re sinning right in front of god’s house.”
she leaned back against the ivy, arms crossing loose over her chest. the movement pulled her shirt open a little more, revealing another small tattoo just above her heart.
taiwanese exchange student, you would learn later. shipped here by parents who could no longer stomach the shame of a daughter who kissed girls, pierced her skin, dyed her hair, and let ink tell stories they wanted erased.
“a sin,” yixiang repeated, tasting the word like it amused her. she wiped her bottom lip with her thumb, silver bracelet catching light. “that what they told you?”
you clutched your bible like a shield, knuckles paling. “pastor says liking the opposite gender is…unnatural. the devil’s temptation. a sin. you’re going to drag your soul to hell and—and you’re bringing others with you.”
she laughed then, soft and bitter, leaning against the stone wall like the weight of two continents and a thousand expectations didn’t press on her the way yours did on you. “my parents sent me here for the same reason. the piercings. hair. tattoos. kissing girls in taiwanese back alleys. they thought this place would fix me.” her gaze dragged over you slowly—your modest skirt, your trembling hands, the rosary hanging heavy in your hands, the cross hanging over your sweater.
then she licked her lips.
“guess they picked the wrong school for that.”
slow. deliberate. the silver piercing on her tongue flashed, catching the thin winter light and sending it straight into your chest. your breath hitched. the cross at your throat suddenly felt too tight, chain digging into skin like it wanted to remind you who you belonged to. but your eyes stayed locked on her mouth anyway, on the wet shine left behind, on the way the corner of it curved like she could read every filthy thought you’d never dare speak aloud.
“ya, you’re staring,” she murmured, voice low, almost gentle. she pushed off the wall, took one step closer. not enough to touch. just enough to make the air between you thicken, heavy with strawberry scented lip gloss and something warmer that smelled like ruin. “does it burn, pretty girl? watching me kiss her like that?”
your thighs pressed together under your skirt. shame curled tight in your belly, but the heat only spread, slow and treacherous, like ink bleeding through paper. you wanted to run. but another part of you was curious, you wanted to step closer. you wanted to know what that silver tongue would feel like against your own. if it was a sin, why did it look so…tempting? so pretty.
“stay away from me,” you whispered instead, the words cracking like thin ice. your books slipped in your arms; one fell, pages fluttering open to a passage about temptation you knew by heart. you didn’t pick it up. you just turned and fled down the stone path, legs unsteady, soul already fracturing along bright, dangerous lines.
then a week passed. you prayed everyday.
every dawn you dragged yourself to the small campus chapel, knees finding the same cold wood until bruises bloomed like dark flowers beneath your skin. every dusk you knelt by your dorm bed, rosary wrapped so tight around your fingers the beads left little red crescents. you whispered the same words over and over—lead me not into temptation—but her face kept slipping in between them like smoke through cracks in the wall.
you prayed until your voice went hoarse.
until the memory of that silver flash burned behind your eyelids instead of the cross.
until your body ached in places you refused to name, wet and restless under modest sheets you changed every morning like hiding evidence.
you avoided every corner of campus that might hold her. took detours that made you late to class. kept your eyes on your shoes so you wouldn’t catch even a glimpse of her blonde hair or her inked wrists. but the campus was small and cruel and it seemed god had a sense of humor.
on the seventh night the guilt sat so heavy on your chest you couldn’t breathe. you pressed your forehead to the floor until the world tilted, until tears slipped hot down your cheeks and soaked into the wood. you begged god to take the wanting away. to scour you clean. to make you good again.
seven days of pretending the memory wasn’t living under your skin. seven days of kneeling longer at night, forehead to the floor until the wood left red marks like stigmata. seven days of your rosary beads clicking between shaky fingers while her voice kept curling around the edges of every prayer—does it burn, pretty girl?
god did not answer.
day eight found you in the library basement, the one with the low ceilings and flickering lights. no one came down there, hell—no one even came to the library anymore. girls your age, even if said to be dedicated to god were far too busy gossiping about boys.
you were reaching for a dusty theology book on the highest shelf when a warm body pressed in behind you, close enough to feel the heat but not quite touching.
“still running?”
yixiang’s voice, low and amused, accent wrapping soft around the words. you startled so hard the book slipped. she caught it with one hand, the other bracing on the shelf beside your head. the cross chain around her neck swayed forward, brushing your shoulder like an accidental benediction. the chain wasn’t even a proper cross, not one blessed. it looked like a…brand made item?
you turned. trapped between her arm and the shelves. her shirt was unbuttoned one button lower today. the tattoo above her heart peeked out—a wolf…biting a lamb.
how ironic.
“i told you to stay away,” you breathed. but your voice cracked—thighs pressed together again, same traitor heat flooding low and heavy.
your gaze betrayed you again, dropping to her lips.
you wondered, shame flooding hot behind your eyes, what it would feel like dragging slow across your collarbone. across the inside of your thigh. across every place your own hands had touched in the dark and then begged forgiveness for.
she didn’t move back. just tilted her head, tongue piercing flashing when she smiled that lopsided grin. “you did. yet here you are. breathing my air, anddd staring intently at my mouth.”
“i’m not staring,” you lied, small and paper-thin.
yixiang hummed, the sound vibrating low in her chest. she leaned in a fraction closer, not touching, never quite touching, but the space between you felt alive, electric, like the air right before lightning splits the sky. her fake cross brushed your real one. metal against metal. rebellion against obedience. symbolism that made your stomach twist.
“liar,” she whispered, almost tender. “your cheeks are red. your breath is shaky. and you haven’t even tried to push me away.” her eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, dark and knowing. “so, tell me, pretty girl… when you kneel at night, is it my face you see behind your eyelids? do you still try to pray me away?”
you swallowed hard. the basement lights flickered once, twice, casting strange shadows across the ink on her skin. the lamb seemed to move, writhing in pain. you wanted to touch it. you wanted to run your thumb over the lines and ask if it hurt when they put it there. you wanted a lot of things you had no name for.
“this is wrong,” you managed, voice barely above the hum of the old fluorescents. “you’re wrong. what you do. what i’m feeling—”
the sentence fractured. hung there like incense that wouldn’t rise.
yixiang’s eyes softened at the edges, the way storm clouds sometimes do right before they break open. she lifted her hand, slow enough that you could have moved, could have run, but you stayed pinned by the weight of your own want. two fingers brushed your jaw—barely there, cool metal from her rings kissing your skin and tilted your face up towards hers.
“what you’re feeling,” she echoed, soft as a secret, “isn’t wrong, baby. it’s just honest.” her thumb traced the edge of your bottom lip, light as breath. “your body knows what it wants. why would your god create a body that craves sin, hm?”
heat pooled heavier between your legs. your rosary felt like it was burning a hole through your sweater pocket. you thought of the pastor’s voice calling this devil’s work, of your mother’s face if she ever saw you here, trembling under a girl’s touch in a dusty basement no one visited.
you thought of how good it felt anyway.
a broken sound slipped from your throat—half sob, half sigh.
“i don’t know”
yixiang’s gaze darkened, hunger flickering behind the gentleness like flame behind stained glass.
“tell me to stop,” she breathed, forehead almost resting against yours, strawberry and smoke and ruin filling every breath you took. “say it like you mean it and i’ll walk away right now.”
your lips parted. the word stop sat on your tongue, heavy as communion wafer. but it wouldn’t leave. instead your fingers curled into the front of her uniform shirt, knuckles brushing the warm skin above her heart, right where the prey sat, being consumed by it’s predator.
silence stretched. thick. trembling.
then you whispered, so quiet it barely existed, “i can’t.”
yixiang let out a shaky exhale that sounded almost relieved. her hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle, possessive, pulling you in until her lips hovered a breath away from yours. the silver on her tongue glinted like temptation made holy.
“then let me take the weight,” she murmured against your mouth. “just for a minute. just until you can breathe again.”
your eyes fluttered shut. the cross around your neck dug in harder, a warning and a brand at once. but you leaned forward anyway, chasing the warmth, chasing the fall.
yixiang closes the distance.
soft at first. so soft it feels like sin wearing silk. her lips part against yours, warm and strawberry-sweet, the faint metallic click of her tongue piercing brushing your bottom lip like a secret code only your body understands. you make a small, wounded sound into her mouth—half prayer, half surrender—and she swallows it whole.
the kiss deepens slowly, her hand stays gentle at the back of your neck, thumb stroking the delicate skin there as if you might shatter. but her tongue slips in anyway, silver barbell dragging slow and deliberate over yours, cool metal against wet heat. it sends sparks straight down your spine, pooling heavy and aching between your thighs. you clutch her shirt tighter, knuckles paling, pulling her closer even as guilt clawed its way up your throat.
this is wrong.
yet, it is everything.
her free hand finds your waist, fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your modest blouse that’s tucked neatly beneath your sweater, tracing the line of your ribs like she’s memorizing scripture. the fake cross on her chain tangles with your real one—metal clicking, rebellion kissing obedience—and the sound is so loud in the quiet basement it feels like the whole campus might hear.
you taste strawberry and something darker, something that feels like falling. your legs tremble. your mind fractures. somewhere inside, the girl who once knelt for hours is screaming, but the girl pressed against dusty shelves is melting, opening, letting yixiang lick into the hollow places no prayer has ever reached.
she pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against yours, breathing ragged, silver tongue darting out to wet her lips again. her eyes are blown dark, lashes low.
“still think it’s wrong?” she whispers, voice rough like gravel under bare feet.
you can’t answer. your mouth chases hers instead, clumsy and desperate, and she meets you halfway this time—hungrier, deeper. the kiss turns messy. tongues sliding, teeth grazing, soft little gasps slipping between you like confessions. her thigh presses between yours, firm pressure right where you ache most, and you whimper into her mouth, hips twitching before you can stop them.
shame floods hot behind your eyes. pleasure follows right behind it, brighter, sharper. you feel split open, exposed. the cross at your throat digs in like a knife, each edge a fresh accusation for every sin you just committed, while her hands are the only thing holding you together.
when you finally break apart, lips swollen and shining, a thin string of spit connects you for half a second before it breaks. you stare at her, chest heaving, soul raw and bleeding light.
yixiang brushes a tear from your cheek with her thumb. gentle again.
“breathe, pretty girl,” she murmurs. “i’ve got you.”
but you don’t breathe. you just stand there trembling in the flickering light, the broken lamb on her skin watching you with quiet, hungry eyes, while your own rosary burns a hole through your pocket like a second heart.
the guilt doesn’t leave.
it only learns your name.
and somewhere in the silence between heartbeats, you realize you don’t want it to stop.
and it doesn’t. even if you truly wanted it to and it seems like god only knows how to play the cruelest jokes on people like you.
you sit at the edge of your narrow dorm bed, knees drawn up to your chest, the project rubric crumpled in your fist. group assignment. theology and ethics, of all damned things. the professor’s voice still echoes—pairings chosen by lot, no appeals. yixiang’s name landed next to yours like a stone dropped in still water, ripples already spreading under your skin.
a knock. soft, deliberate. you open the door and there she is, backpack slung low, blonde hair tousled from the wind, silver brow barbell catching the hallway light like a dare. she smells of strawberry perfume and cold air, ink peeking from the cuff of her oversized hoodie. a new fake cross at her throat sways as she steps inside without waiting for permission.
“hey, pretty girl,” she murmurs, voice low enough to slip between your ribs. the door clicks shut behind her. the room feels smaller instantly, air thickening with the scent of old books and your half-burned prayer candle.
you don’t answer at first. just gesture vaguely at the desk, notebooks already open like shields. but your hands tremble. the stolen touches of just 2 days ago flash behind your eyes—her mouth on yours in the basement, her thigh pressed between yours, the way she’d whispered let me take the weight until you finally pushed her away. running off into the cold winter. the guilt never left. it only learned to wait quietly, teeth bared.
she drops her bag. sits on the bed instead of the chair. close. too close. her knee brushes yours and heat licks up your thigh like flame along paper.
“we should…start,” you whisper, but the words fray at the edges. your rosary sits on the nightstand, beads gleaming accusingly. you can feel god watching, or maybe just the version of him they hammered into you since you were small.
yixiang leans back on her elbows, head tilted, wolfish grin curving her lips. piercing on her tongue flashing when she speaks. “yeah. ethics. what’s right. what’s sin.” her eyes drag over you slow, deliberate—modest sweater, skirt pooled around your thighs, the faint flush already climbing your neck. “funny subject for us.”
you swallow. the cross around your neck feels heavier, chain pressing against your skin like a quiet reminder of who you are. who you are supposed to be. but your body remembers her hands. remembers how gentle they were. how hungry.
minutes bleed. notes scatter across the comforter. her voice wraps around concepts of temptation and free will, accent soft, teasing the edges of every word. you try to focus. but you fail. her fingers keep brushing yours when she points at the page. accidental, maybe. then not. her pinky hooks yours and then stays.
silence stretches, thick as incense.
“you’re staring again,” she says quietly. no mockery this time. just truth, warm and inevitable.
you blink, the words tumbling out clumsy and half-formed, a shield made of nothing. “sorry—i just—didn’t notice your ears are pierced too…”
yixiang’s mouth curves, slow, that crooked half-smile blooming like ink in water. she leans in a fraction closer, blonde strands brushing your cheek, and the silver in her ears catches the lamplight—small hoops, delicate, one with a tiny dangling cross that mocks the one heavy at your throat. ironic. deliberate. she turns her head just enough to let you see, the movement pulling the collar of her hoodie lower, revealing more ink crawling along her collarbone like secrets refusing to stay buried.
“yeah,” she murmurs, voice low and warm, laced with that soft accent that curls around your ribs and tugs. “got them done the same day as the tongue. parents lost their minds back in taipei. said it made me look like a whore for the devil.” a short laugh, bitter-sweet, then gone. her pinky stays hooked in yours, thumb now tracing idle circles over your knuckle, each pass sending tiny sparks racing up your arm, pooling traitorously low.
“it… suits you,” you whisper. the confession slips free before you can cage it. your free hand twitches, wanting to reach, to trace the curve of her ear, to feel the cool bite of metal against warm flesh. instead it stays fisted in the comforter, knuckles paling.
silence again. thick. breathing.
then her fingers uncurl from yours, rise slow enough that you could pull away. you don’t. she tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, lingering, her touch feather-light yet heavy with everything unsaid. the pad of her thumb brushes the shell of your ear, then lower, along the lobe, as if testing how you’d wear silver if the world weren’t built to keep girls like you modest and afraid.
“you’d look pretty with one,” she breathes against your temple, lips barely grazing skin. “just a small hoop. something that catches the light when you turn your head in the chapel. something only i’d notice when you’re trying so hard not to look at me.”
your breath hitches. thighs press tighter together under your skirt, the ache building again, slow and insistent, like a prayer you can’t finish. wrong, the old voice hisses—pastor’s cold water, mother’s disappointed eyes, the cross digging into your sternum like a brand. but her mouth is so close now, strawberry lip gloss and the faint metallic promise of her piercing hovering just out of reach.
you turn your face. not away. towards.
the kiss lands soft at first, almost hesitant, your lips brushing hers like testing the edge of a blade. then deeper. her tongue slips in, silver barbell cool and deliberate against yours, sending a shiver straight down your spine that pools hot between your legs. you make a small sound—half sigh, half surrender—into her mouth, and she swallows it whole, hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you there like absolution in the shape of want.
you fall back as she crawls on top of you—notes scatter away further. the project forgotten under the weight of your body shifting on the pink sheets, her knee pressing between yours, thigh firm and warm where you need pressure most. your fingers find her hoodie, curl into fabric, pulling until her chest brushes yours.
yixiang kisses you until the room tilts, until your lips feel swollen and raw and every breath tastes like strawberry and surrender. her tongue works slow and deep, silver dragging heavy over your tongue, cool then warm then cool again, sending sparks that race straight down to where her thigh rocks against you in lazy rhythm. you whimper into her mouth, hips chasing without shame, skirt bunched high around your waist, damp cotton the only thin thing left between you and ruin.
then she pulls back.
just enough.
her forehead rests against yours, breath hot and shaky, blonde hair curtaining the world so all you see is dark eyes and silver glinting like forbidden stars. the wolf on her collarbone watches you, mouth full of lamb, hungry.
“hey, pretty baby” she whispers, voice low and rough, accent curling thick around the words. her thumb brushes your bottom lip, slow. “wanna show me how you touch yourself?”
the words land heavy in your chest. heat floods your face, shame and want twisting so tight you can’t tell which is which. your hands tremble where they clutch her hoodie. you’ve never—not really. especially not with someone watching.
“i…” the word cracks.
you try anyway. because her eyes are soft and dark and waiting, because her thigh still presses warm between yours like a promise. your hand slips down, shaky, under the hem of your skirt, fingers brushing damp fabric. you press—clumsy, unsure—circle once, twice, but it feels wrong. too direct. too exposed. your breath stutters. the cross at your throat digs in harder, cold against flushed skin, reminding you who you’re supposed to be.
nothing builds right. only frustration, hot and sharp behind your eyes.
“i can’t—just—i don’t know how—” the confession spills out broken, voice small and wet. your fingers still. you pull your hand away like it burned you, tears pricking hot at the corners. “i’ve never…not properly... it feels…stupid. wrong. i keep thinking about the pastor and my mother and god and—”
yixiang catches your wrist gently. brings your trembling fingers to her mouth. kisses them, slow, tongue flicking out to taste the shame still clinging there. her eyes never leave yours.
“shh, little lamb,” she murmurs against your knuckles. “no rush.” she shifts her weight, settles beside you instead of over you, one arm sliding under your shoulders, pulling you close. her free hand trails down your stomach, light as breath, stopping just above where your skirt sits twisted. “let me show you, then. yeah? just feel.”
her fingers slip under the fabric. not rushing. just warmth. just pressure. she touches you like something sacred—slow circles where you ache most, then firmer, learning the rhythm your body already knows but your mind still fights. you gasp, hips jerking, a broken sound tearing from your throat that sounds too much like relief.
“there,” she breathes against your temple, lips brushing skin. “see? your body knows. it’s just been waiting for permission.”
you bury your face in her neck, breathing her in—strawberry perfume lingering on her pale skin. the wolf keeps watching. guilt paces the corners of the room, but for these long, trembling minutes it stays back.
her fingers keep moving, steady and sure, drawing soft whimpers and shaky gasps from you that echo in the small dorm like half-prayers. every stroke unwinds you a little more. every kiss she presses to your hair, your cheek, your swollen mouth, loosens the knots guilt tied so tight.
“that’s it,” yixiang murmurs, lips brushing your temple, voice a low hum that vibrates straight through your ribs. “feel how wet you are for me, pretty baby? all that shame and still your body opens up like this.” her fingers circle slow, then dip lower, teasing at your entrance before sliding your panties aside. finger tip pressing gently against your entrance, then just an inch slides within you. just one, then two—soon stretching you in a way that makes your breath fracture into tiny, wounded sounds. the silver rings on her fingers catch faintly against slick heat. cold metal. burning skin. she adds another one just as you adjust to the feeling of the first.
your hips jerk. thighs tremble around her wrist. you swear you can feel the cross at your throat burn brighter with every gasp, chain stinging like it wants to remind you of how your body belongs to god and not the girl with her fingers buried within you. but her thumb finds that spot—soft, insistent, perfect—and the prayer dies on your tongue, replaced by her name, broken open.
“nghhh—yixiang—”
short. sharp. like a sob wearing silk.
she doesn’t speed up. just stays there, deep and steady, curling her fingers in a slow rhythm that matches the uneven hammer of your heart. her free hand strokes your hair, tucks it behind your ear where she’d whispered about silver hoops earlier. “no thinking,” she breathes. “just my hand. just how full you feel. let the rest burn off.”
you try. god, you try. but thoughts still flicker—your mother’s face if she saw you like this, legs spread under another girl, skirt rucked up like you’ve completely discarded modesty. the pastor’s cold voice calling it unnatural. the devil’s plan to send you to hell. yet every curl of her fingers pushes those voices further back, drowns them under wave after wave of liquid heat coiling tighter in your belly. your hand finds her wrist, not to stop her. just to hold. to anchor. nails digging crescent moons into her tattooed skin.
the pleasure builds strange. uneven. long, dragging strokes that make your toes curl and your back arch off the pink sheets, then sudden sharp thrusts that rip little cries from your throat and leave you shaking. you feel raw. split open. the rosary on the nightstand watches, beads silent and accusing.
“yixi—mmgh—wait—i feel weird—”
the words tumble out fractured, small, almost panicked. your thighs tremble around her hand, muscles tight and fluttering like they don’t know whether to pull her closer or push her away. something is gathering low in your belly—too big, too bright, like a storm you were never taught how to weather. pressure and heat and a terrifying edge you can’t name. you clench around her fingers, slick and desperate, breath coming in short, wounded gasps against her neck.
yixiang stills for half a heartbeat. not pulling out. just pressing deeper, steady, her thumb circling slow and sure over that swollen, aching spot. her lips find your temple, soft as forgiveness.
“shh, little lamb,” she whispers, accent thick and warm like honey over gravel. “that’s not weird. that’s it. you’re right there. let it take you.”
you shake your head against her shoulder, tears slipping hot down your cheeks, but your hips keep rolling, chasing her hand like a traitor. the wolf on her collarbone presses into your skin, mouth full of helpless lamb. you are the lamb, and now you reside in the jaws of your very own wolf.
her fingers curl again—deliberate, perfect—and the coil snaps.
you come hard, sudden, like a prayer torn from your throat. a broken cry fractures the quiet dorm room—her name, half moan half sob—and your whole body bows tight, thighs clamping around her wrist, walls pulsing around her fingers in long, shuddering waves. heat floods through you, slick and overwhelming, soaking her hand and the sheets beneath.
time fractures.
you cling to her, boneless and trembling, face buried where her pulse beats steady under ink and silver. the guilt creeps back slow, teeth bared at the edges of the room, but it feels smaller now. pushed back by the weight of her arm around you, she slips her fingers free with quiet devotion and brings them to her mouth. slowly, deliberately, that silver tongue drags across them, licking every trace of you while her eyes stay locked on yours—dark, hungry, and somehow also devastatingly soft.
she pulls you closer, legs tangling, pink sheets twisted around you both like a half-hearted shroud. the crosses brush against each other between your hearts. wolf and lamb. saint and sinner. saved and damned.
you breathe her in—sweet strawberries, and the scent of something holy that’s just been desecrated—for these uneven, trembling minutes, the only prayer left is the quiet thud of her heart against your cheek.
you don’t ask forgiveness.
not yet at least.
by friday, you come to a conclusion.
you are a sinner.
and the word no longer tastes like ash. it tastes like her mouth at 12 a.m., like the slow drag of her pierced tongue along your inner thigh while the television flickers in the corner with some late-night preacher screaming about fire and brimstone and the wages of flesh. his voice cracks through the tinny speakers—repent, before the devil claims your soul—while yixiang’s fingers curl deep inside you, steady and sure, thumb circling lazy and perfect where you need it most. the christians screaming to you through your tv. they don’t save you, they certainly don’t save her.
you come with a broken little sound muffled against her shoulder, thighs shaking around her ears, the preacher still howling about eternal damnation. she doesn’t stop. just licks you through it, slow and sweet, silver barbell clicking soft against slick heat like a secret code only your body understands now.
on monday she had you bent over the desk, skirt shoved up, two fingers deep while some televangelist begged viewers to send money for their souls. you came so hard the rosary on the nightstand rattled.
on wednesday she laid you out on the pink sheets and took her time, tongue piercing dragging slow and deliberate until you sobbed her name louder than the choir singing on the screen. guilt flickered somewhere behind your ribs, but it felt distant now. like smoke you could breathe through.
by friday the project was mostly done. mostly. the final slide still blank except for one line she typed while you were still trembling from her mouth: what is sin, if not the shape love takes when the world calls it wrong?
you don’t see her all weekend.
the dorm room feels too big without her laugh curling around the walls, too quiet without the wet sounds of her mouth between your thighs. pink sheets still smell like strawberries and sex and you can’t bring yourself to wash them. you curl into the scent instead, face buried, breathing her in until your chest aches so sharp it feels like glass under your ribs.
when you realize what you’d done, the guilt comes back like a flood.
it doesn’t knock. it breaks the door down.
you kneel on the cold floor until your knees bloom purple, rosary wrapped so tight around your fingers the beads cut little red smiles into your skin.
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. the words scrape out raw, over and over, but every syllable tastes like her name. like the way she whispered “all mine” while you came apart shaking on her tongue. you bang your forehead against the wood until it leaves a bruise, until tears soak the floorboards, until the cross at your throat digs in so hard you’re sure it’ll scar.
god doesn’t answer.
it seems he never does anymore. at-least not when you need him the most.
saturday blurs into a long, gray ache.
“wash me from my guilt, and cleanse me of my sin. i acknowledge my offense; my sin is before always.”
you cry so hard your ribs hurt. ugly, gasping sobs that echo off of the walls. you press your palms to your eyes until stars burst, try to scrub the feeling of her tongue dragging slow and deliberate from your body, the way she looked up at you from between your legs with dark eyes and that crooked half-smile like she already knew you’d break for her again.
sunday morning you drag yourself to the chapel.
“i have given myself over to sin and exposed myself to the evils of the world without, thinking
twice about how that would affect the eternal salvation of my soul.”
outside, the world keeps moving. students laugh past the chapel doors, shoes squeaking, backpacks rustling. normal. untouched. you envy them.
envy how you know everything is fine in heaven but you’ll never get to know. that certainty sits in your chest.
you stay until the service ends. until the last footstep fades and the silence rushes back in, heavy as wet velvet. you press your forehead to the pew in front of you. wood cool and unforgiving. the bruise from last night sings back, sharp and honest.
the tears come hot and endless. tears slip hot down your cheeks, onto your clasped hands, onto the hem of your skirt, onto the rail, pool in the grooves worn by better girls. you don’t wipe them away. you let them fall—let them stain. ugly, gasping sobs tear out of you, echoing off the vaulted ceiling until the saints seem to flinch in their niches.
you see her everywhere—the curve of the altar rail like the arch of her back, the silver chain on the virgin mary’s neck mocking the hoops in her ears.
you bang your forehead against the rail once, twice. the bruise blooms fresh. pain sharp and honest. why won’t you take it away? the silent scream rattles inside your ribs while your thighs press together under modest fabric, traitor heat still lingering there like a memory that refuses to die no matter how hard you claw at it.
“god, i come before you and repent of my sinful ways. i hand over to you my heart infected with the evils. root out the ties that bind me to these and all the sins my heart has committed. i ask that you cleanse my heart.”
you are a sinner.
the truth sits heavy in your throat like communion gone sour. you rock forward, arms wrapped around the rail like it might hold you together when everything inside is fraying at the seams. the cross at your neck feels cold against your skin that burns. you wonder if hell is burning you from the side out.
but you also wonder if she misses you. if she’s waiting for monday like you’re waiting for the guilt to loosen its jaws. if she knows you’d crawl back.
monday comes, and you aren’t prepared.
not when you see her kissing another girl again—same spot by the ivy wall—and something sharp cracks open in your chest. jealousy. shame. want so vicious it crawls within you, begging to be released.
you walk straight up. voice shaking but loud.
“you said i was yours.”
yixiang pulls back from the other girl, eyes widening when she sees your face. the girl leaves fast. again. always leaving yixiang standing there with swollen lips and that crooked half-smile that now looks cracked at the edges, like cheap paint over something older and sharper.
you stop just close enough to smell strawberry and someone else’s lip gloss. jealousy claws up your throat like bile and prayer mixed together. all weekend you knelt until your knees split open, banged your head against wood until bruises bloomed like stigmata, whispered every mea culpa you knew while her name kept slipping in like smoke. and here she is. mouth still wet from another girl. like the weekend never happened. like your tears never soaked the chapel floor.
“you said i was yours,” you repeat, smaller this time. the words crack on the last syllable. your hands fist at your sides so hard the nails bite crescents. the cross at your throat feels heavier than it did on sunday, chain pressing into skin that still remembers the shape of her teeth.
yixiang’s smile fades completely. she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand—slow, deliberate, silver rings flashing—and steps toward you. not away. never away.
“pretty girl…” her voice is rough, accent curling soft around the edges like it wants to soothe the wound it made. “you disappeared. again. i thought you were done. on your knees somewhere begging god to cut me out of you.”
you laugh. it sounds like breaking.
“this was a mistake.”
the words leave your mouth sharp and final, like a blade dragged across scripture. they hang between you in the cold winter air, cutting through the faint scent of strawberry and someone else’s cherry gloss. your chest heaves. the cross at your throat suddenly feels like a noose, chain biting deep into skin still tender from two nights of desperate clutching. you take one step back. then another. the ivy wall blurs behind her, green fingers reaching like they want to pull you both under.
yixiang’s face fractures. uneven smirk shatters completely. for once she looks small—blonde strands messy across her forehead, silver piercings catching the pale light like broken stars, fake cross rising and falling too fast against the wolf on her collarbone. the lamb inside its jaws looks almost sorry.
“don’t,” she whispers. voice rough, accent thicker with something that might be panic. she reaches for you anyway, fingers brushing your hand. cool metal from her rings—warm skin underneath. you flinch like she burned you but don’t quite pull away. can’t.
“you don’t get to disappear all weekend, leave me with nothing but the smell of you on my sheets and the taste of guilt in my throat, then kiss someone else like i was just—” your voice cracks, wet and ugly. tears burn hot again. you hate them. hate how they fall anyway, tracking down your cheeks like penance you never quite finish. “like i was practice. like i was nothing to you but a lamb to consume.”
and for the first time ever in your life. you curse.
“fuck you, wang yixiang.
you don’t see her until wednesday. you make sure of that.
you dodge every corner of campus where her blonde hair might catch the light. you take the long way past the chapel. when class ends you go straight to your dorm.
but the school throws some winter mixer in the old hall—string lights draped like cheap halos, punch that tastes like watered-down fruit punch, laughter bouncing off wooden beams. you go because your friends drag you. because hiding forever feels too much like surrender.
because you don’t expect her to be there.
but yixiang never does what you expect.
she appears through the crowd like smoke, hoodie half-zipped, silver catching the fairy lights—brow, tongue, ears, the fake cross swaying against ink. her eyes find you instantly. dark. burning. the wolf who smelled blood across a crowded room.
you turn away too fast. heart hammering against the cross at your throat.
your friends notice anyway.
“wait—yah? you know yixiang?” one of them leans in, voice low and scandalized, eyes wide like she just spotted the devil in modest clothing. “why are you hanging out with someone like that? did you hear she kisses girls? like actually kisses them. even does it right here on campus. no shame.”
another giggles behind her hand. “probably a rumor, right? but still. you should be careful. that kind of thing…it rubs off.”
you laugh. it sounds tinny. wrong. the same breaking sound you made in the courtyard on monday.
“ahah whattttt that’s crazy—” your voice pitches high, cheeks burning hot as fresh stigmata. “plus that’s a sin. probably just a rumor. we just know each other from a project. we aren’t friends. we barely know each other.”
the words taste like ash on your tongue. like every prayer you whispered into cold floorboards. your friends nod, satisfied, already moving on to safer gossip. gossip that doesn’t hold sin.
but yixiang hears.
of course she hears.
her face changes. that signature tilted grin cracks clean in half. something darker flashes behind her eyes—hurt, anger, hunger all braided tight. she crosses the room in three strides, fingers brushing your elbow like a question and a threat.
“can we talk?” her voice is low. too low. accent thick enough to wrap around your throat.
you nod before you can stop yourself. your friends wave you off with raised eyebrows but no real suspicion. good girls don’t see wolves until the teeth are already at their necks.
the moment the side door shuts behind you the air changes. colder. thicker. yixiang doesn’t speak. she just grabs a fistful of your hair—firm, possessive, right at the roots—and drags you across the frost-bitten grass toward the dorms. not gentle. not careful. the sting blooms sharp and sweet down your spine. you stumble after her, breath catching, thighs pressing together under your skirt like your body already knows what will come next.
“barely know each other,” she mutters, voice rough gravel and smoke. she yanks harder when you whimper. “project partners. not friends. that’s what i am to you now?”
the dorm hallway blurs. her keycard beeps. door slams shut. the second it closes she spins you, back hitting wood, mouth crashing into yours—angry, desperate, silver tongue pushing past your lips like she can taste the lie still sitting on it. you moan into the kiss, small and broken, hands fisting in her hoodie even as tears prick hot at the corners of your eyes.
she pulls your hair again, tilting your head back, exposing your throat where your cross sits heavy and accusing.
“you kissed another girl.”
the accusation slips out hoarse against her mouth, cracked open like the rest of you.
your back stays pressed to the door, wood cold through thin fabric, while her body burns hot against yours—hips pinning, thigh already sliding between your legs like it belongs there. the accusation still burns on your tongue—you kissed another girl—but it tastes smaller now, almost childish, under the weight of her stare.
yixiang stills for half a heartbeat. fingers tighten in your hair, pulling until sparks dance down your scalp and heat floods low in your belly. her dark eyes flicker.
half laugh, half growl, accent wrapping thick and warm around the words like smoke curling through chapel incense.
“that’s what this is about?” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, silver hoop in hers catching the faint light from the window. “you’re jealous?”
the question lands soft. devastating.
you try to look away, but can’t as her grip keeps your head tilted, throat exposed. tears prick hotter at the corners of your eyes, slipping free before you can cage them. you hate how small you feel. how wet you are against her thigh. how the weekend of kneeling and begging and bruising your forehead against wood all collapses into this one trembling truth.
“no.”
the lie slips out thin and trembling, barely louder than the thud of your heart against the door. it tastes like ash and communion wafters stored wrong—gone stale on your tongue. you hate how small it sounds. how obviously false.
yixiang’s laugh is low, rough, almost pitying. her fingers stay twisted tight in your hair, pulling just enough to make your scalp sing. she presses her thigh higher between your legs, denim grinding slow and deliberate against the damp heat soaking through your panties.
“no?” she echoes, lips brushing the shell of your ear, silver hoop cool against flushed skin. “then why are you shaking, pretty girl? why is your cunt dripping through your panties and onto my thigh like you’ve been starving for me since the second you ran?”
you whimper. the sound betrays you before the words can. your hips twitch forward without permission, chasing pressure, chasing her, even as fresh tears slip hot down your cheeks. the guilt bites deeper instead—cold, sharp, and impossible to ignore. but not the guilt of sinning, the guilt of lying to her.
she doesn’t let you hide. tilts your head further back until your eyes meet hers—dark, knowing, hungry. the wolf who already swallowed the lamb whole and is still licking its lips.
“liar, do you always fuckin’ lie?” she whispers, almost tender. almost cruel. her free hand slides under your skirt, fingers pushing soaked fabric aside and sinking in deep—two at once, curling perfect and immediate. you gasp, back arching off the door, walls fluttering around her like they forgot how to do anything but open for her.
“you know thats a sin too, right? proverbs 6:17 says lying is an abomination to the lord.”
“i’m not—” the denial fractures before it can finish. another thrust, deeper, and your head falls back against the wood with a dull thud. the cross knocks hard against your chest, chain biting at the hairs on your neck, a reminder you keep ignoring. tears slip free, tracking down your cheeks, and dripping onto your cross.
“leviticus 19:11,” she murmurs, almost gentle, mocking, fingers curling slow and perfect inside you. “go on, i know you know it.”
the verse rises unbidden, automatic, drilled into your bones since you were small enough to sit in sunday school with trembling hands. you choke it out between broken breaths, voice thin and shaking like the rest of you.
“do not lie. do not deceive one another.”
yixiang’s laugh vibrates against your throat, low and warm and cruel-sweet. she thrusts again, deeper, thumb pressing firm circles over your clit until your knees threaten to give. the silver rings on her fingers drag cool against slick heat, a constant contradiction—metal and flesh, judgment and mercy, wolf and lamb.
“good girl,” she breathes, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“you are sick,” you choke out, voice cracking open. “and i hate you and love you for it. you’re a wreck… but i think i’m always going to want you.”
yixiang’s fingers still inside you, buried to the knuckle, curled just right against that spot that makes your vision spark white at the edges. she doesn’t pull them out. she just holds them there, deep, letting you clench and flutter around her like a prayer you can’t finish.
her dark eyes search your face—wet lashes, flushed cheeks, trembling mouth still shiny from her kiss. that skewed smile returns, slower this time, sharper. the silver bar in her tongue flashes when she licks her lips.
“you hate me,” she repeats, voice low, almost thoughtful, like she’s tasting the words. “and you love me. and you think you’re always gonna want me.” her thumb strokes lazy circles over your swollen clit, slow enough to torture. “that’s a lot of big feelings for a good little church girl who just told her friends i’m nothing.”
you try to answer, but she chooses that moment to thrust again—pushing a third in, stretching you impossibly open with a wet sound that should mortify you. but instead it rips another broken moan from your throat. your knees buckle; she pins you harder against the door with her hips, thigh still damp with your shame.
“i prayed,” you whisper, voice raw as scraped knees on chapel stone. “every night. begged him to take this want out of me. but it only grew. bigger. hungrier. until even the taste of communion wine reminded me of your tongue.”
yixiang’s forehead drops to yours. blonde strands tangle with your own, sweaty and messy, her piercings cool against your fevered skin. for once she doesn’t mock. doesn’t laugh that low cruel laugh. her thumb still circles your clit but gentler now, like she’s tracing a prayer into your body.
“you think i don’t know?” the words slip out hoarse, accent thicker, curling around the vowels like smoke from votive candles. “every time you ran, i felt it. left me empty. chewing on nothing but your scent on my clothes and the memory of how tight you get when you’re trying so hard not to sin.”
you whimper. hips rolling forward without permission, chasing her hand even as shame burns hotter than pleasure. tears keep falling, silent now, tracking down your cheeks and catching on your trembling mouth. she licks one away. slow. the silver bar in her tongue flashes like absolution you don’t deserve.
“i’m not good for you,” she murmurs, almost to herself. fingers still buried deep, holding you open, keeping you full while the confession spills. “i kiss other girls because they don’t look at me like you do. like i’m both damnation and salvation wearing the same skin. they don’t make me feel… this.”
her free hand slides up. cupping your cheekss. thumb brushing the wet trail your tears left, silver rings catching faint light from the window. outside, the winter mixer still hums—cheap halos and watered punch and laughter that has never tasted guilt like this. inside her dorm the air is thick with her strawberry perfume and your own desperate want.
you search her eyes. the fracture is still there, raw edges gleaming. the wolf looks tired. almost human. the lamb in its jaws has stopped struggling. even if its just a little while.
“then why do you keep letting me come back?” the question cracks open between you, small and trembling. your walls flutter around her fingers again, involuntary, like your body is answering for you. “why chase me when i disappear?”
she stills completely. fingers deep. body pressed flush. her breath fans hot across your lips.
“because you’re mine,” she says, simple. devastating. “even when you run. even when you kneel for him instead of me. even when you tell your friends i’m nothing.” her voice drops lower, almost broken. “i saw the cross around your neck and how your face flushed seeing my lips on another girl and thought—yeah. this one will hurt, but this one i’ll keep anyway.”
she pulls her fingers out slow, torturously slow, leaving you empty and aching. you whine at the loss, thighs shaking. but before you can beg she’s lifting you—strong arms, hoodie sleeves pushed up, ink and muscle flexing—and carrying you the two steps to her bed. sheets smell of her.
she lays you down like you’re fragile. climbs over you. pulling the hoodie off—the fake cross swings between her breasts, brushing your own as she settles her hips between your thighs.
she kisses you like the world might end if she stops.
slow at first, almost careful—mouth brushing your forehead where the bruises from sunday’s kneeling still linger faint under your skin. then down the slope of your nose, the tremble of your eyelids, the tear tracks drying on your cheeks like salt left from an ocean you keep trying to leave behind. each press of her lips lands soft as whispered absolution, but there’s weight in them. hunger folded quiet between the gentleness, like she’s mapping every place you’ve tried to offer up to someone holier than her.
your breath catches when she reaches your throat. the cross there feels heavier, chain biting as she mouths along its edge, tongue flicking silver against silver
“tell me,” she murmurs against your collarbone, voice rough velvet, accent curling thick through the words. her hands push your modest blouse higher, bunching fabric. cool air kisses your skin; then her mouth follows, hot and open, sucking a slow mark just above your ribs. “what do you want, pretty girl?”
you shiver. the question sinks into you deeper than her fingers ever could—simple, devastating. your hips lift without thinking, seeking her weight, but she holds back, thighs bracketing yours, hoodie gone now so the wolf on her chest stares down at you with bared teeth and that sad little lamb caught forever in its jaws.
another kiss, lower. between your breasts where your heart hammers loud enough to shake the foundations of every sunday school lesson. the bar on her tongue drags cool and wet, leaving a shining trail that cools too fast in the dorm’s quiet air. you whimper, fingers threading into her messy blonde hair, pulling without meaning to. or maybe meaning to. everything blurs.
“i want—” the words fracture. she kisses down your stomach, slow, reverent, teeth grazing the soft skin just above your navel like she’s tasting how much you’ve starved for this. your skirt is rucked up around your waist, panties long since pushed aside or maybe torn—you don’t remember. don’t care. her breath ghosts over the slick mess between your thighs and you jolt, thighs trying to close around her head.
“say it.” her voice drops lower. almost pleading under the roughness. she presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then higher, open-mouthed and filthy-sweet, lips brushing where you ache.
"make something gross feel romantic. make me so no one will ever want me again,"
yixiang’s breath stutters hot against your soaked folds. her dark eyes flick up, slightly glassy, smirk cracking wider like she’s been given permission to sin in the most beautiful way possible.
then she buries her face between your thighs.
mouth open wide, tongue flat and greedy, licking through the slick that’s been dripping out of you since even before the door slammed shut. the silver ball on her tongue drags heavy over your clit, then lower, pushing inside you alongside two fingers that stretch you open with a loud, wet squelch. she moans into it, deep and grateful, like the taste of you is better than air itself. her chin grinds messy against you, nose bumping against your swollen clit, cheeks already messy with your slick as she sucks and laps and drinks every bit you give her.
your thighs start shaking. hips jerking up into her face without shame. the cross bounces against your sternum, chain sticky with sweat, and she reaches up without looking, wraps the chain around her fist and tugs just enough to remind you who owns the throat it circles.
when you come it’s loud and ugly and perfect.
your back arches clean off the bed, a broken cry ripping out of you—half sob, half her name—while your cunt pulses hard around her fingers and floods her mouth.
slick gushes, messy and warm, soaking her chin, dripping down her neck, running in shiny trails over the fake cross between her breasts. she doesn’t pull away. she drinks you through it, moaning like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted, swallowing what she can and letting the rest paint her face, her throat, even the wolf inked on her skin.
she keeps licking even after the worst of it fades—slow, filthy drags of her tongue through the oversensitive mess, cleaning you with long strokes that make your legs twitch and more slick leak out. when she finally lifts her head her face is destroyed. lips swollen, chin dripping, strands of your cum stretching from her mouth to your cunt like silver threads of damnation.
“there you are,” she murmurs, crawling up your body, trailing kisses smeared with your own mess across your belly, your ribs, the soft underside of your breasts. “my pretty girl… coming so hard you soaked my whole chest. look at you leaking everywhere.”
she kisses your mouth then—deep, open, pushing the taste of your orgasm onto your tongue so you can swallow it with her.
“stay tonight,” she says against your lips, so quiet it’s almost not there. “don’t run. don’t pray it away. just… stay here with me.”
you close your eyes. thighs sticky. throat marked. cross heavy with both of you.
and you don’t run. not this time.
the lamb lies down in the wolf’s jaws, warm, and lets itself be consumed.
the weekend comes, the campus is soaked in pure white. saturday.
snow falls like it’s trying to bury every sin under something clean, but you carry the mess with you anyway—thighs still tender, the memories of wednesday soaked into your skin like a secret tattoo no soap could touch. you tried. alone in your dorm after evening prayers, hand between your legs chasing the ghost of her fingers, her tongue, the way she drinks you down.
nothing.
just ache.
just pressure building and breaking into nothing, like your body still repented better than it did letting go. guilt sits heavy in your chest, thicker than the cross at your throat, and the want only sharpens—vicious, hollow, unfinished.
so you walk.
snow crunches under your loafers, flakes catching in your lashes, melting cold against cheeks still burning from the failure. you don’t mean to end up here. yet your feet carry you straight to her dorm like the wolf’s jaws have their own gravity. fist raised, hesitation thick in your throat, then three quiet knocks.
the door opens and yixiang is there—in a tank top, blonde hair messy from sleep or boredom, silver catching the hallway light like broken stars. her eyes widen, then soften, smile blooming slow and wide when she sees the snow dusting your coat, the tremble in your hands, the way you can’t quite meet her gaze.
“oh hello pretty girl,” she murmurs, accent curling warm through the cold. she doesn’t ask why. just pulls you inside by the sleeve, door clicking shut behind you like a covenant resealed. the room still smells like both of you—strawberry and sex and sheets that haven’t been changed because she said she wanted to keep the evidence of your sin.
you stand there dripping melted snow onto her floor, words sticking. “i couldn’t—i tried—nothing comes. it just…stops. like he won’t let me.” you whisper the last part, pointing at the sky.
yixiang laughs, just a soft huff of breath, warm and startled, like the sound slipped out before she could cage it.
her shoulders shake once, silver piercings catching the dim lamp light, smile cracking wider for a second.
you frown. sharp. immediate. the heat in your cheeks flares hotter than the snow melting down your neck, and the ache between your legs twists meaner, like even your body is scolding her for laughing at something so raw.
“sorry, sorry,” she says quickly, voice dropping low and rough. she steps in closer, hands rising like she’s approaching something skittish. one palm cups your jaw, thumb brushing the frown line between your brows.
“didn’t mean it like that. just…you standing here, covered in snow and guilt, pointing at the sky like god is personally blue-balling you? fuck, pretty girl. you are tragic and perfect. i love how ruined you are for me.”
her forehead presses to yours. blonde strands damp from a shower, tangling with your own slightly damp hair. the laughter is gone now, replaced by something heavier.
she walks you backward until your knees hit the bed and you fold down into the mess of sheets that still smell slightly of wednesday’s sin. yixiang follows, crawling over you slow, tank top hugging her body, her breasts—the wolf on her chest stares down at your trembling form.
and then you see them. pressed against the black fabric of her tank, barbells.
two silver bars, one through each nipple, straining the thin cotton like secret sins pushing to be known.
your mouth goes dry. the ache between your legs pulses harder, fresh slick slipping out just from the sight. yixiang notices. of course she does. a cock grin spreads scross her face, slower this time, almost shy underneath the hunger.
“ah, guess you haven’t really seen these before” she murmurs, voice rough velvet as she peels the tank up and off in one smooth motion. “like em’?”
you can’t answer at first.
just stare.
then you swallow hard, you whimper. the sound cracks open in your throat like thin ice.
“they’re…pretty,” you manage, voice small and trembling, but the word feels ridiculous. pretty doesn’t cover the way your cunt clenches hard around nothing just from the sight of them.
“wanna taste them?”
your cheeks flush hot, a sudden burn that spreads down your throat and across your chest like spilled communion wine. you gasp, small and sharp, the sound cracking open the quiet dorm air.
“w-what—?!”
“you heard me,” she murmurs, voice sweet and rough as honeycomb. she shifts her weight, letting one pierced breast hover closer, the cool metal barbell brushing feather-light over your bottom lip. “wanna taste them? put that pretty tongue on me, and suck em’ slow while i touch you?”
the words sink into your belly like stones into deep water. you feel them settle. heavy. irreversible. your cunt gives another helpless flutter and leaks more—warm, slow, shameful—sliding down to ruin the sheets that already carry wednesday’s ghost. the ache blooms wider, sharper, never cresting, just pressing and pressing until your cunt trembles around nothingness.
you stare at the silver barbell. at the flushed, tight peak it pierces. your lips part. just a little. breath trembling out.
yixiang’s eyes darken, something almost gentle cracking through the hunger. she cups the back of your head, not pushing, just guiding, and lowers herself until the cool metal kisses your tongue.
you lick.
once. shy. tentative. the silver tastes cold and clean against the heat of her skin. then again—hungrier—closing your mouth around the whole thing, sucking soft and slow like it might quiet the storm inside your ribs. yixiang lets out this low, broken sound, half groan, her back arching so the barbell presses deeper between your lips.
“thereee you go,” she breathes, accent thick and shaky. “good girl. suck a little harder, pretty thing. let me feel how much you need me when you can’t come.”
two of her fingers slide inside you at the same time—easy, wet, filthy. they curl lazy and deep, stirring the endless leak while you nurse on her pierced nipple like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to earth. every pull of your mouth makes more slick flood out around her knuckles. it drips. it glistens on her wrist.
“fuck—so good—”
her voice fractures around the words, low and ragged, like the sound itself is leaking out of her the same way you’re leaking onto her hand. she rocks a little harder into your mouth, the silver barbell sliding deeper between your lips, cool metal warming fast from your tongue. you suck harder without thinking, cheeks hollow, eyes looking up at her half-lidded and wet, chasing the broken little noises and faces she keeps giving you like they’re the only grace you’re allowed anymore.
yixiang’s fingers keep moving inside you—slow, lazy circles that stir the mess without ever promising an end. every pull of your mouth around her nipple drags another warm gush out of you, slick sliding down her wrist, pooling sticky between your bodies, painting the wolf darker and wetter and more alive.
she pulls back just enough for the barbell to slip from your lips with a wet sound that should shame you. it doesn’t. her dark eyes search your face—flushed, teary, lips shiny with spit and want.
“pretty girl,” she murmurs, accent thick and gentle, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “you trust me?”
you nod before the question even finishes landing. stupid, trembling lamb nod. your thighs keep twitching around her hand, leaking more because even the question makes the ache bloom wider.
yixiang smiles, crooked and soft. she leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth, then whispers against it like a secret between sinners.
“wanna try something new?”
you blink up at her, breath shaky, confusion curling soft in your chest like incense that won’t quite rise. “new?” the word comes out small, cracked, almost childlike. your thighs press together instinctively, slick sliding warm between them, and you feel the cross at your throat grow heavier, waiting.
yixiang smiles that crooked half-smile, almost shy again. she shifts, turning so her hips settle beside yours, one strong thigh sliding between your legs. “scissoring. me against you. cunt to cunt. slow. messy. i wanna feel you leak all over me.”
your face burns hotter. the words that come from her mouth sound filthy in your head—raw, animal, nothing like the quiet guilt of fingers in the dark or a mouth between trembling thighs. you bite your lip, eyes flicking down to her shorts.
“i…i don’t know how,” you whisper, voice barely there, but your hips twitch anyway, seeking.
“you don’t have to,” she says gently, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your throat right over the cross. “just open for me.”
you hesitate one heartbeat longer—shame and hunger braiding so tight it hurts—then nod, small and trembling.
“okay.”
yixiang’s breath catches, softly—like you just handed her something so sacred. she kisses your forehead, then your trembling eyelids, then the tip of your nose, then your lips—slow, careful.
“good girl,” she whispers, the words warm against your skin. she shifts again, peeling her shorts down and off in one fluid motion, then guides your leg over hers until your bodies slot together like two broken pieces finally remembering they were once whole.
the first press of her cunt against yours is slick hot heat and nothing else. wet folds sliding against wet folds, your leaking mess meeting hers in one slow, filthy glide that pulls a broken sound from both your throats.
she’s soaked already—hot, silky, pulsing—and the way she rolls her hips makes everything smear. your slick. her slick. the endless drip you can’t stop giving her. it mixes between you like warm oil, messy and loud and so grossly intimate your cheeks burn hotter than hellfire.
“oh—fuck,” she breathes, forehead dropping to yours again. blonde strands stick to your damp skin. one of her hands grips your thigh, holding you open wider so she can grind deeper, slower, letting your clits catch and rub in these lazy, devastating circles. every drag sends sparks shooting up your spine.
“haaah…nnngh!—yixi—a-ahh!”
you sob her name like it’s the only word you still know how to say.
her hands crawl up to your face, holding your cheeks in her hands as her hips roll deeper, faster. the pressure coils tight in your belly—vicious, familiar, cruel—building and building until your back arches and your nails dig into her shoulders and your mouth falls open on a silent cry.
and the pressure doesn’t scatter this time.
it snaps.
it snaps hard.
for both of you.
your orgasm hits first—violent, sudden, beautiful in its ugliness. your back arches clean off the sheets, thighs locking tight around her hips as your cunt pulses hard against hers. slick gushes out in thick, hot waves, soaking her folds, her clit, running down between you in messy rivers that make every slow grind wetter, filthier, louder. you come so hard your vision whites out, a broken cry ripping from your throat while your walls flutter and clench and spill everything you’ve been holding for days.
yixiang follows right after.
her hips stutter, lose their rhythm, then slam forward once—twice—grinding down desperate and deep. she comes with a low, shattered groan that vibrates straight into your chest, her cunt pulsing hard against yours, fresh heat flooding out to mix with your own release. the two of you leak together, slick and cum and spit and tears all braiding between your bodies until there’s no telling where you end and she begins. her thighs shake. her pierced nipples drag across your skin. the fake cross knocks wildly against your real one, metal singing like cracked church bells.
you keep coming. long, shaking pulses that won’t stop, each one pushing more out of you until the mess is everywhere—sticky, warm, romantic in the most disgusting way. yixiang grinds through it all, slow and greedy, smearing your shared release until both of you are trembling and gasping and leaking into the same warm puddle.
when the waves finally ease you’re both wrecked.
yixiang collapses against you like the snow finally giving in to gravity.
her weight is heavy and perfect, warm skin slick with sweat and everything else you poured out together. your cunts still kiss, soft and pulsing and dripping in lazy aftershocks, the mess cooling between you into something thick and tacky and undeniably yours. every tiny shift sends another slow trickle sliding down your thigh, and she doesn’t wipe it away. she just breathes you in, forehead pressed to yours, blonde strands glued to your damp temples like golden threads tying sinner to saint.
“shhhh…i’ve got you,” she whispers, voice hoarse and cracked open, accent curling gentle around the edges. her hands slide from your cheeks to your hair, fingers panting your head with softness you never expected from a wolf. “breathe, pretty girl. just breathe with me.”
you tremble beneath her, body still twitching, cunt fluttering weakly against hers like it doesn’t know how to stop leaking. tears keep slipping hot down your flushed cheeks, not from shame this time but from the sheer weight of breaking open. she kisses them away, slow and sweet, tongue catching salt like it’s communion wine.
carefully, so carefully, she eases her hips back. the wet sound of your bodies separating is obscene and tender all at once.
“let’s get you cleaned up a bit, yeah?” she murmurs, voice rough and low. not a demand. not really. more like a promise wrapped in honey and smoke.
you nod, small and shaky, still floating somewhere outside your own skin. your thighs tremble when she shifts off of you.
the sudden absence of her weight leaves you cold, shivering in the wreck of damp sheets and cooling slick.
you hear the soft pad of her bare feet, the quiet creak of a drawer, water running in the tiny sink. the sounds feel far away, like they belong to some other world that still believes in clean things.
then she’s back.
she returns with a small pink towel—threadbare and soft from too many washes—and a bottle of water, condensation already beading like morning dew on chapel glass.
her blonde hair sticks messy to her forehead, silver barbell on her nipples catching the low light every time she breathes. the wolf on her chest shines with the faint of sweat. she looks almost shy now, like the afterglow had stripped the last of the predator away and left only the girl who wants to keep you.
“open,” she whispers, kneeling beside the bed.
you part your lips and she tilts the bottle, cool water sliding down your throat in slow swallows. a few drops escape the corner of your mouth; she leans in without hesitation and licks them away, tongue warm against your chin, then your bottom lip, like even spilled water is something she refuses to waste.
then the towel.
she starts at your throat. gentle presses over the cross, wiping sweat from your skin. the cloth drags lower, over the flushed peaks of your breasts, across your stomach and then between your thighs. every stroke is slow, almost worshipful. she folds the towel again and again, collecting what she can, but her touch lingers like she’s memorizing the shape of your ruin.
when she reaches your cunt—you whimper, oversensitive and raw.
“shhh, pretty girl. i know.” she parts your thighs with careful hands and presses the warm, damp towel to your swollen cunt. soft circles. no rush. she cleans the slick from your folds, from the creases of your thighs.
her breath ghosts warm over your cunt, blowing cool air upon your heat before she leans in and presses one last open-mouthed kiss there—not hungry, just grateful.
then she’s crawling back up.
blanket tugged over both of you, the same ruined one that still smells like sex and snow and strawberry sin. she pulls you into her chest until your cheek rests right over the wolf, right over the fake cross, right over the steady thump of a heart that learned how to beat for you. one arm wraps tight around your back.
“sleep now little lamb.”
you slip out while she sleeps.
the blanket is still warm where your body had been curled around hers, but you peel yourself away anyway—quiet as confession, guilty as sin. your thighs stick together with the evidence she tried to gentle away; every step reminds you. a slow, tacky pull between your legs. the cross at your throat feels heavier than ever, chain pressing into skin still marked by her mouth. you don’t look back. you can’t. if you did, you might crawl back into her arms and never leave.
the snow has stopped. the campus is white and silent under the thin sunday light. you walk the long way, boots crunching into the snow like bones breaking, until your own dorm door clicks shut behind you. you fall to your knees on the thin carpet and softly pray until your voice aches just as your thighs do.
sunday passes in a blur of scripture and shame.
monday comes cruel and bright.
the halls are quiet. weirdly quiet. your friends avoid your eyes when you pass, heads turning too fast, whispers tucked behind hands like knives. you tell yourself it’s nothing. you clutch your books tighter. you keep your head down like a good girl should.
until the snicker slices through the air behind you.
“y/n is a homosexual. did you hear? seems like she caught it from that exchange student.”
“yeah, apparently someone saw y/n sneaking out of yixiang’s dorm at like…dawn.”
“who would’ve thought? she’s like the picture-perfect church girl.”
“she’s definitely going to hell.”
your blood runs cold. your stomach twists sharp and violent. the hallway tilts. vision blurs at the edges until the pristine tiles look like they might swallow you whole. you swear you may vomit right there—all over the clean floor, all over your modest shoes, all over the lie you’ve been trying to keep breathing.
the words blare louder than any sermon. louder than any prayer you recited. louder than her moans in your ear. louder than your own broken cries when you finally came against her.
homosexual.
caught it.
going to hell.
you turn on your heels and run.
books forgotten. coat flapping open. breath ragged and ugly in your throat. snow kicks up behind your boots as you sprint across campus, lungs burning, cross bouncing hard against your chest like it wants to remind you what you are. what you’ve done. what you let her do.
you don’t stop until you’re faced with a door that isn’t yours.
yixiang’s.
your fist hovers. shaking. but you knock anyway.
too hard.
too desperate.
three times.
she opens the door mid-brush, foam at the corner of her mouth, eye brows quirked into confusion.
the toothbrush almost slips when she sees you—really sees you—cheeks streaked with mascara, eyes wide and drowning, coat hanging loosely off of your body.
for one heartbeat the wolf is gone. just a girl with toothpaste on her lip and sleep still clinging to her lashes.
then her face fractures.
“pretty girl…” the words come out muffled, toothbrush forgotten as it clatters somewhere behind her. she steps forward, bare feet on cold tile, and pulls you inside without asking. the door shuts with a soft click that sounds louder than any judgment.
you stand there in the middle of her room, snow melting off your boots, chest heaving like you ran all the way from hell itself. the rumors are still screaming behind your eyes—homosexual, caught it, going to hell—each word carving deeper than her teeth ever did.
“they know,” you choke out, voice cracking open like thin ice over deep water. “someone saw me. sneaking out. they’re saying i’m— i’m—”
the word sticks. homosexual. it tastes like poison on your tongue. forbidden. evil.
the moment her arms open, the moment she tries to fold you into that warm, strawberry-scented safety, but your hands fly up.
you push her away.
palms flat against her chest, shoving hard enough that she stumbles back a step. the fake cross bounces against her collarbone. your own feels like it’s choking you now, chain digging in like judgment has finally tightening its grip.
“t-this can’t continue,” you whisper. then louder, cracking, ugly. “this can’t—yixiang, if my mother found out…she would exile me. cut me off. i’d be alone. completely alone. no family. no church. no nothing.”
the words spill out raw and shaking, snow still melting off your coat onto her floor like tiny dying stars. you wrap your arms around yourself instead, attempting to hold the pieces together the way she can’t anymore.
yixiang’s face fractures. sly grin no longer on her lips. not even a quirk on the side of her mouth. it all dies completely. her sharp eyes search yours, something you cannot quite name blooming behind them.
“do those people really love you,” she says slowly, voice low and rough with hurt, with anger and something slightly gentler lying underneath, “if they can’t accept you for who you are, is that really love? is that what you want? to carry this weight forever? carry that lie?”
she steps closer again, not touching, just close enough that you feel the heat radiating off of her. “you know lying is a fucking sin, y/n. you’ll be living it every single day. what are you gonna do—suppress this? bury it so deep that you can get married off to some ugly man who’ll turn you into a twenty-four-seven baby machine? you’ll be just an appendage, you’ll just live to attend him, cook for him, smile for him while he never lifts a finger. is that what you want? a white-picket-fence cage where you rot quiet and holy and dead inside?”
her voice cracks on the last word. she reaches for you again, hands hovering like she’s afraid you’ll shatter if she actually makes contact.
you step back. the backs of your knees hit the edge of her bed and you almost fall, but you catch yourself. tears burn hot down your cheeks, tracking through the mascara already ruined from running.
“it’s what’s right,” you choke out, the words tasting like ash and hurt. “it’s what god would want.”
the silence that follows is heavier than any snowdrift.
yixiang stands there, hands still half-raised like she forgot how to lower them. the wolf on her chest rises and falls too fast. her dark eyes—those eyes that once looked at you like you were something holy, something hers—they crack open now. something raw and bleeding spills out.
she laughs. not the low, cruel one you know. this one is small. broken. the sound of a jaw closing on its own heart.
“god,” she repeats, soft and bitter—hand running through her messy hair. “you really think that old man up there cares who you fuck as long as you keep lying about it? as long as you keep killing yourself quiet so everyone else can stay comfortable?”
you shake your head. keep shaking it like that might make the truth stop existing. “please. just— leave me alone. i can’t do this. i can’t be this. if my mother finds out—”
your voice cracks on the last word. no one. it echoes worse than any hell they whispered about in the hallway.
no one.
it echoes worse than any hell they whispered about in the hallway.
the room feels too small suddenly. too full of her scent and the ghost of your own moans still trapped in her sheets. yixiang stands there, chest rising fast under the wolf and the fake cross, silver barbells catching the thin light like accusations. her hands twitch at her sides like they want to reach for you but know better now.
“you’re already no one to them,” she says, quiet. devastating. the accent curls around the words like smoke refusing to rise. “if they only want the version of you that’s half-dead and smiling. if they’d rather you kneel in that chapel until your knees bleed than see you alive and real. that’s not love, pretty girl. that’s ownership in different lighting.”
you step back again. the backs of your knees hit the bed and you almost fold, almost let the weight pull you down into the mess you once made together. but you catch yourself. arms wrapping tight around your middle like you can hold the breaking pieces in.
tears fall hot and fast now. carving tracks through the dried mascara. you can still feel her between your thighs—that slow, stubborn leak she left you with, warm and tacky and impossible to ignore. it makes everything worse. makes the want twist sharp under the fear.
“i have to,” you whisper. the words taste like rust and communion wine. “it’s what’s right. it’s what god would want. a husband. a life that makes sense. quiet. clean. i can’t— i won’t drag my mother through this shame. i won’t be alone.”
yixiang’s face does something awful then. not anger. not the wolf baring teeth. just this quiet, cracking hurt that looks too much like love wearing bruises.
she doesn’t move closer. she just stands there, barefoot in her own room, hoodie sleeves too long over her hands, and looks at you like you’re already a ghost walking away.
“then go,” she says. soft. raw. the words scrape out of her like they cost something. “run back to your prayers and your lies and your white-picket hell. but when you’re lying under some man who doesn’t even see you, when you’re choking on that perfect silence…remember how my mouth felt. remember how you came so hard you soaked us both. remember that for one weekend you weren’t alone.”
“remember that when you are good, you’re very good, but when you are bad, you’re even better.”
you walk past her before she can say anything else. before her eyes can pull you back under. the door handle is ice under your fingers. you yank it open and the cold rushes in—snow and wind and the sharp sting of everything you’re choosing.
you run.
again.
but this time, its away and not to.
boots slipping on fresh powder, coat flapping open, cross bouncing hard against your chest like it’s trying to knock the truth back into your ribs. every step sends another reminder of your aching legs.
the lamb flees the only jaws that ever held it gently,
snow swallowing your footprints behind you,
heart splitting clean between terror and the ghost of her hands.
and somewhere in that small warm room, yixiang stays standing.
toothpaste still drying on her lip.
arms empty.
eyes dark with the kind of ache that doesn’t scream.
just waits. like she already knows the weight of that lie will drag you back bleeding.
like the wolf has learned how to be patient
when the lamb keeps choosing the hunter over the teeth that only wanted to kiss.
a week passed by, seven days of white noise and colder silence.
you move through them like a ghost wearing your own skin. head down in the chapel every morning, knees raw again on the same hard floor, whispering the same prayers until your voice frays thin. the words feel hollow now. they rattle around inside your ribs like loose teeth. every time you close your eyes you see her—feel her.
you scrub harder in the shower. scalding water. harsh soap. but the ghost of her still clings between your thighs, faint and stubborn, a memory your body refuses to release. at night you lie awake, cross clutched so tight the chain leaves red lines on your palm, trying to pray the ache away. it only grows teeth. sharper. hungrier.
your friends smile again. careful, brittle smiles. they pull you into their circle like nothing happened, like the rumor was just wind that passed through. they talk about boys and future husbands and purity like it’s a language you still speak fluently. you nod. you laugh when you’re supposed to. the lie sits heavy on your tongue, thick as the taste of her slick still haunting the back of your throat.
you see her once.
across the snowy quad. blonde hair bright against all that white, silver catching the weak sun like tiny stars. she’s laughing with someone—not you—head tilted, crooked half-smile sharp and easy. for one heartbeat her eyes find yours. they hold. something raw flickers there, then shutters closed. she turns away first.
you cry. cry harder than each time you begged god for his forgiveness. your body trembled, it aches. this time as your forehead hits the floor sound is dull, hollow, like something inside you finally gave up and lay down to die.
“please,” you sob into the floor, the word fracturing. “please take her out of me. i can’t— i can’t carry this anymore.”
but he doesn’t. or won’t. or maybe he never listened in the first place.
all you hear is the echo of her laugh from the quad. the way her eyes had found yours for one heartbeat—raw, aching, alive—before she looked away like it hurt too much to keep looking. that wolf-like grin you loved. the silver in her skin catching the sun like it was mocking you. she was laughing with someone else. smiling like the world hadn’t ended for her when you left.
yours shouldn’t had ended either.
but it did.
your shoulders shake so hard it feels like your ribs might split. tears pool under your cheek, soaking into your pink cotton sheets. you miss her.
god, you miss her so much it feels like dying slow.
the lamb inside you bleeds.
you walk faster past her in the halls. books clutched to your chest like armor. the cross bounces against your sternum with every step, cold metal reminding you what you chose. what you’re supposed to want. quiet. clean. a life that makes sense. a husband who will never make you leak and shake and come so hard you forget how to breathe.
but at night the dreams come anyway.
her mouth between your legs. her pierced nipples dragging over your skin. her voice low and rough in your ear—sleep now little lamb—while you drip and drip and never quite finish. you wake gasping, thighs slick again, shame burning hotter than any hell they warned you about.
you don’t go back to her door.
you don’t text. you don’t call. you carry the weight like it’s penance, like if you just keep walking straight the lie will eventually feel true.
but the lie is heavy and gets heavier every day.
and somewhere across campus the wolf still waits—patient, quiet, arms empty but never closed.
the snow keeps falling.
soft.
white.
merciless.
covering your footprints, covering your sins, covering everything except the slow, stubborn leak between your legs that still whispers her name every time you are alone in your dorm room.
it’s sunday and you sit in the wooden booth, knees pressed together so tight the bones ache, the air thick with incense and the faint rot of old velvet.
“forgive me father it’s been three weeks since my last confession.”
the words scrape out like gravel from a throat that still remembers her name whispered against it. three weeks. not months. three sharp, aching weeks since you last knelt here begging for absolution you never quite receive. the lattice between you and the pastor blurs your vision, turns him into a shadow shaped like judgment. you clutch the hem of your skirt, fabric damp from nervous palms.
“i’ve been… impure,” you whisper. the word tastes like rust. “in my thoughts. in my body.”
silence on the other side, heavy as scripture. you close your eyes and there she is anyway—yixiang, leaning against the bookstore shelf, that crooked half-smile like she already knew every secret you were trying to bury. the way her lips had brushed yours. silver on her tongue grazing the roof of your mouth—deliberate, lingering. how the heat of it all had traveled straight between your legs and stayed there, a low pulse you couldn’t pray away.
“i met someone,” you continue, voice cracking on the edge of a sob you swallow back. “a girl.”
the pastor shifts. leather creaks. “a girl?”
you nod even though he can’t see. the cross around your neck feels tighter, chain pressing into skin like a warning. you remember her mouth on your collarbone two nights ago, slow and reverent, like she was rewriting every verse that ever called this wrong. the way she looked up at you through dark lashes, eyes full of something too gentle to be sin. let me take the weight, she’d murmured against your ribs. just for tonight.
but nights bleed into days and the guilt only grows teeth.
“i let her touch me,” you confess, barely audible. “i wanted it. i still want it.”
a short, broken line hangs in the air between you and the shadow.
“i can’t stop.”
the pastor’s voice rolls out, measured and cold as baptism water. “this is the devil’s work, child. unnatural. you must renounce it. cut it off like a diseased limb before it drags your soul into the fire.”
you bite your lip until copper blooms. fire. you think of yixiang’s hands sliding under your shirt, thumbs tracing the line of your waist like mapping holy land. the way she kissed you like she was trying to save you and damn you at the same time. how good it felt. how right. how every prayer since has tasted like ash.
“yes, father,” you lie.
outside the booth the church is quiet, stained glass bleeding red and gold across the pews like open wounds. you walk down the aisle on legs that don’t feel like yours, heart hammering against your ribs.
and then your phone buzzes in your pocket—a message from her.
yixiang: i miss you, pretty girl. come over when you’re ready to stop running.
months bleed into one long winter that never quite thaws.
you and yixiang do not speak.
not a word.
not a glance that lasts longer than a heartbeat before one of you turns away. the distance grows teeth. it gnaws at the soft parts of you until even the memory of her mouth feels like something you dreamed in fever.
graduation looms close now, heavy as the cross you still wear every day. the campus is loud with futures and goodbyes and you move through it all like smoke—quiet, obedient, hollow. your friends set you up various dates that never end well—never end it love. they say the guy was just not right for you, but you know the truth.
then one thursday, the day after a particularly horrible date, on a whim sharp enough to cut, you walk into the little shop downtown.
the bell above the door jingles like cheap absolution. you’re still in your uniform—modest skirt, crisp white blouse buttoned to the throat, cross hanging visible and heavy. the piercer, a girl with faded pink hair and tattoos crawling up her arms, lifts an eyebrow when she sees you.
“all girls catholic school uniform and ear piercings?” she asks, smiling slow. “that’s might be a new one. what’s the occasion, sweetheart?”
you sit in the chair, fingers twisting in your lap. the words come out small.
“someone once told me…i’d look pretty with my ears pierced.”
the piercer’s smile softens, turns knowing. she cleans your lobe with something cold that smells like rubbing alcohol and new beginnings.
“someone, huh?” she teases gently, needle glinting in her hand. “boyfriend? or…maybe a girlfriend?”
your face burns instantly. heat floods your cheeks, your throat, the lobes of your ears she’s about to mark forever. the cross at your neck suddenly feels like it’s trying to choke you.
“homosexuality is a sin,” you blurt, voice cracking like thin ice. the words taste old. rehearsed. dead.
the piercer pauses. looks at you for a long second—not judging, just seeing. then she laughs, soft and kind, the sound like someone opening a window in a room that’s been sealed for years.
“nah, baby,” she says, gentle as summer rain. “love isn’t a sin. it’s just being human. god made us messy on purpose, i think. otherwise what’s the point of all this feeling?”
the needle goes through quick. a sharp pinch, then cool metal sliding in. you breathe out, shaky. something inside your chest cracks open—not painful. just…wide. like stained glass finally letting the light through after years of being covered by dust.
“why would he make you feel this way if it was just supposed to be wrong?” she says, gentle, almost sad. “why give you a heart that beats harder for a girl if the answer is always supposed to be no?”
she finishes the second piercing, wipes your ears carefully, and hands you the mirror.
“there. you look pretty. just like she said you would.”
when you stand up, the little silver studs catch the light every time you move your head. you look in the mirror and for once you don’t flinch from the girl staring back. she looks…like someone who might be allowed to want.
you pay. then walk out of the shop with your heart hammering so loud it drowns out every sermon you ever memorized. every prayer you had said over this past month.
your phone feels heavy in your pocket the whole walk back to your car. three months of nothing. three months of pretending you weren’t aching. you flop down in your front seat, seat still warm. you hesitate.
and hesitate. until the words of the piercer replay in your head over and over.
finally you break.
your fingers tremble when you finally pull it out.
the message types itself.
you: i’ll be there in 20 minutes.
you hit send before you can delete it.
snow is falling again—soft, white, almost tender. your new earrings sting a little with brush of chilled air, a quiet reminder that something in you has finally been pierced open and left that way on purpose.
you know if this is somehow still sin—that one day, hell will catch up with you.
and you are sure that you will burn eternally.
you reach her door in fifteen minutes exact. five minutes early.
snow clings to your coat, melts against your flushed cheeks, but you don’t quite feel the cold. your new earrings sting with every heartbeat, tiny silver points of proof that something inside you finally gave way. the cross at your throat moves with each breath—not heavier now. just there. just a thing you carry instead of something owning you.
you knock.
two times. soft and unsure.
the door opens almost immediately, like she’d been waiting on the other side the whole three months.
yixiang stands there in an oversized hoodie, blonde hair messy, her sharp eyes soften and widen when they land on you—really land on you—taking in the snow in your hair, the tear tracks you didn’t bother wiping, the new glint of silver at your lobes.
for a second neither of you speaks.
then a bright smile breaks across her face, slow and cracked and so full of relief it hurts to look at. the wolf softens. the girl underneath looks like she might cry.
“pretty girl,” she whispers, voice rough from disuse. “you really came.”
you don’t answer with words. you just step forward, coat still heavy with snow, and let her pull you inside. the door clicks shut behind you like the end of a long, cruel sentence. the room smells the same—strawberry perfume and warm sheets and the ghost of every time you fell apart in her arms. it hits you so hard your knees almost give.
“i got my ears pierced,” you whisper, voice cracking like thin ice finally giving way. “because you said they’d look pretty. and i— i couldn’t stop thinking about you. not for one single day. not even when i tried. i tried so hard”
the confession spills out raw and ugly, hanging between you like smoke that won’t clear. your hands tremble at your sides. the new silver studs sting with every small movement, tiny points of proof that you finally let something in.
yixiang’s breath catches. she lifts a hand, slow, like she’s afraid you’ll flinch away, and brushes her thumb across one of the fresh piercings. her touch is so gentle it hurts worse than anything.
“you did that for me?” she asks, voice low and rough, accent curling soft around the edges. her eyes are wet but she doesn’t even bother hiding it.
you nod, small and shaky, tears slipping hot and fast down your cheeks.
“i couldn’t pretend anymore,” you choke out, voice thick and wet, breaking on every other word. “every prayer—every single one—felt like a lie. i’d sit there on my knees and the words would just…stick in my throat.”
you swallow hard, a sob catching somewhere behind your ribs, making your shoulders shake.
“every time they set me up with those boys… i smiled like i was supposed to. but inside i was dying. it felt like dying a little more every time one of them tried to touch me. i—i thought i’d throw up when one leaned in to kiss me.”
your breath hitches, ugly and ragged. fresh tears spill over, dripping off your chin onto her hoodie as you lean against her and you clutch the fabric between your fingers.
“the lady at the piercing shop…she said that love isn’t a sin. that it’s just being human. that god made us messy on purpose.” your voice cracks completely, barely above a whisper now, trembling and small. “she said… why would he make me feel this way if it was just supposed to be wrong? why give me a heart that beats harder for a girl if the answer is always supposed to be no?”
the last words dissolve into a quiet sob. you press your face into her shoulder, ashamed of how broken you sound, how the tears won’t stop, how everything you’ve been holding for months is pouring out of you right here in her arms.
yixiang doesn’t say anything at first.
she just holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head like it might break, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades like she’s trying to keep your pieces from scattering across her floor. her hoodie grows damp where your face is pressed, tears soaking through cotton and into skin, but she doesn’t pull away. she never pulls away.
“shhhh, pretty girl,” she finally whispers, voice low and cracked, accent thick with everything she’s been swallowing for months. “i’ve got you. i’ve got you.”
you sob harder, ugly and wet and relieved, fingers twisting tighter in her hoodie like she might vanish if you let go even a little. the new silver in your ears stings every time you tremble. the cross at your throat presses between you both, warm now, almost gentle, like it’s finally learned how to breathe with you instead of against you.
“i missed you,” you choke out, the words muffled against her shoulder, broken into pieces. “i missed you so much it hurt to breathe. every night i—i still felt you. still wanted you. even when i begged god to take it away.”
yixiang’s arms tighten. she presses her lips to the top of your head, then your temple, then the wet curve of your cheek, tasting salt like it’s something sacred.
“i know,” she murmurs. “i felt you too. every damn day. thought i was going crazy watching you walk past me like i was a stranger. thought maybe i’d ruined you for good.”
you shake your head, pulling back just enough to look at her. your eyes are swollen, lashes clumped together, but you don’t hide. not anymore.
“you didn’t ruin me,” you whisper, voice still trembling, still thick with tears. “you…you woke me up. and it scared me so bad i ran. but i’m done running. i’m so tired of running.”
her thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away fresh tears. her dark eyes search yours, raw and open and full of that same quiet wonder she used to look at you with in the middle of the night.
“then stay,” she says simply. no pressure. no demand. just the softest plea. “stay messy. stay scared. stay mine. we’ll figure out the rest later. just…don’t leave again.”
you nod, and then—you lean forward and kiss her.
it’s desperate. clumsy. teeth clicking, noses bumping, three months of aching poured into the space between your mouths. yixiang makes this soft, broken sound against your tongue—half whine, half growl—and then she’s pulling you closer, hands sliding under your coat, under your blouse, palms hot against your skin like she needs to feel you’re real.
you tumble back onto the bed together. her weight settles over you, heavy and perfect, hoodie half-zipped and slipping off one shoulder. your fingers find the hem and tug. she helps, yanking it over her head in one rough motion. the wolf stares down at you again. the fake cross swings between her breasts. those silver barbells catch the low light, glinting like tiny sins you’re no longer afraid to taste.
“please,” you whisper, voice still thick with tears. “i need—i need you.”
“i got you, little lamb” she breathes.
her mouth finds your throat first, sucking a slow mark right below the cross. you arch into it, a broken whimper slipping out as her teeth graze skin still sensitive from months of trying to forget her. she moves lower. hands tugging off at the buttons of your blouse before peeling it off—littering kisses between your breasts—dragging her tongue over one nipple, then the other, barbell cool against your flushed skin.
you sob her name when she closes her mouth around it and sucks, gentle then harder, like she’s trying to pull every buried sound back out of you.
your skirt is pushed up around your waist. panties tugged aside with nimble fingers. when she finally presses two fingers inside you, you’re so wet it’s embarrassing—slick and warm and still remembering her after all this time.
“fuck,” she groans against your stomach, accent thick. “still so ready for me. still leaking like you never stopped.”
you cry out when she curls her fingers, slow and deep, thumb circling your clit in lazy strokes that make your thighs shake. the new earrings sting every time you turn your head. the cross bounces against your chest with every ragged breath. everything feels too much and not enough all at once.
“yixiang— please— i—”
“i know, pretty girl. i know.”
she shifts down your body, blonde hair brushing your thighs, and replaces her fingers with her mouth. the first slow drag of her tongue rips a sob from your throat. she licks through the mess you’ve already made, silver barbell pressing firm against your clit, then lower, pushing inside you like she wants to taste every month you spent trying to erase her.
her tongue digs into your walls, lapping at the release that was not yet spilled. thrusting her tongue deeper, fucking into you slow and deliberate like she’s trying to reach every hidden month you spent trying to forget her. the wet sounds are filthy, obscene, echoing soft in the quiet room, but you can’t bring yourself to care. you just sob, hips twitching helplessly against her face, chasing the heat of her mouth.
“yixi—mmmh—!—please—”
she moans into you, the vibration rolling straight through your core. ball on her tongue dragging heavy over your clit again and again, cool metal against burning heat. she pushes her tongue back in, thrusting, curling, tasting every desperate flutter of your walls. you’re dripping down her chin, down her throat, soaking the fake cross that swings between her breasts, but she doesn’t stop. she drinks you like she’s starving, like she’s been empty for years and only you can fill her.
your hands fist in her hair, pulling, pushing, not sure if you want her closer or if it’s already too much. tears slip hot down your temples. your thighs shake around her head. the new silver in your ears stings every time you turn your head, little sparks that remind you this is real. you chose this. you came back.
“that’s it,” she gasps against your cunt, voice wrecked and muffled. “let go for me, pretty girl. give me everything. i want all of it.”
you can’t help it.
your hips jerk forward on their own, grinding against her mouth with shy, desperate little rolls. you hump her face — slow at first, then harder, chasing the heat of her tongue, the cool press of that silver barbell, the wet mess of her lips and chin. every roll smears your slick across her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, but she only moans louder, encouraging, letting you use her.
“that’s it— fuck, yes—” she gasps between licks, the words vibrating right against your clit. “use me, pretty girl. ride my face. take what you need.”
you sob, broken and shameless, fingers tightening in her blonde hair as you rock against her tongue. your thighs tremble around her head, squeezing, holding her there while you grind down in messy, needy circles. the wet sounds are filthy — loud, slick, obscene — but they only make you wetter. you’re dripping down her chin, dripping onto her neck, soaking the fake cross that swings between her breasts like it’s being baptized in you.
“yixi—yixi—oh god—”
she grips your hips tighter, pulling you down harder onto her mouth, tongue thrusting deep while her nose grinds against your clit. she takes everything you give her—every desperate hump, every broken whimper, every fresh gush of slick—like she’s been starving for exactly this.
you come hard with a shatter cry, it’s sudden, hips jerking messily against her face, cunt pulsing hard around her tongue as you flood her mouth.
all the months of scattered failed orgasms ripping through you faster than you can process. your back arches clean off the bed. thighs clamp around her head. slick floods her mouth in hot, messy waves and she drinks it down like communion, moaning low and grateful into your cunt, tongue working you through every pulse, every after-shock until you’re shaking and whimpering and writhing—too sensitive to take any more.
but she doesn’t stop.
she crawls back up your body, chin still shining with your slick, eyes half-lidded, dark and hungry. she kisses you deep, letting you taste how badly you fell apart for her. then she rolls onto her back, pulling you with her until you’re straddling her thigh. the fabric of her sweats dark and wet from where you’ve dripped on her.
yixiang looks up at you, lips swollen, breathing hard. her hands settle on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles over your skin.
“prove it,” she whispers, voice rough and low. “prove that you want me just as bad as i want you.”
she pats her thigh once. twice. the sound soft but heavy with meaning.
“ride me, pretty girl. use me. show me how much you missed this. how much you missed us.”
your breath catches. heat floods your face, your chest, the place where your cunt still throbs and leaks against her leg. but you don’t hesitate. not anymore.
you start to move. slow at first. shy. then harder. needier. hips rolling in messy, desperate circles while she watches you with sharp dark, wolf-like eyes. every slide makes damp sounds fill the quiet room. every grind drags your clit against the soaked fabric and pulls broken little whimpers from your throat.
“that’sssss it,” she breathes, hands guiding your hips, helping you find the rhythm. “look at you. so pretty when you’re desperate for me. so wet you’re ruining my sweats.”
you lean forward, bracing your hands on her chest, the wolf and the fake cross under your palms. your new earrings swing with every roll of your hips. the cross at your throat bounces between you both. tears still slip down your cheeks but they’re different now—not shame, not fear. just release. just want finally allowed to speak.
her hands slide up your back, pulling you closer until your chests press together, crosses clicking softly. she kisses you then—slow, deep, tasting every tear and every quiet sob—while you keep rocking against her thigh.
then she pulls back for just a second, barely an inch, breath mingling hot between your mouths.
you breathe it out like it’s been trapped inside you for months.
“i love you—”
the words slip free, small and cracked and trembling, almost lost in the wet sounds of your hips still moving. your voice breaks on the last syllable, fresh tears spilling over as you keep grinding slow and desperate against her, chasing that ache you no longer want to hide.
yixiang stills beneath you.
her dark eyes widen, lashes wet, smirk dropping from her face like she can’t believe what she just heard. for one heartbeat the wolf is gone again—just a girl, bare and open and staring up at you like you handed her the whole damn universe wrapped in shaky confession.
then something raw and bright cracks open in her gaze.
“say it again,” she whispers, voice hoarse, accent thick and shaking. her hands grip your hips tighter, guiding you to keep moving, slower now, deeper, like she needs to feel the truth in every roll of your body against hers.
you lean down, forehead pressed to hers, new earrings brushing her skin, tears dripping onto her cheeks as you ride her thigh in these slow, messy circles.
“i love you,” you choke out again, softer this time, but steadier. “i love you. i love you so much it scared me stupid. i ran because i loved you and i didn’t know how to carry it.”
a broken sound leaves her throat—half laugh, half sob. she surges up and kisses you hard, tongue sliding against yours like she’s trying to drink the words straight from your mouth. her thigh tenses up firmer between your legs, helping you grind down, the soaked fabric dragging perfectly over your clit until your whimpers turn into little sobs of pleasure and relief all tangled together.
“i love you too,” she gasps against your lips, voice wrecked. “fuck—i’ve loved you for so long. even when you ran. even when you tried to forget me. stayed right here waiting like an idiot because i knew…i knew my pretty girl would come back to me.”
you moan into her mouth, hips moving faster now, slick and desperate, chasing the edge while she holds you like you’re something holy and breakable and finally, finally hers again. the cross at your throat bounces between you both with every roll. your new silver earrings catch the low light every time you tilt your head. tears keep falling but they don’t feel heavy anymore.
you come like that—gasping her name and those three trembling words into her mouth, soaking her thigh in hot, messy pulses while she holds you through every shake and sob and aftershock. she doesn’t let go. not even for a second.
yixiang holds you like the rest of the world can burn. arms locked around you as her lips press to your temple again and again, gentle kisses that say everything words still can’t carry.
“i love you,” she whispers once more, the words sinking into your skin like quiet prayer. “i love you. i love you.”
you close your eyes. new silver in your ears. old cross warm between your hearts. the wolf’s ink rising and falling beneath your cheek. everything feels heavy and light all at once—like you’ve finally been allowed to set the lie down and just be.
no more running.
no more kneeling until your knees split open just to feel clean.
no more pretending the ache between your thighs is anything but her name.
you tilt your head just enough to kiss the corner of her mouth, tasting salt and relief and the faint strawberry ghost of home. your voice comes out small, cracked, but sure.
“i’m staying.”
yixiang’s breath catches. then she smiles — that crooked half-smile you thought you’d lost forever — soft and real and a little bit broken, just like you.
“good,” she murmurs, pulling the blanket higher around your shoulders. “because i wasn’t letting you go this time anyway.”
just breathing. just staying. just loved.
outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and white and indifferent.
inside, you stay tangled with her under the ruined blanket, hearts beating slow and steady against each other, crosses clicking gently every time one of you shifts.
the lamb curls deeper into the wolf’s jaws. just where it belongs.
bonus.
you leaped into her arms without thinking, without breathing, the thin booklet pressed between your chests like a fragile promise.
yixi caught you—steady, always steady—arms wrapping tight around your waist as if she’d been waiting for this exact weight since the day the world narrowed to lecture halls and final exams. her laugh hummed low against your hair, rough and warm and disbelieving, the sound sinking straight into your ribs.
“you got it,” she whispered, a small laugh coming from her lips. her fingers spread wide across your back, holding you like something that might still vanish if she loosened her grip even a little. “you really got it.”
“let me see,” she murmured, voice soft as folded silk. you pulled back just enough, cheeks warm, and thrust the passport into her hands. her thumb brushed the cover—your face printed there, serious and small, like you still couldn’t believe the camera had caught you at all.
she opened it slowly, reverently, as if turning pages might scare the future away. her eyes lingered on the blank visas, empty fields waiting to be stamped with cities you’d only whispered about in the dark. kyoto. taiwan. cebu. paris. switzerland. some nameless beach where the tide sounded like forgiveness.
“you look terrified in this photo,” she said, a smile curving her mouth like a secret.
“i was,” you admitted, the confession slipping out light as breath. “still am.”
graduation had come and gone in a blur of polite applause and hollow smiles. your mother had hugged you once, stiff and proud, already talking about “suitable matches” and “settling down.” you had smiled back the way you were taught—small, obedient, empty.
but this—this little blue book with your name on it—felt like the first real breath you’d taken in years.
“we can go,” you breathed, voice cracking open. “anywhere. somewhere no one knows us. somewhere we don’t have to pretend anymore.”
yixiang stayed quiet for a moment, thumb still tracing the edge of your photo. then she closed the passport gently and set it aside, pulling you back into her arms like the decision had already been made months ago.
“seoul,” she said against your temple, accent curling warm around the word. “we start in seoul. i have a friend there—euijoo. she’s very tall, orange hair, very kind. kinda looks like ponyo, she’ll let us crash with her until we figure out the rest. no questions. no judgment. just… space to breathe.”
you let the name settle in your chest—euijoo. tall girl with orange hair. a stranger who might become safety. the idea felt terrifying and perfect at the same time.
“seoul,” you repeated, tasting it. foreign. far. free.
yixiang’s fingers slipped under your shirt, tracing slow circles against your bare skin, grounding you.
“yeah,” she whispered. “we’ll get lost in the city lights. eat too much street food. kiss in alleys where no one knows our names. and when you get scared… i’ll be right there. holding your hand. reminding you that you’re allowed to want this.”
you pressed your face into her neck, breathing her in—strawberry and rain and the faint smell of new beginnings. the cross at your throat rested warm against her collarbone, no longer a weight, just a quiet reminder of where you’d been.
𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: this is my longest fic so far and i absolutely loved writing it. god, i am so proud. took me 10 listens of nicole dollanganger, a bowl of pho, 2 midol and no sleep. i did lots of research.. i read the bible for this guys. it may not be completely accurate as i do not have experience with growing up in the church. if you are curious on why i write religious fics if i have "no religious trauma", i struggled a lot with being "pure" when i was assaulted for the first time. and as it kept happening the idea of being pure felt more and more far away. i think i associate purity with god, religion and stuff like that. i didn't want to be "impure" because that word somehow got tangled up with being unworthy—of love, of safety. when i was really young i would pray even though i wasn't religious, because i didn't know who else to go to to make the hurt stop. it was like i was bargaining: if i stayed good enough, maybe the hurting would stop. sometimes it felt like the only control i had left. i felt it was my last resort a lot of the time. sometimes i still do pray when things get bad. i also think my mental health issues play into it because i feel "broken" and a weird part of me believes if i could be fixed it would be the doing of a higher power. anyway thats just some knowledge in cause someone wants to make assumptions. 90% of my dark fics come from experience or issues i face.
i cant believe i wrote 20k words.. how do some writers fo 40-50k? anyway i really hope you guys like it !! i love writing more poetic fics~ ( ⸝⸝´ ᵕ `⸝⸝) aaaa im so excited for your reactions! please, if you can. share your thoughts. comment, anon inbox message, priv message, in the discord server, quote reblog. dont just like. i want to see how this made you feel 。°(°¯᷄◠¯᷅°)°。 !! anyway, thank you for 1k, this is for you.
I don't know if anyone really talked about this but I've seen so many smut fics come up in fluff and angst tags, especially porn with no plot ones.
As smut writers I think it's our responsibility to keep our fics away from minors and the easiest way to do that is not tag them in the fluff and angst sections. while I understand some of the fics might have mixed genres but i personally think that we shouldn't be tagging unless they're a very major part of the plot.
Also this is affecting the blogs and authors that do not write smut because those works barely ever show up on the tags. what I mean is that smut fics easily gain better traction than other genres so I think us not tagging them also maintains a balance in things.
I also understand that what the people read is up to them but we all know damn well minors who read fanfiction are teens and who follows rules in teenage? I hope you guys understand what I mean.
this is not an angry post, this is not directed to anyone at all but something that i noticed has been happening often! Thank you sm for reading through❤️
okay um, took a look at the word count and it’s really long for some odd reason! i think i blacked out or something idk but would you guys still read it ? idkidk the word count is looking like it’s gonna be around 8-9k after extreme editing & help from my proofreaders 😭
before interacting with me, please check this guide first.ᐟ
♱ 01 ᯓ this is a 18+ blog.ᐟ though i don’t only post smut, majority of my works contain some elements/themes that may fit into the category. minors & ageless blogs dni.
♱ 02 ᯓ i take fanfic requests! since i sometimes find it a little difficult to write something that doesn’t derive from my own thoughts, it may take a while for me to get to certain requests and put them out but i will take requests for anything that doesn’t push my boundaries! so as of right now, my requests are open.
♱ 03 ᯓ although my posting schedule is a little all over the place, i would still like my inbox to maintain some semblance of order. and please, keep in mind that i am currently in grad school & employed on top of everything else. ˙𐃷˙
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♱ 05 ᯓ all are welcome! i consider this blog to be a safe space for not only me but for everyone who reads my works and/or follows me. you can send me asks with fic recommendations, talk about your day, or if you’d just like to talk to me & etc!
♱ 06 ᯓ i am willing to try out new concepts for writing so often than not, my works will consist of different types of ideas and dynamics. to see what i will and won’t write, check below!
ⓘ────────𝔚𝖨𝖫𝖫 𝖶𝖱𝖨𝖳𝖤 & 𝔚𝖮𝖭’𝖳 𝖶𝖱𝖨𝖳𝖤 ⋆˙⟡ .ᐟ
› ABSOLUTELY! 𓏵 smut, age gaps, a/b/o, cheating/adultery, somnophilia, threesomes and group sex, rough sex, bdsm, breeding kink, impact play (choking, spanking, slapping), exhibitionism and voyuerism, semi-public sex, bodily fluids (squirting, spitting) parent & pregnancy aus.
› POSSIBLY? 𓏵 dubcon, free use, dddne, stalker, yandere, stepcest, pseudocest, age gaps, pet play, cheating/adultery, hybrid aus, anal, mxm, daddy kink, ddlg, gangbangs, some noncon themes (read below).
› ABSOLUTELY NOT. 𓏵 sexual violence, sa + r@pe, scat, piss, incest, pedophilia, high school aus, foot fetishization, age play, physical abuse, emetophilia.
ⓘ─────────𝕭𝖨𝖠𝖲𝖤𝖲 ⋆˙⟡ .ᐟ
TXT ᯓ SOOBIN & TAEHYUN.
ATEEZ ᯓ HONGJOONG, YUNHO, WOOYOUNG.
ENHYPEN ᯓ JAKE & JUNGWON.
&TEAM ᯓ EUIJOO, K, TAKI & NICHO.
NCT 127 ᯓ JAEHYUN, DOYOUNG, HAECHAN.
SVT ᯓ SEUNGKWAN, DK, SCOUPS.
RIIZE ᯓ ANTON, SHOTARO, WONBIN.
ⓘ────────𝕿𝖠𝖦𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 ⋆˙⟡ .ᐟ
( 🧺 ) @boba-beom, @kiokantalope, @n0-thisispatrick, @hyukafied, @hyunimylove, @luvsoobs, @choiwrld, @tyunkus, @belovedxiao, @h00nerz, @augiebae, @r0sa-w0sa . . send me an ask, dm or just comment to be added!
if we post too fast, we get accused of using ai (no, you don't know how fast someone can write. you don't even know if the "too-frequent-to-be-human updates" you see are something that have long been finished and sitting in an author's drafts for god knows how long. just because it's recently posted, doesn't necessarily always mean it's recently written too. a lot of writers finish the whole thing first before they start posting it chapter by chapter).
if we take "too long to update", we get people pressuring us to "update faster" even though fanfics are our hobbies and we write for ourselves first and foremost.
if our works are grammatically correct, we get accused of using ai (some of us just love correct grammars).
if our works are not grammatically correct, we get insulted/criticized (mind you, not everybody writes in their native language. kudos to writers who write in their second, or third, or fourth language — I'm willing to bet a lot of people who criticize fanfics because of poor grammar can't even speak other languages besides english).
if our paragraphs are "too long and too detailed", we get accused of using ai.
if our paragraphs are "too short", we also get accused of using ai.
if we are autistic and we write in ways some deem "too robotic", we get accused of using ai.
some people just don't use their brains to think "ai was trained on human-made works, it was trained to look human-made. ai writes this way because the way it writes is the way real humans write — real humans whose works it was trained to mimic". instead they somehow disregard this logic and think "hmmm this work looks ai-generated. I will engage in witch hunt, be a bully and harass writers whose works I don't vibe with".
writing is so fun until you run out of pre-planned plot and you stand at the precipice and slowly realise that you never really had a plot in the first place
Smut writers continuing writing about heeseung on here is so important actually. Fics are big part of fandom and it ensures that even if belift tries to erase him, heeseung will never be forgotten.