capslocked

[capslocked]

Visionary (aespa Karina)

(24.9k words) —————

"Four million views in twelve hours," he states, devoid of his usual smooth cadence, replaced by a weary, gravelly fatigue. 

The manager taps a single finger on his tablet, the sound a deadened, repeating tick-tick-tick against the polished surface. Its screen glows, displaying the cursed image: Karina, bathed in late afternoon sun filtering through her apartment window. 

Relaxed, off-duty. Smiling faintly. And wearing a red jacket.

Artery red. Soft-looking, almost velvety in the captured light. A simple, oversized piece she’d found in a tiny vintage store in Hongdae, drawn to its color like a magpie to shine. Innocence visualized. 

The rest: just her, a sliver of city view blurred in the background, a caption about enjoying a rare quiet moment. Now, it’s a Rorschach blot for a nation’s anxieties.

He swipes, screenshots cascade. Headlines screaming about ‘subversive symbolism,’ forums dissecting the shade of red ("Communist Scarlet?" one asks hysterically), trending hashtags like #KarinaBetrayal and #RedScareIdol.

"The engagement metrics—they’re not just high. They’re pathological. Algorithms birthing hydras."

Karina shifts on the deep leather sofa, the buttery material suddenly clinging, suffocating. Her own phone, silenced but vibrating incessantly in her blazer pocket, feels like a live grenade ready to explode. She keeps her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. 

"It was just a jacket," she says, the words sounding flimsy even to her own ears. "Downtime. Sunlight. That’s all." 

She’d worn red. That’s it. Not a flag, not a manifesto. Just cloth against skin on a random Tuesday afternoon.

He sighs, a long, weary exhalation that stirs the stiff petals of the mini-orchid on the desk. "Perception is reality in this industry. You know this. What you see as downtime, the internet sees as a coded broadcast. A declaration." 

Leaning forward, elbows on knees, his gaze sharpens despite the exhaustion lining his face. "The indifferent are drowned out. The disappointed are vocal. The angry—they mobilize. They remember. They hold onto things like barnacles." 

There’s no need to specify what ‘things.’ The dating scandal with Lee Jae Wook—the carefully managed reveal, the tidal wave of fan vitriol, the weeks of bowed heads and postponed and cancelled schedules—hangs between them, a ghost at the feast. SM had navigated that minefield. Barely. 

"This—this feels different. More—political. More volatile. It sticks to the group, not just you. aespa’s brand is futurism and innovation. Not—partisan mudslinging."

Their comeback looms like a storm cloud on the horizon. Recording finished. Choreography polished to a lethal edge. Concept photos locked. Millions invested. Momentum is a fragile, humming entity, susceptible to the slightest tremor. 

Except this isn’t a tremor; it’s a goddamn magnitude 9 earthquake.

"The post is down," Karina states flatly. She’d complied hours ago, the deletion feeling like an unnecessary bodily amputation. A concession to a madness she couldn’t comprehend. "Damage control is underway. Apologies drafted—" 

She trails off. Empty words against a digital wildfire.

Her manager shakes his head. A slow, decisive movement. "Deleting it just fuels the conspiracy theorists. Makes it look like guilt. Like we’re hiding something. Standard apologies sound hollow against this level of—interpretation." 

He steeples his fingers. "The timing is catastrophic. We need something stronger. Faster. A—reset."

Pausing, contemplating the next course of action, the air thickens further. Karina feels a prickle of unease crawl up her spine, colder than the rain-chilled glass behind her. His eyes hold a calculating glint she recognizes from previous crises, now edged with something harder, more desperate.

"There are channels," he begins, choosing his words with the precision of a bomb defuser. "Networks. Influential individuals who understand how to—recalibrate public perception. Especially when the usual methods seem insufficient." 

He doesn’t look at her directly now, his gaze fixed on the distorted cityscape. "Individuals who helped—smooth things over considerably last year. During the Jae Wook situation."

Karina’s breath catches. The ‘help’ during the dating scandal had been opaque, swift, and terrifyingly effective. Overnight, the most vicious forums went quiet. Key influencers shifted their narratives. It had felt less like PR and more like a silent, surgical strike. She’d been grateful, then. Too relieved to question the scalpel’s origin. Now, the memory curdles.

"You mean the fixers," replies Karina, her tone low. The term hangs in the air, blunt and ugly. "The ones who trade in favours with people who—own things. People in rooms without windows." 

Her grandmother’s stern face flashes in her mind: a woman who recited ancestral prayers every morning, who valued modesty, propriety, and had a clear line between right and wrong. The world he was hinting at was the antithesis of that. It was the whispered-about underbelly, the gilded cages, the transactions disguised as dinners. Escorts. Companions. A different kind of stage, a whole other world of an audience.

He flinches almost imperceptibly at the crudity. "I mean, individuals with significant reach. Who can communicate directly with platforms, with media gatekeepers, even—shape certain bureaucratic priorities. They understand the levers of influence. They can make this," he gestures dismissively at the tablet displaying the digital maelstrom, "disappear. Like it never happened. Redirect the conversation entirely. In time for the comeback."

The implication is a tangible weight, pressing down on her delicate chest. Communicate. Shape priorities. Euphemisms as thin as tissue paper. She knows the stories, the rumors that swirled like suffocating fog around other agencies, other names. Young actors suddenly cast in prestige dramas after being seen leaving exclusive clubs with much older, powerful men and high ranking political figures. Idols’ DUI charges vanishing from news cycles overnight. Favors rendered. Debts incurred. The price was rarely monetary.

"I was raised," Karina insists, the words scraping her throat, "to understand boundaries. To respect myself. My family—" She thinks of her mother’s quiet pride, her father’s protective sternness. "This—side of things. The companionship." She spits the word flatly. "It’s not something I can entertain. It’s not who I am." 

Her conservatism isn’t just about attending church on holidays; it’s a steadfast belief in integrity, in keeping certain parts of oneself sacred, untouched by the grubby commerce of influence. The industry demanded much, but this—this feels like selling her soul wholesale.

Her manager’s expression hardens. The veneer of the concerned figure cracks, revealing the steel beneath. "Karina, please understand the position. This isn’t just about you anymore. This is about Winter, Giselle, Ningning. Their careers. Their futures. The years of training, the sacrifices they made. This comeback isn't just a song; it’s the lifeline for the group. A prolonged hiatus now, while this festers? It kills our momentum stone dead. The public moves on. Fans find new obsessions, new groups to cling to. You know how fast the tide turns in this industry."

He leans closer, his voice dropping, intense. "This ‘inner circle’—their help is swift, decisive. A single meeting. A conversation. That’s all that’s being suggested. An introduction. To a man who understands—image realignment."

"A conversation," Karina echoes, the word tasting like pigshit. With a man whose power stemmed from trafficking in human favors. Whose ‘understanding’ of image realignment likely involved trading access to beautiful young people for influence. The thought makes her nauseate. She pictures a faceless figure in a shadowed room, the air thick with cigar smoke and unspoken demands. The red jacket felt trivial compared to the stain this would leave—on her body, on her dignity.

The faces of her members flash before her eyes: Winter’s firm determination, Giselle’s vibrant energy, Ningning’s quiet wit. Their trust. Their shared dreams stacked precariously atop this comeback. And then, the ghost of her own past mistake: the personal lapse that became a public scandal, the burden she’d already forced them to carry. The lingering guilt is a familiar ache, a constant companion.

Lee Jae Wook’s face surfaces. The stolen moments, the genuine affection overshadowed by the eruption of fan entitlement and corporate damage control. SM, with their unseen ‘inner networks,’ had made that go away. Cleanly. Efficiently. Painfully. They’d done it once. They were offering the same brutal solution now. A different price, extracted from a different part of her.

Rebellion is a silent scream breaking from inside her chest. Every fibre of her being, every lesson from her grandmother, every instinct screams ‘no.’ To walk into that enticing lure, even for a ‘conversation,’ feels like stepping onto a path with no return. It’s the industry’s rot, the part she’d vowed to never touch.

But the thought of Winter, Giselle, and Ningning—they ground her. The memory of their shared exhaustion after a 20-hour practice, their whispered hopes for the new song, the weight of their collective ambition. And the crushing weight of knowing she caused this. Her jacket. Her downtime. Her innocent post that became a political football. The rock is her conscience, her values, the person she was raised to be. The hard place is the potential ruin of not just her career, but the dreams of three others who trusted her.

The manager watches her, his gaze unreadable. He sees the conflict raging behind her carefully composed mask, the slight tremble in her clasped hands. He doesn’t push; doesn’t need to. Pressure is a physical thing.

Karina closes her eyes. Just for a second. She sees the red jacket, beautiful and soft, now a symbol of everything gone wrong, now bathed in her own blood. She sees the relentless scroll of online hate. The comeback posters defaced digitally, the music ignored because of the noise surrounding the messenger. She sees disappointment, not anger, in her members' eyes if it all crumbles because she refused the only lifeline offered.

The words that leave her lips are thin and brittle, carried away by the hum of the air conditioning almost before they’re spoken. They taste like defeat. Like a slow poison.

"Fine." She opens her eyes, meeting her manager’s gaze. There’s no relief in his expression, only grim acceptance. "Set up the meeting."

Karina looks out at the distorted neon lights of Gangnam, the city that built her dreams and now demanded her sacrifice. The red jacket was gone from her feed, but the stain, she knew, was just beginning to spread, in a way no digital deletion could ever erase. She had agreed to meet the rot. For the sake of the light. The price remained terrifyingly unknown. Her phone vibrates again in her pocket, a relentless reminder of the world waiting outside, already judging. She doesn’t reach for it. 

The jacket had been beautiful. That was all. That was everything. And now it was gone.

—————

The phone’s shrill bleat is a shiv to the temple. It claws through the syrupy haze of near-sleep, the warm, dark cocoon where limbs are tangled and breaths syncopate. 

Giselle’s leg, smooth and heavy, is thrown possessively over your hip, her face buried in the crook of your neck, exhaling tiny, warm puffs against your skin that smell faintly of expensive bourbon and her shampoo—something clean and green, like crushed stems. The sheets are a battlefield of silk, kicked low around your waist. Her hand rests, limp and trusting, on your bare chest, right over the steady thump beneath. 

Peace. A rare, stolen thing.

The noise shatters it. Again. Insistent. Metronomic.

You groan, a low rumble in your chest that vibrates against Giselle’s forehead. She stirs, mumbling something unintelligible, slurred with sleep, burrowing deeper. Her fingers twitch against your sternum; reaching for the nightstand feels like moving through wet cement. Your arm is leaden, trapped partly under the delicious weight of her. You fumble, blind, knocking over a half-empty glass of water—the clink sharp in the quiet—before your fingers finally close around the cold, sleek rectangle of the burner phone. 

Luminary-issued. Always on. Always priority.

You bring it to your ear without looking, your throat thick with sleep and the lingering residue of—well, her. 

"Yeah?"

The voice on the other end is crisp, professional, devoid of any identifying accent. It doesn’t need one. You know the source: SM Entertainment’s panic room, filtered through layers of deniability, landing directly in your ear. You picture Park, aespa’s manager since their company-wide restructuring two years ago, or maybe the higher-up whose name you deliberately forget, sweating in that lemon-polish scented office.

A pause. Then, a rapid-fire summary. You listen, your eyes adjusting to the pre-dawn gloom filtering through the expensive blackout curtains that never quite seal perfectly. Giselle sighs softly against your neck, her breath hitching slightly. You absentmindedly trace the ridge of her shoulder blade with your thumb.

"Really?" you yawn, the word barely more than an exhale. 

Your thumb stills on Giselle’s skin. The situation with the red jacket. The predictable, hysterical backlash. The impending comeback cratering before launch. The desperation. It’s all laid out, cold and efficient. You knew, of course. Luminary knows everything before the players even realize they’re on the board. But the formal request—that’s procedure. Standard protocol. That’s the dance.

A longer pause as the voice details the proposed—solution. The one they always propose when the usual damage control fails. The only solution they have access to. You can almost smell their fear through the line. Fear of failure. Fear of lost revenue. Fear of the faceless entity he’s petitioning.

"Understood." Your voice is clearer now, the sleep fading away, replaced by familiar, numbing detachment. 

The gears click into place. This is your terrain. Your ecosystem.

Another burst of anxious explanation from the other end. Reassurances sought. Timelines questioned.

You cut through it all. "This is no issue." Your tone is flat, final. Dismissive. Like swatting a pestering fly. "We’ll sort it out. Like we always do."

A beat of stunned silence, then a flurry of relieved, obsequious gratitude. You don’t wait for it to finish. You thumb the disconnect button, the silence rushing back in, louder than the call. The phone drops back onto the nightstand with a soft thud.

Giselle shifts. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark in the dim light, blink open. She peers up at you, sleep still clinging to her lashes. "Who was that?" 

Her tone is husky, sleep-roughened, sending a familiar curl of heat low in your belly. She stretches languidly against you, a cat uncoiling, the silk sheet slipping further to reveal the elegant dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. The memory of how that part felt beneath your hands, moving with you just hours ago, remains vivid till now.

"Your company," you say, your hand drifting back to her waist, fingers splaying possessively over the warm skin. "Panicking. As usual."

She makes a soft, dismissive noise in her throat, nuzzling back into your neck. "Mm. Idiots. What now? Another dating 'scandal' they need buried? Forgotten merch deal?" 

Her fingers trail lazy circles on your chest, dipping lower, teasing the edge of the sheet. Her touch is fire and promise, a stark counterpoint to the cold transaction just concluded.

"Bigger," you drawl, tilting your head to capture her earlobe gently between your teeth. She shivers, a full-body tremor you feel against your side. "Your leader. Karina."

Giselle stills. Not much, just a fractional pause in the movement of her fingers. Her breath hitches again, but differently this time. Less haze, more—awareness. She pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you properly. Her dark eyes search yours in the gloom. "Karina-unnie? What did she do?"

You recount it drily, your thumb resuming its slow path along her spine. "Started innocent enough. Posted a picture. Red jacket. Downtime. Sunlight. The internet, being the feral beast it is, decided it was an open declaration of political allegiance dropped via Instagram. SM is having kittens. Comeback’s on the brink."

She snorts, a surprisingly sharp, un-idol-like sound. "Seriously? Over a jacket? People need hobbies." But the amusement fades almost immediately, replaced by a flicker of something else. Concern, maybe resignation. "So—panic call. They want the usual fix." 

"The only fix they can access," you correct, dropping lower. Your hand slides from her waist, tracing the inward curve, down over the swell of her hip, fingers dipping beneath the loose sheet. She arches into the touch instinctively, a soft gasp escaping her lips. "They want her—introduced. To the solution."

Giselle’s breath catches audibly. She doesn’t pull away from your touch, but her body tenses slightly beneath your fingers. "Karina? They want Karina to—meet?" 

Meet. Such a benign term for the deeper suggestion, the velvet-lined transaction.

"She won’t. She’s—" Giselle searches for the word. "Stubborn. Conservative. Thinks this side of things is—dirty." There’s no judgment in her tone, just statement. Fact. "She’s never been interested. Not like—" 

It trails off, but the implication is clear. Not like the rest of us.

Your fingers continue their exploration, mapping familiar territory, stoking the embers that never truly die between you. Luminary made this possible. This easy access to her warmth, her sharp wit, her body yielding against yours night after night since aespa’s world tour ended and the relentless idol machine paused. 

It’s one of the perks of being one of their coveted Tier 4: Ascendant. A step right below the mythic, unseen Tier 5, whispered about only as "By Invitation Only." Ascendant means priority. It means your choice pick of Luminary’s curated galaxy. It means frequent access to Giselle, Winter, Ningning—their names appearing on your exclusive roster with satisfying regularity. 

It also means doors opening that aren't even visible to governments. SM Entertainment—they were ants scurrying at the base of Luminary’s impenetrable tower. Their frantic call was a mosquito buzz against hurricane glass.

"People change their minds," you hush against her temple, breathing in her warm, gooey scent. "Especially when their world is crumbling. Especially when the alternative is watching years of work, the careers of the people they love—" you emphasize the word, your hand tightening slightly on her hip, "—turn to dust over something as stupid as the color red."

Giselle shivers again, but it’s not entirely from your touch this time. "She has principles," she remarks, though it sounds less of a defense and more like a lament.

"Principles are luxuries," you counter, a low hum in the quiet room. "Expensive ones. The world Luminary moves in—it doesn’t run on principles. It runs on influence. On access. On the quiet application of power that makes presidents nervous and NGOs look like children playing in a sandbox." 

You think of the dossier Luminary maintains: their top-secret servers and hidden bunkers, thicker than any national intelligence file. Not just cleaning up celebrity scandals, but corporate takeovers smoothed by a well-placed companion at a crucial negotiation. Environmental regulations ‘reconsidered’ after a discreet weekend retreat for key legislators hosted by Luminary talents. Humanitarian aid suddenly flowing to a forgotten conflict zone—conveniently after Luminary facilitated the ‘asset reallocation’ of a troublesome warlord. They didn’t just offer companionship; they offered geopolitical realignment wrapped in silk and smiles. The UN issued reports; Luminary issued realities. 

SM’s little idol scandal was beneath trivial. It was a rounding error. But it was your rounding error to handle. Your Ascendant prerogative.

You feel Giselle processing it. The sheer, terrifying scale of the machine she’s a part of. A willing part. A thriving part. She knows the perks: the security, the connections, the insulation from the worst of the industry’s sharks. She also knows the price, paid in autonomy, in secrecy, in the quiet surrender to being a beautiful, talented asset in Luminary’s endless, shimmering pool.

"I’m meeting with her," you confirm, the statement simple, inevitable. Your fingers have found their way back to the sensitive skin just below her navel, drawing slow, deliberate circles. She trembles, a low moan catching in her throat, her earlier tension dissolving under the renewed heat of your touch. 

Her body remembers the night. Craves its echo. Loves thinking about the way you rocked her—every thrust, every jolt, every smack.

Giselle’s eyes flutter closed for a second, her head tipping back, exposing the long line of her throat. 

"Karina—" she breathes, her name a sigh tangled with desire and a thread of something like pity. Or maybe foresight. "She’ll fight it. Tooth and nail."

A slow smile touches your lips. You lean down, your mouth brushing the pulse point hammering beneath the delicate skin of her neck. She gasps, her hands flying up to tangle in your hair. 

"Let her fight," you mumble, the words vibrating against her skin. "It makes the surrender all the more sweeter." 

Your other hand slides further down, beneath the sheet, seeking the heat you know is waiting. "Luminary gets them all eventually, Aeri. Every single one. The holdouts just make the most interesting—acquisitions."

She cries out then, a sharp, beautiful sound as your fingers find their mark, her body arching off the mattress, pressing desperately into your touch. The phone call, SM’s typical panic, Karina’s impending crisis—it all recedes, drowned out by the immediate, visceral reality of Giselle coming undone once more beneath your hands, here in this expensive, anonymous bedroom, courtesy of the invisible hand that moved mountains and managed figures with equal, chilling ease. 

Luminary provided. Luminary protected. Luminary consumed.

And as for Karina: she was just the next course on the Ascendant’s menu. Her precious principles would melt like sugar in the rain under the heat of Luminary’s inexorable gravity. You’d make sure of it. Like you always did. Not for the company, but for the cruel, cold satisfaction of the game. For the power humming in your Tier 4 veins.

—————

The air in Karina’s private SM office brims with unspoken dread. She sits rigid behind a minimalist desk, back straight as a ruler, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles are bloodless islands in a sea of pale skin. 

She wears black: sleek trousers, a high-necked blouse. Armor against the world, against you, and the forces you represent. 

The infamous red jacket is nowhere to be seen. Banished. Erased. Like the Instagram post. 

You lean back in the visitor’s chair, the expensive leather sighing softly. Your posture is relaxed, almost indolent, a complete 180 to her coiled tension. You’ve seen this tableau countless times: the talented, the beautiful, the cornered. The office window offers a panorama of Seoul’s gleaming spires, but your focus is entirely on the woman radiating controlled fury across the polished teak.

"Standard procedure, Karina," you begin, devoid of the corporate bluster she’s likely braced for. No manager to intercede on her behalf this time. This is direct. Tier 4 to prospective talent. "Lay it out. In your own words. The situation. The—predicament." 

You gesture vaguely, encompassing the digital storm raging beyond these soundproofed walls.

She doesn’t flinch. Her dark eyes, sharp and intelligent beneath the perfectly styled fringe, lock onto yours. There’s no fear there, not yet. Just a simmering resentment, a profound distaste. For you. For what you represent. For the necessity of this meeting. 

"You know," she states, flatly. Not a question. "You all know. That’s the point, isn’t it? Luminary knows everything."

You incline your head, a fractional nod. Acknowledgement, not apology. "Indulge me. Perspective is valuable. Humor the process."

A muscle ticks in her jaw. She takes a breath, short and controlled. "I wore a red jacket. I took a picture. I posted it. It was—our downtime. Sunlight. Nothing more. The internet—" 

She pauses, searching for a word worthy of the absurdity. "—conjured a political manifesto. SM panicked. Took it down. Made it worse. Now the comeback—our comeback—is drowning in this manufactured outrage." 

Her voice remains level, professional, but the undercurrent is pure, undiluted frustration. "And they sent me to you. The ‘solution.’”

You watch the elegant line of her neck, the stubborn set of her shoulders. The aggressive, almost archaic sense of propriety that radiates from her like a force field. It’s admirable. And, in this context, utterly futile. 

"Manufactured outrage requires manufactured solutions," you agree smoothly. "Luminary specializes in recalibration. We can make this vanish. Redirect the narrative. Ensure your comeback launches—unimpeded." 

You let the promise hang, potent and dangerous.

Her gaze doesn’t waver. "At what cost?"

Here it is. The pivot. The velvet-gloved ultimatum. 

You lean forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees, your expression shifting from detached observer to corporate emissary. The mask of the Ascendant client slips; the Luminary representative in you takes the stage. 

"Luminary’s assistance requires—unified alignment. Total commitment. A reciprocal understanding." 

You meet her eyes, your own cool, implacable. "First obligation: You join the talent pool. Tier 3. Esteemed. Where your fellow members already reside."

Karina’s breath hitches, almost imperceptibly. You see the revulsion flash in her eyes: the visceral recoil from the very idea of being cataloged, commodified, made available in Luminary’s expansive catalog alongside Giselle, Winter, and Ningning. The dark side of the industry she vowed never to touch. 

"No," she whispers, the word an evident crack in her composure. Then, stronger, firmer, "Absolutely not."

You don’t react to the refusal; you anticipated it. Most unwilling clientele fight back—initially. Until they’re cornered into submission by the higher powers that be, or in this case, the court of public opinion.

"Second obligation," you continue, as if she hadn’t said anything, "You convince SM Entertainment to send you to Waterbomb next month. Solo."

Her eyes widen slightly. Waterbomb. The infamous festival. A riot of water guns, soaked crowds, revelry bordering on chaos. Known for its—liberated atmosphere. Performers letting loose, often in revealing outfits, playing into the wet, wild fantasy. The antithesis of her carefully controlled, conservative image. A calculated exposure. 

"Solo?" she echoes, disbelief spliced with dawning horror. "You want me to—perform alone? At that event?"

"Participate," you correct. "Immersion is key. Be seen. Be—approachable. Human. Not the pristine idol caught in a political crossfire. An image reset." 

The unspoken implication hangs heavy: Let them see the body they’ve been debating. Let them see it wet, bouncing around, having fun. Distract them.

"And the rest?" she demands, tight, laced with a growing fury. "What other—obligations does Luminary demand? What else do you want to leverage from this?" She spits the words. "You’re exploiting this. Using SM’s panic, my—my mistake—for your own gain. For Luminary’s roster." 

The accusation is sharp, direct. She sees the transaction, naked and ugly.

You hold her furious gaze. There’s no anger in your response, only a detached, almost weary pragmatism. "Exploitation implies imbalance, Karina. This is commerce. Influence rendered, payment required. Luminary doesn’t hand out freebies." 

You let the silence stretch for a beat, let the weight of your next statement land. "We certainly didn’t last year. With Lee Jae Wook."

The effect is instantaneous; all color drains from her face. Her rigid posture slackens for a fraction of a second, complete shock punching through the anger. 

The dating scandal. The meticulously managed fallout that had felt like divine intervention at the time. The silence bought, the narratives steered away from career-altering ruin. "That—that was you?" 

The question is a broken whisper. Her fundamental understanding of that crisis crumbles. It wasn’t SM’s prowess or—competence (for lack of a better term); it was Luminary. A debt secretly incurred in the shadows.

"Luminary," you confirm, soft but inexorable. "We smoothed the edges. We contained the blast radius. We protected you. We protected aespa." You lean back again, the movement deliberate. "We always collect our dues, Yu Jimin. Always. Sometimes the collection is immediate. Sometimes," you gesture towards her, "it waits for the opportune moment. The moment when the leverage is—absolute."

The office feels suddenly colder, smaller. Outside, the gleaming cityscape feels like a painted backdrop. Karina looks down at her clasped hands, the fight momentarily knocked out of her by the revelation. The debt existed long before the red jacket. The rot, as she saw it, had already touched her; she just hadn’t known its name or understood its true form. 

"Tier 3—Waterbomb—" she quietly notes, the words sounding like blasphemy from her mouth, "And then? What comes after? What are the ‘rest?’”

"That," you say, a faint, unreadable smile touching your lips, "will follow. Once the current issue is resolved to Luminary’s satisfaction. Consider it—deferred compensation. Trust in the process." 

The unspoken, ambiguous nature is intentional, a hook buried deep. The unknown future obligation is a more potent shackle than any specific demand.

Karina looks up, her eyes searching yours again. But the fury has banked, replaced by an acute weariness, a dawning realization of the cage’s dimensions. 

"Why?" she asks, the question straightforward. "Why push this? Why me? You have Giselle. You have the others. Why force me into—this?" 

There’s a flicker of something else beneath the resignation: a desperate need to understand the why of her personal unraveling.

The question surprises you, slightly. It’s personal. Not about the transaction, but the target. You consider her: the cautious intelligence. The stubborn adherence to a code in a world that laughs at morals. The quiet dignity she represents, even now, under siege. 

"Giselle is—enjoyable. Very frisky. A dopamine rush in the dark," you candidly admit. "But you—" You pause, genuinely assessing her, "You were always the favorite, Karina. Even when I was tangled up with Gigi most nights since the tour ended." 

You see the slight flinch at the casual mention of her member’s involvement. "It’s not just the face. Not just the body everyone argues about online." You gesture vaguely towards the invisible internet storm. "It’s the steel. The—integrity. The way you hold yourself apart. Or try to." 

Your tone holds no mockery, only a detached observation. "I respect it. Truly. It’s rare. Admirable, even."

Her eyes widen slightly at the admission, the unexpected sliver of recognition—empathy, maybe—throwing her further off balance.

"But," you continue, the softness in your cadence evaporating, replaced by the inevitable finality of the corporate calculus, "admiration doesn’t pay Luminary’s dividends. Principles don’t silence trending hashtags or salvage nine-figure comebacks. Your integrity is a luxury SM cannot afford, and frankly, neither can you. Not anymore. Not after the jacket. Not after the debt called in.

The path forward is clear. Tier 3. Waterbomb. The rest—it’ll be saved for after this is all cleared. Or—" 

You let the alternative hang, heavy and suffocating, "You walk out that door. You face the storm. You watch the comeback implode. You watch Winter, Giselle, Ningning pay the price for your red jacket and your—principles." 

There’s little need to elaborate on the consequences for her own career. She knows what’s at stake here.

Karina stares past you, not at the glittering city, but at some internal abyss. You see the fight behind her eyes: the ingrained conservatism faced against the crushing weight of responsibility, of guilt, of the debt she never knew she owed. The image of her members—Winter’s focused intensity, Giselle’s sharp humor, Ningning’s vibrant energy—flickers across her face. 

You see the exact moment the steel bends. Not breaks, but folds. 

The proud line of her shoulders dips, almost imperceptibly. The light in her eyes dims, replaced by a hollow resignation. The fight leaks out of her, replaced by the crushing weight of necessity. The rock of her principles, the hard place of her group’s survival. 

She chose the group; she chose their future.

Karina looks back at you, her gaze now shuttered, opaque. The vulnerability is gone, walled away behind a mask of cool professionalism that mirrors your own. A transaction accepted. 

"Tier 3," she states, flat, devoid of inflection. A statement, not a question.

You nod once. "Esteemed."

"Waterbomb. Solo." 

Another statement. Each word costs her a piece of her soul.

"Convince SM. Luminary will ensure the invitation is—persuasive." 

You don’t specify how.

She takes a slow, deliberate breath, as if steeling herself. "And the rest?"

"Will be communicated. In due course." 

You hold her gaze, acknowledging the leap into the unknown she’s being forced to take.

A beat. Two. The sterile air crackles with the energy of a deal struck in hell. Then, slowly, deliberately, Karina unfolds her hands. She pushes her chair back and stands. Her movements are precise, economical. She walks around the desk, each step measured on the plush carpet. 

She stops before you, extending her right hand. Not subserviently. Not pleadingly. But as an equal entering a binding, if abhorrent, contract. A general surrendering with dignity.

You rise, matching her height. You look into her eyes: the anger banked, the principles submerged, but not extinguished. There’s a flicker of something else now, beneath the resignation: a wary assessment, the beginning of a recalibration. 

You take her hand. Her grip is firm, cool, dry. No tremor. A soldier’s handshake. Yours is equally firm, a businessman’s seal.

The handshake lasts precisely three seconds. A transaction ratified. Her entry into Luminary’s glittering cage formally initiated. Her principles sacrificed on the altar of group survival and a debt called due. There is only the contract, the debt paid, and the unsettling certainty that Luminary, once again, has claimed what it was owed.

—————

The proposal slides across the manager’s desk like an unassuming piece of corporate driftwood. Karina watches his eyes scan the document outlining her ‘exclusive sponsorship opportunity’ with Sprite at Waterbomb. His brow, perpetually furrowed these days, smooths fractionally. 

"Sprite, huh?" he murmurs, tapping the logo. "Good brand alignment. Waterbomb’s chaotic, but the exposure—it’s significant. Solo spotlight right along with the group comeback? Could be—strategic." Glancing up, a flicker of genuine, weary relief touches his eyes. "They approached us?"

Karina forces a neutral nod, the calculated lie settling like a forbidden curse on her tongue. "Their regional marketing head reached out. Looked past the—recent discourse. Thought it presented a unique moment for brand-human synergy." 

Luminary’s crafted jargon sounds alien. Synergy. As if Sprite’s algorithms and tested focus groups spontaneously generated this lifeline, not the invisible hand of a Tier 4 Ascendant pulling strings in the shadows. 

They easily buy it; the outcome was rather expected. Luminary’s influence doesn’t announce itself; it simply arranges the red carpet and walks on its chosen path. Companies became compliant partners, their executives unknowing actors in a larger, darker production.

"Approved," he says, stamping the form with finality. "Good initiative, Karina. Turning a negative into a platform. That’s the spirit." 

His praise feels like salt rubbed into the wound of her capitulation. The first obligation—Waterbomb, alone, drenched and on display—is locked in. The second, her silent enrollment in Luminary’s Tier 3 talent pool, hums like a live wire beneath her skin, unseen but omnipresent. She leaves his office feeling hollow, the sterile lemon-polish air of the room clinging to her like a shroud.

The obligations follow her into the mirrored cavern of the SM practice room. The relentless thumping of the comeback song, normally a pulse syncing them together, now feels like a countdown. She watches her reflection: sharp, precise movements, expression meticulously calibrated to fierce determination. Beside her, Winter executes a complex spin with icy perfection, Giselle lands a powerful jump with a playful smirk, Ningning’s vocals slice through the bass with crystalline clarity. 

They move as one, a well-oiled machine.

Yet, Karina’s focus fractures. Her gaze snags on Giselle’s hand, braced against the floor during a low sweep. She imagines those fingers tangled in different sheets, tracing different contours. Her eyes flick to Winter’s concentrated profile. He must have drawn that same intense focus from her in a dim bedroom. Maybe Ningning’s bright laugh echoed differently for him.

The thought is intrusive: He’s had them all. Countless times, between comeback periods and especially during their extended hiatus. Fucked them to pieces, then sent them back here, smiling. Luminary’s corporate calculus extended to their bodies, their intimacies, traded like stock. Now, she was part of the portfolio.

During a water break, the question claws its way out, sharper than intended.

"What’s he like?" asks Karina, grabbing a towel, carefully casual, aimed at no one and everyone. "The—sponsor. The Sprite connection." 

A flimsy cover, but necessary. 

Ningning beams, oblivious, wiping her neck. "Oh! The Sprite guy who met with PD-nim? Super nice! Quiet, but polite. Brought those fancy Japanese melons for the staff last week, remember?" She takes a long gulp of water. "Super respectful."

Winter, stretching her hamstring against the barre, adds in her measured tone, "He’s efficient. Gets things done without unnecessary fuss. Knows the industry inside out. Very—professional." 

There’s no flicker of deeper knowledge in her cool eyes. Just a factual assessment of a useful contact.

Giselle, leaning against the mirrored wall, watches Karina. Her dark eyes hold a complex mix: understanding, shared history, silent warning signs. She knows exactly which ‘he’ Karina means. She pushes off the wall, her tone light but layered. 

"Yeah. Proper gentleman. Until he’s not." 

A ghost of a smirk touches her lips. "Knows how to make things—happen. Thoroughly." 

She meets Karina’s gaze directly for a split second. The word hangs, heavy with unspoken meaning. 

Thoroughly. Bold in bed. Freaky, even. A gentleman who shed propriety behind closed doors. He wasn’t just a shadowy fixer; he was a man who knew her members rather intimately, and they spoke of him with—great appreciation. Respect, even borderline affection, tangled with the transactional nature of his profession.

Karina looks away, focusing on retying her shoe, her fingers trembling slightly. The dissonance is jarring. The monster forcing her into gilded servitude is, to her closest sisters, a ‘proper gentleman’ who got things done and apparently, got them off. 

Where was the coercion they must have felt? The revulsion she battled? Was the cage so comfortable once you stopped rattling the bars? 

The thought sickens her. Her resistance, her precious principles, were likely out of naivety, or the very definition of judging a book by its cover.

Practice grinds on. Karina throws herself into the choreography, the punishing physicality a welcome distraction from the churn of her thoughts. She matches Winter’s icy precision, mirrors Giselle’s powerful swagger, harmonizes perfectly with Ningning. But inside, she feels fractured. The obligations coil tighter: Waterbomb’s impending spectacle, the invisible brand of ‘Esteemed’ seared onto her Luminary profile, the terrifying vagueness of ‘the rest.’ 

And overlaying it all, the image of him: detached, empathetic in his chilling way, the architect of her surrender. The man who respected her steel even as he methodically melted it down for the company forge.

Later, slumped in the back of the van heading to the dorm, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows, her body aches with exhaustion. The other members chatter softly: Ningning about a new game, Winter about vocal exercises, Giselle humming a snippet of the track. Normalcy, fragile and precious. 

Karina closes her eyes, seeking a moment’s peace.

Her personal phone buzzes in her sweatpants pocket. Not the Luminary burner; her real one. 

A cold dread trickles down her spine. She pulls it out.

The screen illuminates her tired face in the dim van. A single message. From an unknown number, but the origin is terrifyingly obvious.

> Situation recalibration proceeding on schedule. Sprite integration confirmed. Waterbomb parameters secured. Maintain focus on group preparations. Your commitment to the Tier 3 Esteemed status is noted. Remember the binding nature of our arrangement. Clarity on subsequent obligations will follow resolution. Proceed accordingly.

No signature. No unnecessary words. Just cold, efficient reminders of the chains. The Sprite lie laid bare as his handiwork. The Waterbomb trap sprung. Her ‘Esteemed’ status acknowledged like a stock ticker. And the ever-present threat of "the rest," dangling like a sword. 

Karina’s thumb hovers over the screen. The urge to smash it against the window, to scream, to rip the invisible contract to shreds, is a binding pressure in her chest. She glances sideways, away from judging, prying eyes. Giselle is watching her reflection in the window, her expression unreadable in the passing streetlights. Winter and Ningning are lost in their own worlds.

She doesn’t reply; doesn’t delete the message. She simply locks the screen, the cold glow extinguishing, leaving her face shrouded in shadow. The message sits there, unread, unchecked. A digital shackle. A reminder that the shadows are always watching, and the man who moves within them, the ‘proper gentleman’ who dismantled lives and controlled reputations with absolute ease, owns a piece of her now.

—————

The roar of the crowd vibrates through the soles of Karina’s stage boots, a physical echo of the digital tsunami Luminary orchestrated. The political firestorm ignited by a red jacket—extinguished. Smothered beneath a meticulously engineered wave of positive press, strategic influencer endorsements, and algorithmically boosted adoration for aespa’s comeback. 

The music show trophy, cold and heavy in Winter’s grasp backstage, is less a victory and more a receipt. Proof of Luminary’s terrifying efficiency. The scandal didn’t fade; it was deleted from existence. Karina stands amidst the confetti-strewn chaos feeling like an imposter draped in borrowed triumph. Her members radiate genuine, exhausted elation: Giselle’s arm slung around Ningning’s shoulders, Winter’s usually stoic face softened by a rare, wide smile. She forces her lips into the appropriate curve, the muscles protesting. 

The win feels hollow, purchased.

Her personal phone, tucked into the waistband of her stage shorts beneath the sparkly crop top, buzzes. Not the celebratory kind. A cold dread pools in her stomach even before she glimpses the screen in the cramped, bustling dressing room.

> Congratulations on the win. Well-deserved momentum. Remember your solo engagement tomorrow. Luminary anticipates fulfillment. Attire options attached. Choose wisely.

Attached are five images. Not Sprite-branded green or yellow monstrosities, but sleek, designer pieces curated with predatory precision. A deep black one-piece cut high on the thigh, backless. A barely-there bandeau top paired with microscopic shorts in neon green mesh. A draped crimson halter that promises strategic reveals with every splash. All ‘sexy yet classy’ in the way only a Tier 4 Ascendant, who trafficked in the aesthetics of desire, could define it. All guaranteed to make her the undisputed focal point of Waterbomb’s wet, raucous spectacle.

Karina’s reaction is near-explosive, bordering on screaming. She feels incredibly revulsed. She types swiftly, fingers stabbing the screen.

> Our stylist team has it covered. No need for your selections.

The reply is instantaneous, a ghostly echo in the noisy room.

> Really now? Let’s find out tomorrow.

It’s not a threat; it’s a statement of absolute certainty. Luminary didn’t make suggestions; it orchestrated realities.

The next morning, in the cool, clinical air of the styling salon, the chill deepens into icy disbelief. Karina stares at the garment bag unzipped before her. Nestled within, pristine and mocking, is the black one-piece. The same one from his text. The one with the thigh slit that promises too much and the back that promises nothing at all.

"No," Karina breathes, the word barely discernible over the hum of hair dryers. "This wasn’t—this isn’t on the approved list." She looks desperately at her head stylist, a woman usually religiously protective of her vision.

She beams, completely oblivious to her concern. "Surprise! Sprite’s regional lead overnighted this. Exclusive piece, just for you! Said it perfectly captures the ‘youthful energy synergy’ they want for Waterbomb. Isn’t it divine? Fits the ‘classy sexy’ brief perfectly." 

Holding it up, the dark fabric catches beneath the fluorescent lights, shimmering like captured moonlight. Or scales. "Go on, try it! It’s going to photograph incredibly wet."

Sprite’s regional lead. Karina’s blood runs cold. Another puppet. Another string pulled by the unseen hand in the shadows. Luminary hadn’t just suggested; it had inserted its choice into the very heart of SM’s apparatus. Resistance is not just futile; it’s anticipated, already circumvented in a number of ways. 

Reluctance fights with a crushing sense of inevitability. Disdain for the man who orchestrated this, for the garment itself. It violently curdles in her stomach. Yet, the faces of her members flash—their exhausted joy from last night, the comeback’s hard-won success resting precariously on Luminary’s continued goodwill. The unspoken threat of "the rest." 

With numb fingers, she takes the hanger.

Later, standing before a full-length mirror in a private prep area near Waterbomb grounds, Karina barely recognizes herself. The black one-piece does fit perfectly, clinging like a second layer of skin. It is classy, in a devastating, predatory way. The high-cut legs elongate her frame, the deep plunge in the back exposes a dramatic expanse of smooth skin, the shimmer makes her look sculpted, ethereal—and utterly exposed. It’s armor designed for surrender. She feels less like an idol and more like a sacrifice adorned for the altar. Distantly, the chaotic thump of festival music and the shrieks of the crowd filter through the walls.

Her phone buzzes on the vanity. The Luminary burner.

> Preparations successful? A visual confirmation would be appreciated. Consider it—quality assurance.

The audacity. The intimacy of the demand. 

Karina’s fingers curl into fists, the manicured nails biting into her palms. She wants to hurl the phone against the wall. Instead, she picks it up, her movements stiff, reluctant. Angling the camera at her face, capturing only the tense line of her jaw, the wary defiance in her eyes against the backdrop of the garish prep room lights. She sends it: a sliver of herself, still guarded.

> Confirmed.

The reply comes faster than her next heartbeat.

> The attire is the subject of interest, Karina, not the ceiling. Full frame. Please.

Please. The word is a velvet-wrapped scalpel. Charming. Firm. Utterly inescapable. 

He’s doing his job, Luminary’s detached emissary, ensuring their asset is presentation-ready. The kindness is the cruelest part—the reminder that this violation is merely business, only corporate calculus. He’s not a monster snarling; he’s a polite executive requesting compliance with a contract she signed in a lemon-scented office.

A wave of hot shame washes over her, followed by a colder fury. He did his part. Buried the scandal. Secured the win. Delivered the Sprite "sponsorship" and the outfit currently making her skin crawl in a tailor-made, curated package. Her part was Waterbomb. And, apparently, this. Proof of delivery.

Closing her eyes for a brief second, Karina steadies her breath. She holds the phone at arm's length, angling it down. The screen fills with the reflection: the shocking length of her legs emphasized by the black fabric, the narrow waist, the curve of her hips, the dramatic plunge of the back visible in the mirror behind her. She is a statue rendered in desire and obligation. She taps send before she can think, before she can vomit.

The response isn’t immediate. Seconds stretch, filled only by the muffled festival roar and the frantic hammering of her own heart. Then, three dots pulse. Pulse. Pulse. An eternity compressed into digital hesitation.

When the message finally appears, it’s uncharacteristically brief.

> Gorgeous.

Just one word. But Karina senses the crack in his professional facade as if it were verbal. The detachment momentarily breached. The Ascendant Tier 4, the master of corporate influence, momentarily reduced to a man staring at a screen, salivating. She pictures him, wherever his shadowy office is, leaning back, perhaps loosening his collar, his cool gaze igniting with a hunger that has nothing to do with filling up Luminary’s red ledgers. 

Then, the professional mask snaps back into place, the next message arriving swiftly, correcting course.

> Enjoy the festival, Karina. Fulfill your obligation with the professionalism expected of an idol with your talent and popularity. We will meet again soon to discuss—progression.

The kindness returns, edged now with a renewed, chilling firmness. The momentary lapse is over. The transaction continues. Progression. A euphemism that tastes like a threat. The "rest" looms.

A stylist knocks, her voice bright and urgent through the door. "Karina! Five minutes! They’re ready for you at the Sprite activation zone!"

Karina looks at her reflection one last time. The woman in the mirror looks back, beautiful, exposed, and bound. She picks up the oversized water gun provided by Sprite, its plastic cold and garish in her hand. A prop. Like her. Like the triumph, the trophy, the vanished scandal. All props in Luminary’s meticulously staged production.

She doesn’t reply to the last message. Instead, she simply turns, the dark fabric whispering like a secret against her skin, and walks towards the door, towards the roaring chaos of Waterbomb, towards the blinding flashes of cameras.

—————

The door clicks shut behind her. Silence swallows the hum of the building outside. Monday afternoon light cuts through the blinds of the SM executive office, striping the polished floor and the empty chair behind the imposing desk. Karina stands frozen just inside the threshold, her posture rigid, the carefully constructed mask of the leader momentarily slipping. She’d braced for the stern face of management, for the weight of another corporate reprimand layered atop the lingering shame. 

Not this. Never this.

You watch her. Seated not behind the desk of power, but casually angled in one of the visitor’s chairs beside it, an island of calm control in the corporate sea. Your suit is impeccable, charcoal grey absorbing the slatted light, a subtle contrast to the room's bland beige. One ankle rests on the opposite knee, fingers steepled lightly in your lap. The air conditioner whirs, the only sound besides the frantic, almost audible thrum of Karina’s pulse you imagine hammering against her ribs.

"Karina," you call with a smooth baritone, cutting the quiet like warm oil. It holds none of the bluster or weary frustration she’d expected. Only a disarming, calculated charm. "Please. Sit." 

You gesture to the chair opposite where you’re seated, the one meant for supplicants. "The higher-ups are—otherwise occupied. They asked me to convey their appreciation for your diligence throughout the comeback promotions. Exhausting, I imagine."

She doesn’t move. Her eyes, wide and dark as spilled ink, dart from your face to the empty executive chair, then back to you. Suspicion hardens the delicate line of her jaw. Her hands, clenched at her sides, are pale-knuckled. 

"They summoned me," she states, the words clipped, tight. A statement, not a question. A demand for explanation in this violation of expected protocol.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches your lips. Not unkind, merely acknowledging the chess move. "And they delegated. Consider me—a liaison. A more direct line, perhaps, given our recent—collaboration." 

You let the word hang, loaded, in the space between you. "The dust has settled, wouldn't you agree? The comeback was a success. SM’s coffers are happier. Your members are in a great place, as a group and individually." 

Tilting your head, you study her. The faint shadows under her eyes, the tension holding her shoulders taut. It’s a clear tell. "So tell me, Yu Jimin. Waterbomb. How was the experience?"

The question lands like a sucker punch, even if it were expected. Her breath hitches, a tiny, sharp sound swallowed by the room's stillness. Performing. The roar of the rowdy crowd, a brutal wave crashing over her. The unfamiliar freedom of going solo, stripped of her unit, her armor. The blinding lights, the sweat-slicked skin under the enforced black fabric that felt more like a brand than a costume. The adrenaline-fueled rush of owning that space, alone. And afterwards, the fleeting, unexpected choir of fan chants directed solely at her, Yu Jimin, not just Karina of aespa. 

"It was—" she starts, brittle, then stops. Her gaze drops to the striped pattern the light makes on the floor. Denial is her first shield. "It was a professional obligation. Fulfilled."

You lean forward slightly, the motion economical, purposeful. The leather of the chair sighs softly. "Professional obligations rarely leave one looking quite so—alive in the aftermath, Karina. Even through the carefully curated exhaustion." 

Your eyes hold hers, unwavering. There’s no judgment in your gaze, only a cool, analytical curiosity. Like a scientist observing a fascinating reaction. "The stage. The crowd. The physicality of it all. The connection. Tell me you felt nothing. Tell me it was merely a transaction, and I’ll believe you." 

A beat. 

"But we both know that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?"

The pressure is subtle, insidious. It’s not a demand, but an invitation to confess to a truth she desperately wants to bury. To acknowledge the pleasure feels like capitulation to the very forces that orchestrated it. Luminary’s invisible hand forcing her onto that stage, into that outfit, twisting her image. Yet—the memory of the energy, the performance high—it surges, unbidden, potent.

Her throat works. She looks away, towards the window framing a slice of Seoul’s relentless skyline. 

"It—" 

The sentence is cut off at the first word like a sudden, swift blade. She swallows, forces herself steadier, though it trembles at the edges. "There was—a moment. On stage. Just me. The music. The fans shouting my name—" 

She trails off, the admission sounding like sin. "It wasn't—entirely unpleasant. The performance itself." 

Snapping her gaze back to you, defiance flaring, she makes a desperate attempt to reclaim ground. "But that? The outfit? The context? That was your doing. Luminary’s manipulation. Don't confuse the act for the artifice."

A genuine spark of something flickers in your eyes: satisfaction, perhaps, or simple appreciation for the honesty wrung from her. 

"There it is," you reply, the smile deepening fractionally, revealing nothing of warmth, only acknowledgment of a point scored. "The performance. The unbound energy. That’s the core, isn’t it? That’s the Karina SM built, and Luminary—refocused." 

You lean back, looking like a picture of relaxed authority. "You commanded that stage. A captivating force. Sprite is ecstatic, by the way. Their metrics are—impressive."

The praise, delivered with such detached professionalism, feels like another layer of the trap. She doesn't soften. 

"I did what was required. To protect my team. To salvage the comeback you endangered in the first place." 

"Endangered?" You raise an eyebrow, mildly surprised at the unexpected rebuttal. Knowing damn well this had nothing to do with her predicament that led her here in the first place. "We provided a solution. A necessary recalibration. And it worked, spectacularly. Karina, your name is everywhere. Not just within K-pop circles. Mainstream news. Entertainment blogs. International forums." 

You pause, letting the pervasiveness sink in. "Though," you add, your tone shifting subtly, a hint of analytical detachment entering, "you weren't quite the sole topic of conversation this weekend."

Karina stiffens. "What do you mean?"

"Kwon Eunbi," you state, the name dropping cleanly into the silence, meeting her questioning gaze. "Tier 1: Initiate. Luminary talent. Performed the day before you. She opened her set in a rather elaborate cowboy ensemble. Boots, hat, the whole aesthetic. Sexy, certainly. Predictable." 

There’s a dismissive flicker in your eyes. "And then, for the finale—" 

You let the pause build tension you know she doesn't want to feel but can't avoid. "—she stripped it all away. Down to a lingerie set. White lace. Strategically minimal. Designed less for dancing, more for—impact. Dangerous, some called it. Reckless. Others called it iconic."

The image forms, unbidden, in Karina’s mind. Eunbi, confident, fierce, shedding layers under the blazing lights, reducing her performance to pure, provocative spectacle. A shiver runs through her nerves, part revulsion, part horror-stricken understanding the audacity of it. The sheer, brutal effectiveness.

"The internet," you continue, a low hum cutting through her thoughts, "is rather divided. Outraged. Awed. Obsessed." You tap a single finger lightly on the armrest. "Sound familiar? Your name. Her name. One thing, or should I say—two things. Boobs. The 'darlings' of Waterbomb. It’s the dominant narrative. Pervading spaces that normally wouldn't glance twice at K-Pop. ‘Hot Idol Summer,' they’re dubbing it. You and Eunbi are the twin figureheads. Luminary," you add, the brand pointed and deliberate, "placed you both there."

Karina feels the walls of the office closing in. The success of the comeback, the unexpected thrill of the stage—it all curdles into something sickening. She wasn’t just fulfilling an obligation; she was becoming a cog in Luminary’s machine, her image reshaped, her body commodified alongside Eunbi’s, her name synonymous with a narrative she never chose. The conservative idol facade SM painstakingly built for her lies in tatters, replaced by the black one-piece and the lingering digital gaze of millions.

"Enough," she rasps, the word scraping her throat. The defiance is back, fueled by a rising tide of disgust. At Luminary, at the situation, at the part of herself that had enjoyed the power on that stage. She takes a step forward, her small frame vibrating with tension. "What else? What more do you want from me? I performed. I wore—what you demanded. The scandal is gone. aespa is safe. What is the next obligation? What humiliation comes next?" Her cadence rises, sharp with barely contained dread. "Just tell me. Get it over with."

You watch her outburst, unblinking. The calm in your demeanor is almost unnerving, a deep lake undisturbed by the pebble of her anger. There’s no flicker of annoyance, no tightening of the jaw. Only that same, unnerving attentiveness. When she finishes, the silence stretches, thick and heavy, amplifying the frantic beat of her heart in her own ears.

Then, you smile. Not the faint, acknowledging curve from before. A fuller, more deliberate expression that doesn’t quite reach your cool, assessing eyes. It’s the smile of a man holding the winning hand, revealing it slowly.

"Next obligation?" You echo, the words smooth, almost gentle. "Karina—there isn’t one."

The statement lands with the force of a physical blow. It’s so utterly unexpected, so contrary to the relentless escalation she’d braced for, that it momentarily steals her breath. She stares at you, confusion warring with suspicion in her dark eyes. "What?"

"By all intents and purposes," you continue, spreading your hands slightly, a gesture of finality, "you have fulfilled the terms agreed upon. The scandal was erased. aespa’s comeback proceeded unimpeded and succeeded. You performed your solo stage at Waterbomb Festival in the designated attire. The debt," you tap your steepled fingers together once, "is settled."

Relief should flood her. It doesn’t. It feels like a trapdoor opening beneath her feet. Too easy. Luminary doesn’t deal in clean endings. "Settled?" she whispers, the word feeling alien.

"Settled," you confirm. Your gaze holds hers, steady, inescapable. "There are no further immediate demands tied to that specific contract. Your obligations to SM, of course, continue as per usual. Practice. Promotions. Being Karina of aespa." 

You pause, letting the mundane reality of her idol life settle for a fraction of a second. Then, the other shoe drops. Softly. Inevitably. 

"The only remaining element—is your status."

"My—status?"

"Tier 3. Esteemed," you state, the label hanging in the air like a foreboding mark. "Your designation within the wider Luminary network. The same tier held by Giselle, Winter, and Ningning." 

You see the flicker of recognition, the dawning horror in her eyes as the implications sink in. The pieces Giselle provided click into a terrifying whole. "It’s not an obligation in the sense of a specific task, Karina. It’s an—affiliation. A recognition of your value. And with it," your voice remains level, almost conversational, "comes access. And expectation."

She feels cold. Colder than standing half-naked under the Sprite spray. The office air feels thin. "Access?" she echoes, "Expectation?"

"Access to opportunities that transcend the standard idol trajectory. High-profile, exclusive events. Private showcases. Brand partnerships with—discerning clientele." You watch her carefully, noting the minute tremble in her clasped hands. "And the expectation," you continue, your tone losing none of its calm precision, "is availability. For companionship. For—escort." 

You let the word sit, plain and hideous, in the dull businesslike air. "Discreetly, professionally arranged. Meeting the desires of Luminary’s wealthy associates who appreciate—exquisite talent."

Nauseating revulsion twists her gut. The image is immediate, visceral: strange hands, leering eyes, wealthy men seeing her not as Karina the idol, not as an artist or as Yu Jimin the person, but as a purchased companion. A plaything draped in the label of 'Esteemed Talent.’ 

The degradation is absolute. It makes Waterbomb seem like a minor indignity. 

"No," she breathes, the denial a sharp rasp. "I am not—I will not be—used like that. By them." 

The 'them' is spat out, laden with contempt for the unseen predators lurking behind Luminary’s facade.

Your expression doesn’t change. No offense taken. Only a patient understanding, as if her reaction is entirely predictable, a script you’ve seen enacted before. The others, her members included, can vouch on this.

"‘Used’ is such a crude term," you counter smoothly. "Think of it as—curated interaction. Mutually beneficial networking. Luminary values its assets, Karina. Highly. We don’t simply throw our talent to the wolves." 

You lean forward again, elbows resting on your knees, your gaze intensifying, pinning her in place. "There are measures in place. Strict protocols. Vetting. Non-disclosure agreements thicker than the Seoul phone book. Your safety, your comfort boundaries, are paramount—within reason. Discretion is woven into the fabric of every engagement. Our clients understand the value of silence and following the rules. The consequences of breaching it are—severe."

She shakes her head, a sharp, jerky movement. The reassurances sound like polished lies, the smooth talk of a pimp dressing up exploitation. 

"Severe for them," she retorts, gaining much-needed strength, edged with desperate sarcasm. "What about for me? Locked in a room with some—some elderly investor who thinks his money buys him whatever he wants? Your ‘protocols’ won't stop his hands. Your ‘discretion’ won't erase the feeling." 

You don’t flinch; your calm is a fortress. "Your skepticism is duly noted," you say, a hint of that earlier, unnerving smile returning. "Understandable, given the—abruptness of this new reality. Trust, especially in our line of work, is earned." 

Holding her gaze, the intensity in your eyes shifts, becoming something darker, more focused. Less corporate liaison, more the representative who brokered deals in shadows. "Perhaps words aren't sufficient. Perhaps—a demonstration is in order."

"Demonstration?" The word is spoken and choked with dread.

"Of Luminary’s capabilities," you clarify, losing its polished edge, gaining a subtle, dangerous intimacy. "Of our reach. Our discretion." 

Your eyes sweep the room: the SM executive office, the symbol of the company that owns her contract but is powerless against the entity you represent. "Right here. Right now."

You rise from the guest chair. The movement is fluid, silent. Not towards her, not immediately. Taking a single step towards the window, your back partially faces her, surveying the city as if it were a chessboard laid out below. 

Karina’s breath catches, trapped in her throat. Her eyes are fixed on your back, wide with dawning, paralyzing fear.

Three steps. That’s all it takes to cross from supplicant to sovereign. Your hand, cool and steady, glides across the polished mahogany surface of the desk. Her desk, the SM executive’s domain—as if testing its weight, its authority. 

Comfortably, you settle into the high-backed leather throne, the chair groaning softly beneath you, an obscene sound in the silence. The slatted afternoon light now stripes you, casting sharp lines across your charcoal suit, framing you within the seat of power Karina expected her corporate masters to occupy.

She hasn’t moved. Still rooted near the door, held like a statue carved from tension and disbelief. Watching you annex the symbol of SM’s authority feels like watching a hostile takeover in real-time. Her breath is shallow, audible now in the heavy quiet you’ve cultivated.

"Valuable assets," you begin, filling the room with an effortless authority that seems to vibrate in the mahogany. Your fingers trace the edge of the empty blotter. "That’s what Luminary deals in, Karina. Not disposable commodities. We cultivate. We protect." 

Your gaze lifts, pinning her again. The charm hasn’t vanished; it’s hardened, tempered into something colder, more absolute. "Your concerns—they’re noted. Expected, even. This new facet of your career path requires—some adjustment. A realignment of expectations. Some clients," you concede, the word dropping like a pebble into still water, "can be—unruly. Possessed of an entitlement that outstrips their manners. Wealth does that, occasionally. Breeds a certain—disregard."

A flicker of vindication sparks in Karina’s eyes, quickly doused by renewed dread. Unruly. The word is too soft, too clean for the images flooding her mind: groping hands, leering smiles, the suffocating pressure of a locked door.

"But," you continue, the syllable sharp, cutting off the spiral of her fear, "countermeasures are in play. Robust ones. Think of it as a layered defense. Vetting isn’t merely a checklist; it’s an art form. Discretion isn’t just a promise; it’s a binding covenant enforced with consequences our clients find—viscerally persuasive." You lean back slightly, the leather sighing, your posture relaxed yet radiating absolute control. "We don’t gamble with our investments. Your safety, your peace of mind within the negotiated parameters—it’s non-negotiable for us. Luminary ensures a controlled environment. Always."

The reassurances are slick, polished, logical. Yet they slide off her like oil. 

Control—in a room chosen by a stranger. Safety—when the price is her body. 

"Non-negotiable?" Her voice is brittle, cracking under the strain. "You talk about control, about safety—while telling me I have to—to service men who see me as a toy your organization rents out! How is that safety? How is that control for me?"

You regard her outburst with unnerving calm. Not a flicker of irritation, only that patient, analytical focus. "The parameters are your control, Karina. The boundaries set beforehand. The power to say 'no' within those defined limits. The knowledge that Luminary stands behind that 'no' with teeth. Did the others not explain this? Winter? Ningning?" 

You pause, letting her members’ names hang. "Giselle?"

Karina flinches, almost imperceptibly, at Giselle’s name. The memory of that warning in the practice room hallway. Proper gentleman. Until he’s not. 

Her eyes dart away, a tell as clear as a shout. "No," she lies, the word too quick, too thin. "They didn’t—say anything specific. Just—vague things about sponsors. Networking." She forces her gaze back to yours, defiance warring with a desperate need to shield her members, to deny their complicity. "They wouldn’t—they couldn’t just—accept this. Fold that easily." The denial is fierce, a lifeline. "They’re stronger than that. Smarter."

A slow, knowing smile touches your lips. It’s not cruel, but unsettling in its certainty. 

"Fold?" You chuckle softly, dry and devoid of real mirth. "Is that what you think happened? That Luminary broke them? Forced them into submission?" You shake your head a fraction. "Karina, you’re greatly missing the point. We don’t deal in breaking valuable things. We offer elevation. Access. Protection far beyond what SM’s flimsy contracts and overworked managers can provide." 

You lean forward again, elbows resting on the executive desk, your voice dropping into a confidential register that feels more dangerous than a shout. "Your members—they understood the calculus. The trade-off. Safety, influence, opportunities that vault them lightyears ahead of their peers—in exchange for curated, controlled interactions with individuals who appreciate their—unique value. It’s not weakness. It’s pragmatism. A recognition of the game being played at a higher level."

The image forms, unwelcome and absurd: Winter, sharp and ambitious, calculating the angles. Ningning, pragmatic and driven, seeing the advantage. Giselle—world-weary Giselle, understanding the price and deciding the benefits outweighed the degradation. 

Pragmatism. The word sounds unnaturally wrong. There’s no way they really accepted. Traded pieces of themselves so calmly. Yet, the records show, but she doesn’t know the full extent.

"And Giselle," you continue, your gaze sharpening, locking onto her wavering defiance. "She did tell you something, didn’t she? About me." 

You don’t phrase it as a question. It’s a statement of fact. "She called me a gentleman." The faint smile returns, edged with something darker. "A proper gentleman. Until I’m not."

Karina’s breath hitches. The callback is precise, devastating. It strips away her flimsy denial about Giselle’s warning. She sees it again: Giselle’s wary eyes, the tightness around her mouth as she delivered that cryptic judgment.

"You found it ominous," you observe, reading the confirmation in her face. "A threat disguised as description. But consider the first part, Karina. 'A proper gentleman.' That wasn't a lie. It is the default setting. Courtesy. Respect for boundaries. Discretion. Ensuring comfort within the agreed framework. That’s the baseline for Luminary interactions." 

Your finger taps the desk once. "The 'until he’s not'—" Your gaze intensifies, becoming flinty. "—that’s reserved for when the rules are broken. When our safeguards, our protocols, are challenged or disregarded. That's when the gentleman steps aside. To protect what’s ours."

The distinction is chilling. Luminary’s "gentleman" isn't innate decency; it's a mode of operation, a veneer maintained only as long as their control is absolute and unchallenged. Protection only when their asset is threatened by outsiders, not by Luminary itself.

"You care?" Karina scoffs, the sound raw and disbelieving. "You talk about protection, about value—but it’s just about protecting your investment. Keeping the merchandise undamaged for the next transaction!"

Your expression doesn't waver, but something shifts in your eyes. A flicker of—not offense, but a steely reaffirmation. "You still doubt the depth of that care? The lengths Luminary goes to?" You push back from the desk slightly, the chair rolling a quiet inch. "Perhaps words truly are inadequate. Perhaps," your voice lowers, taking on a new, dangerous intimacy, "a more—tangible demonstration is required. To prove that Luminary’s care extends beyond mere words. That our protection is—active. Immediate."

Karina’s heart slams against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, suffocating silence. Your hands move, deliberate, unhurried. Not towards her. Not yet. 

Your right hand goes to the sleek, polished buckle of your designer belt. The snick of the clasp releasing is obscenely loud in the sterile office. A small, metallic sound that echoes like a gunshot. Your left hand follows, fingers finding the zipper of your charcoal trousers. The rasp of the slider moving down, tooth by tooth, is slow, deliberate, a sound that seems to stretch time itself. 

The zipper stops. Silence crashes back, thick as velvet, pressing against Karina’s eardrums. Your hands, steady, deliberate, hook into the waistband of your charcoal trousers and the dark silk boxers beneath. A single, smooth motion. Down they slide, pooling around your ankles like discarded shadows on the polished floor. The afternoon light, slicing through the blinds, catches the revealed length of your erection. 

Hard. A brutal, flesh-and-blood exclamation point in the sterile corporate space.

Karina flinches as if struck. An involuntary choked gasp escapes her. Her hand flies to her mouth, fingers pressing white against her lips. Disgust floods her features: a twisting of her delicate mouth, a widening of her dark eyes into pools of pure revulsion. She looks away, towards the striped light on the floor, then jerks her gaze back, trapped between horror and a terrible, morbid fascination. 

It’s obscene. A violation carved into the very fabric of SM’s supposed authority. This isn't just power; it's a display of it, naked and demanding.

"They all did, you know," you say, a low, conversational hum, utterly incongruous with the scene. Calm. Detached. Almost regretful. "Fell for it. Understood the—equation." 

Your gaze holds hers, unwavering, pinning her even as she tries to look anywhere else. "Giselle. Winter. Ningning." You speak their names softly, like precious artifacts. "Each one. Right where you are now. Confused. Revolted. Certain they’d never bend."

A tiny, wounded sound escapes Karina. The image is poison: her members, her sisters, facing this. Submitting to this. Her stomach churns.

"Giselle," you continue, a faint, almost fond note entering your voice. "Sharp as a tack. Saw the angles immediately. Understood the leverage, the necessity. She knelt first. Took it—thoughtfully." Your eyes drift slightly, as if recalling. "Winter—frisky little thing. Tried some defiance. A spark, quickly banked by the cold reality of consequences. Came around. Learned to appreciate the—efficiency." 

A pause. "Ningning. Pragmatic. Calculated the cost-benefit analysis before the shock even wore off. Embraced the opportunity." Your gaze snaps back to Karina, sharp, analytical. "They bounced on it. Rode it. Used it until their legs shook and their voices broke. Used it until they couldn’t take another inch, another second." 

The clinical description is more violating than any crude term. 

"And then," you drop your words to a near whisper, intimate and chilling, "they came back. Still do."

Karina shakes her head, a frantic denial. "No. They wouldn’t—not like it—"

"Like it?" You tilt your head, a predator considering prey. "Irrelevant. They understood it. The Versace ambassadorship Ningning landed after her third—engagement? The exclusive haute couture access Winter enjoys? The international DJ collaborations Giselle curates? Think those fell from SM’s benevolent sky?" Your smile is thin, devoid of warmth. "Luminary rewards its assets, Karina. Handsomely. Consistently. We invest, and we expect a return. Their successes? Their visibility? That’s the currency. Our way of saying, ‘well done.’"

She’s adrift. The solid ground of her outrage, her disgust, is crumbling beneath the weight of your logic, your terrible, plausible narrative. Her members—thriving. Succeeding. Because of this. Because they— accepted. The cost. The reward. The brutal arithmetic of survival at the pinnacle.

"Meanwhile," you continue, leaning forward slightly, the movement emphasizing the obscene reality between you both, "you have the greatest potential of them all, Karina. The face. The presence. The magnetic it-factor SM polished but Luminary can truly unleash." 

Your eyes lock onto hers, holding her captive not with force, but with the allure painted in your words. "Look at Wonyoung. Look at Jennie. Luminary talents. Tier 4: Ascendant. Where are they? Not just idols. Icons. Ubiquitous. Names that echo beyond music charts, into fashion houses, global campaigns. The absolute apex." You let the images hang: IVE’s born to be natural center, Blackpink’s queen, their faces everywhere, untouchable. "That trajectory? That stratosphere? It’s within your grasp. Luminary holds the key. We make that happen. For those who understand the partnership."

The promise is a devilish temptation piercing through the fog of her disgust. The pinnacle. The fame she craved, not just for aespa, but for Yu Jimin. Recognition that transcended the group. The influence Wonyoung wielded, the global adoration Jennie commanded. It glitters, dazzling, just out of reach—accessible only through this degrading portal you present. The price—her soul, her principles—is horrifying, but the reward—unimaginably vast.

You watch the storm rage behind her eyes: terror, revulsion, ambition, a desperate hunger for validation coming into conflict with the bedrock of her principles. The seconds stretch, suffocating.

Then, you move. Not towards her. Back. Your hands go to your hips, fingers hooking into the silk of your boxers. A slow, deliberate motion, pulling them up, covering yourself. 

The act is almost—dismissive. A withdrawal of the offer. "You can walk away, Karina," you say, regaining its polished, professional cadence, smooth as the mahogany desk. The dangerous intimacy recedes, replaced by cold detachment. "Right now. Out that door. Go back to your dorm. To your members. To SM’s predictable, limited trajectory." 

You tug the boxers fully into place, then reach for your trousers. "Pretend this conversation never happened. That I never sat in this chair. That Luminary’s offer—doesn’t exist." You start pulling up the charcoal wool, the rasp of expensive fabric loud in the stillness. "You don’t have to submit. The choice, ultimately, is yours. I can talk to my superiors. Explain your—reluctance." You fasten the button, then the belt buckle clicks shut with a final, decisive snick. The gentleman re-buttoned; the Ascendant receding. "The path of least resistance is always available. For now."

The rug is pulled out from under her again. The pressure, the terrifying exposure, is abruptly gone. Replaced by—indifference, perhaps dismissal. The sudden shift is disorienting. The relief she expects doesn't come. Instead, a yawning void opens: the glittering pinnacle you dangled—Wonyoung, Jennie, iconhood—now seems to recede behind a closing door. The safety of SM’s predictable trajectory feels like a cage suddenly revealed as flimsy and inadequate. 

Luminary’s power is real. Its rewards are tangible. And walking away—feels like choosing oblivion. Choosing to be less than Giselle, Winter, Ningning. Less than her own potential.

She doesn’t move. Frozen not by fear now, but by a cataclysmic internal shift. The disgust is still there; the violation of your exposure echoes in her bones. But beneath it, coils the ambition you expertly stoked. The hunger for the apex. The desire to be more than just Karina of aespa. To be legendary.

Her eyes, wide and dark, flicker. From your now impeccably clothed form, back to the floor where your trousers had pooled, then up to your face: calm, expectant, offering her the illusion of freedom while knowing the cage door is already open. 

The members—they did it. They prospered. They came back. Wonyoung. Jennie. Icons. The names ring like cathedral bells in her skull.

A moment. A single, suspended heartbeat where the world holds its breath. Her jaw tightens. Her fingers, clenched at her sides, tremble not with fear, but with a terrifying, galvanizing resolve. The passion for glory, the lust for the heights only Luminary can grant, surges, a molten tide overwhelming the last crumbling walls of denial.

Then, she moves.

Not towards the door. Towards you.

A lunge, swift and decisive, fueled by a desperate, hungry energy. Her small hand darts out, not in attack, but in furious, claiming purpose. Her fingers hook into the waistband of your just-fastened boxers and yank, hard, down past your hips, the silk tearing slightly with the violence of the motion. The cool office air hits your exposed skin again.

Before you can react, before the surprise can even fully register on your impassive face, her knees hit the polished floor with a soft, final thud. She doesn’t look up. Her dark hair falls forward, a curtain shielding her expression. But her shoulders are set. Her spine is rigid with a terrible, surrendered determination. One hand braces against your thigh, the heat of her palm searing through the fine wool of your trousers. The other hesitates for only a fraction of a second, hovering near the base of your cock, before her fingers curl, tentative, then firm, around the hard, thick length of it.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t meet your gaze. She simply kneels there, at the foot of SM’s executive desk, before the man who holds the keys to her coronation or her ruin, pulled not by force, but by the devastating, irresistible gravity of fame you promised. 

The sacrifice is made. The point of no return is crossed, not with a whimper, but with the silent, devastating impact of her knees hitting the floor. 

“Knew it would be too good to pass up,” you remark, sighing heavily as her hot breath tickles your loins. “Good girl.”

Karina doesn’t look up. Her gaze is fixed, intense, on the rigid length jutting from your open trousers. There’s no demure blush now, no trembling uncertainty. Only a focused intensity that borders on cold calculation. Her earlier revulsion, the panic, is buried deep beneath a layer of pragmatic resolve. 

This is the demonstration. This is the price of Luminary’s shadow. And she’s decided to pay. To own it. To leverage it.

Her hand, cool and surprisingly steady, wraps around the base of your shaft. Not tentative, but possessive. Assessing. Her thumb strokes the prominent vein running along the underside, a slow, deliberate exploration that sends a jolt straight to your groin. Her other hand braces against your thigh, fingers digging lightly into the fine wool of your suit pants. She leans in, her dark hair falling forward like a curtain, shielding her face.

The first touch of her lips is electric. Not a hesitant kiss, but a firm, wet seal around the swollen crown. Heat floods you, immediate and intense. She holds it, her tongue swirling in a slow, deliberate circle just beneath the sensitive ridge. A low groan escapes you, rumbling in your chest, echoing faintly in the cavernous room. Her eyes flicker up, meeting yours for a fraction of a second. 

There’s a challenge there. A declaration: I’m setting the terms.

And she does. For several agonizing, exquisite moments. She dictates the rhythm. Slow, torturous sucks that pull you deeper into the wet heat of her mouth, followed by languid retreats where her tongue lavishes attention solely on the head, flicking the slit, tracing the rim. Her pace is maddening. Controlled. Karina works you with the focused precision of a virtuoso, learning the contours, the sensitive spots, cataloging every twitch and throb your cock betrays. Her free hand slides up your inner thigh, fingertips grazing dangerously close to your balls, adding another layer of sensation, another point of control.

She pulls off with a soft, wet pop, a thin strand of saliva connecting her lower lip to your glistening crown. Her breath comes faster now, shallow puffs warming your skin. 

"See?" Barely audible, yet it cuts through the heavy silence. "Your demonstration. Luminary’s security." Karinaa gestures vaguely upwards with her chin, towards the unseen executives whose muffled footsteps occasionally sound on the floor above. "Right under their noses. Unseen. Unheard. Proof enough of your—discretion?" 

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her mouth descends again, taking you deeper this time, her tongue pressing flat against the sensitive underside as she hollows her cheeks.

It’s masterful. Insolent. A performance designed to showcase her compliance while subtly asserting her own agency within this degrading transaction. She’s selling this, selling herself, not just submitting. The thought is almost as potent as the feel of her mouth. She’s proving she can play this game, that her value isn’t just in her body, but in her nerve, her perception—pointing out the very security he boasted about, using it as the backdrop for her service.

Her head bobs, slow and deep, her rhythm still hers. She’s building the pressure, the heat coiling low in your belly, tightening with each slick slide of her lips, each velvet stroke of her tongue. You watch the dark crown of her head, the flex of her jaw, the way her throat works as she takes more of you. It feels incredible. Too good. Dangerously close to unraveling the iron control you pride yourself on. Her perceptiveness, her audacity to call out the demonstration mid-demonstration, it’s exhilarating and infuriating. She’s not just sucking your cock; she’s dissecting the power play, participating in it on her own terms.

The footsteps sound again overhead, heavier this time, perhaps moving towards the stairs. A reminder of the precarious stage. Karina hears it too; her rhythm hitches for a microsecond, a tiny tremor running through her. It’s the opening. The crack in her composure.

Enough.

Your hand, which had been resting loosely on the arm of the executive chair, shoots out. Not roughly, but with absolute, unyielding purpose. Your fingers sink deep into the dark silk of her hair, fisting a thick handful close to the scalp. You don’t yank, not yet; you anchor.

Karina freezes. Her mouth is still stretched wide around your shaft, her eyes flying open, wide and startled, meeting yours. The challenge is still there, but now it’s tinged with a flicker of apprehension. You see the understanding dawn: her moment of dictating the pace is over.

"Perceptive," you murmur, graveled with building need. "Very." You apply pressure, not brutal, but inexorable, guiding her head down. "But you’re forgetting the care part of the demonstration, Karina. Luminary’s—thoroughness." 

You hold her gaze, your own eyes dark pools of authoritative command. "Take it. All of it. Down your throat. Show me you understand the depth of our commitment to your—reputation and well-being."

The instruction hangs, absolute in its demand. Her throat works against the intrusion, a reflexive gag stifled as she forces her muscles to relax. There’s a brief, tense resistance, a silent battle fought in the clench of her jaw, the dilation of her pupils. Pragmatism wars with instinctive revulsion. 

Ultimately, the pragmatist wins. The flicker of defiance dims, replaced by a grim acceptance. She yields.

You guide her down, slowly, relentlessly. Feeling the head of your cock push past the resistance of her palate, into the tight, clutching heat of her throat. Her body tenses, a choked gag reflex vibrating through her, muffled against your flesh. Tears spring to the corners of her eyes, glistening tracks tracing paths through her meticulously applied makeup. You hold her there, impaled, letting her feel the full, stretching intrusion, the impossibility of breathing. Letting her feel the absolute control Luminary exerts.

Then, you ease back slightly, letting her gasp in a ragged, wet breath before pushing her down again. Deeper. Establishing a rhythm now, but your rhythm. Firm, demanding strokes that bury your cock to the root in the tight, convulsing channel of her throat before withdrawing almost completely, only to plunge back in. Each thrust is a reassertion of power, a demonstration far more visceral than words. The wet, obscene sounds fill the office: the rhythmic slurp and gag, your own low, guttural groans that escape your clenched teeth.

It’s primal. Degrading. And it feels fucking incredible. The tight, sucking heat, the involuntary spasms of her throat around your shaft, the sight of her beautiful face contorted in this act of abject submission—it coils the tension in your gut tighter and tighter. The earlier slow burn she orchestrated is a distant memory, consumed by the urgent, demanding fire stoked by your control. You fuck her mouth with deliberate, powerful strokes, watching tears mingle with saliva shining on her chin, watching her struggle to accommodate your length, her body trembling with the effort.

The executives’ footsteps sound again, directly overhead now. Pausing. A muffled conversation drifts down. They could be right outside that door. The knowledge is a live wire, crackling through the charged air. Karina whimpers around your cock, a sound of pure panic muffled by your flesh. You tighten your grip in her hair, holding her still, buried deep. 

"Quiet," you rasp, the command vibrating with your own strained control. "They won’t come in. Luminary’s security, remember? They see nothing. They hear nothing they shouldn’t."

The footsteps move away. Karina sags slightly against your thigh, a shuddering breath escaping her nose. The reprieve is brief. You resume the punishing pace, the rhythm of her gagging syncing with the thrust of your hips. You can feel it building, the pressure like a supernova compressed in your spine, radiating heat through your entire body. Your balls draw up tight.

"I’m close," you grit out, the words strained, almost a gasp. "So fucking close." 

You piston into her throat, harder, faster, abandoning finesse for straight, urgent need. Her eyes are screwed shut, tears streaming freely now, her body convulsing with each deep invasion. 

"Gonna paint that pretty face," you groan, the image flashing in your mind. Karina, the idol, marked, claimed.Yours. "Gonna show you exactly what Luminary’s protection buys."

The climax hits like a detonation. A white-hot surge tearing through you, unstoppable, obliterating thought. You slam her head down hard, burying yourself to the hilt in her throat as the first thick, pulsing rope erupts. A guttural groan tears from your throat, echoing off the office walls, a sound of pure, euphoric release utterly at odds with the sterile corporate environment. Jet after jet of hot cum erupts, not down her throat as she might have braced for, but forcefully, powerfully, directly onto her face.

You hold her there, spasming, as you empty yourself. The first blast catches her flush on the cheekbone, thick and pearly white. The next stripes across her forehead, painting a slick trail through her bangs. Another lands on the bridge of her nose. Hot, viscous streaks spatter her closed eyelids, her chin, her parted, gasping lips. It’s messy, profane, a deliberate desecration. You ride the waves of your orgasm, grinding against her face, smearing the cum, marking her thoroughly.

Finally, with your load mostly spent, you release your crushing grip on her hair and pull your softening cock free with a wet, slick sound. Karina collapses forward, bracing her hands on the floor, coughing violently, strings of saliva and cum dripping from her chin. She gasps for air, her shoulders shaking, her face a glistening, ruined canvas of white streaks and smeared makeup, tears cutting paths through the mess.

You watch her, breathing heavily, adjusting your trousers but leaving the belt undone for now. The pornographic sight is profoundly satisfying. Proof of ownership. Proof of submission. Proof of Luminary’s absolute reach.

She doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t immediately scramble to wipe it off. For a long moment, she just kneels there, trembling, catching her breath, the scent of sex and your release thick in the air. Then, slowly, deliberately, she lifts her head. Her eyes, red-rimmed but blazing with a radically-charged fire—of humiliation, fury, exhaustion, and hardened acceptance—meet yours.

Her tongue darts out. Slow. Purposeful. It catches a thick droplet of cum clinging to the corner of her swollen lower lip. She closes her mouth, her throat working as she swallows. The action is obscene, defiant, and utterly submissive all at once. She does it again, licking another streak from her chin, her eyes never leaving yours. Cleaning herself. Accepting the mark. Turning degradation into a transaction completed.

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across your face. The demonstration is complete. Utterly. You watch her lap up the remaining traces, the movements mechanical yet devastatingly effective. When her face is mostly clean, though still flushed and tear-streaked, you speak, regaining your smooth, chilling composure.

"Effective," you state, the word a cold benediction. "You learn quickly. That pragmatism will serve you well." You fasten your belt with a sharp click, the sound final. "Further instructions will come. Regarding clients. Discreetly. Through me." 

Straightening your suit jacket, you stand from the chair. The picture of the executive once more, the beast momentarily sated and caged. 

"Consider this—your orientation complete. Welcome to Luminary, Karina of aespa.” You glance towards the door, then back at her kneeling form. "I trust you can see yourself out. Discreetly, of course."

You leave her there, kneeling on the polished floor of the SM office, air thick with the scent of sex and power, the muffled sounds of the company carrying on, blissfully unaware, just beyond the door. 

Luminary’s shadow stretches long, and Karina is now irrevocably within its all-consuming sphere.

—————

Outside your window, Paris glitters like shattered champagne flutes on velvet. Inside an Italian settlement, the suite smells of tuberose and tension, dense as the silk robe Karina shrugs off onto the floor. 

She doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t look at the scattered evidence of her ascension: Louboutins like weapons near the door, a half-packed Louis Vuitton trunk spilling cashmere and lace, the faint, expensive scent of a stylist’s straightener still hanging near the marble bathroom. She’s scrolling her phone, bathed in the cold light of the screen, perched on the edge of a chaise longue worth more than your first car.

You text: Proof of life. The green one.

Almost immediately, your burner hums. A photo loads: Karina, angled slightly away from the mirror in what must be her Milan hotel bathroom. She’s wearing the emerald La Perla set you’d ‘suggested’ for the Bulgari dinner last night. The lace is obscenely delicate against her skin, the cut designed to showcase the impossible architecture of her waist, the swell of her hips. Her face is averted, showing only the sharp line of her jaw, the fall of dark hair. 

No smile. Just existence. Commodified. Yours.

> Better. Show me the back.

Another buzz. Another image. This time, she’s turned, looking over her shoulder at the mirror. The back is mostly strings. The curve of her spine, the dip just above the swell of her ass—it’s clinical, professional. Like documenting a priceless artifact. Which, you suppose, she is. Luminary’s newest Tier 3 Esteemed asset is exceeding expectations.

Things have looked up. Scandalously, obscenely up. That manufactured firestorm over the red jacket: smothered within weeks. Not erased, no—Luminary doesn’t erase, it transforms. It became something of a folklore. A weird blip. The kind of thing only terminally online trolls or bored journalists digging through digital graveyards might scream about. To the wider world, Karina wasn’t the idol who wore the wrong color; she was the idol everywhere else.

The Nike ambassadorship landed like a thunderclap. Not just Korea; global. Billboards in Shibuya, Times Square, the Champs-Élysées suddenly plastered with her face, all determination and sculpted athleticism. Just Do It, indeed. 

She’d done it. Sold out spectacularly. 

Then came the music video guestings: not just any artists, but the famed. The elusive soloists, the legendary groups, the ones whose creative directors were practically gods. Karina, draped in avant-garde silhouettes, a fleeting, haunting presence in their visual narratives, her star power leaching into theirs, amplifying her own. 

Fashion week appearances also followed. Paris, Milan, Seoul. Front row, then walking, then closing. Guest of honor at after-parties where the air crackled with billions and unspoken transactions.

It should feel wrong to her. You watch for it. The flinch. The shadow. The moment her old self, the one who cared about principles, about not being traded like a rare diamond, surfaces. It doesn’t. Not anymore. Or if it does, she drowns it in champagne, buries it under the weight of Givenchy gowns, silences it with the choir of adoration from crowds who see only the glittering surface Luminary has polished to a blinding sheen.

She’s taken to her new role. Not just taken to it; she’s excelling. Luminary’s curation is surgical. Her ‘meetings’ aren’t sordid backroom affairs. They’re power lunches at Le Bernardin, private gallery openings in Mayfair, discreet cocktails on superyachts anchored off Monaco. The clients are—impeccable. CEOs whose names move markets, tech titans building the future, old-money scions with influence woven into the fabric of nations. Chosen not for lechery, but for reach. For the ability to catapult ‘Karina’ from traditional K-pop star to global icon. They want proximity to her light, her current, her desirability. 

Luminary provides. Karina delivers. 

A dazzling smile here, a perfectly timed laugh there, the brush of a hand that lingers just a fraction too long—all choreographed, all transactional, all designed to bind them to her orbit, to invest in her brand. She trades access for elevation. Her soul—a gradual, almost graceful erosion. You see it in the hardening around her eyes, the practiced ease of her detachment. She doesn’t flinch when a Saudi prince’s hand rests possessively low on her back during a photo op. She angles her body into it, gives the camera a smile that could launch wars, and later, in the limo, texts you a selfie of her flawless face, captioned simply: Done.

This is the new Karina. Pragmatic, ambitious, callous. A beautiful, efficient machine lubricated by Luminary’s power and her own burgeoning hunger. 

As for aespa, they’re doing fine. Thriving, even. Luminary ensured their comeback wasn’t just salvaged; it was a stratospheric success. New endorsements, bigger stages, louder cheers. Giselle’s warning—‘Proper gentleman. Until he’s not’—hangs in the air, unacknowledged. They’re still Tier 3, you last checked, with their own clientele to meet, left in Luminary’s binding care. Birds in a gilded cage, singing louder than ever. Karina rarely mentions them except as schedule conflicts. The sacrifice isn’t a wound; it’s a calculated investment paying dividends.

Your relationship—evolves. The initial hatred, her fury at your existence, your control, the violation at the office, has curdled into a thick, resentful reluctance. Necessary interactions. Briefings. Logistics. The demanded photos started as proof of compliance, of location, of attire. Cold. Functional.

Then—something shifted. Maybe it was the sheer volume of the absurd luxury she was plunged into. Perhaps it was the shared secret, the dark knowledge binding you tighter than any contract. Or it was watching the steel enter her spine, the old Karina dissolving like sugar in expensive coffee. 

You started asking for more photos. Not just proof: her. 

Close-ups of her face after a meeting, looking effortlessly composed but with a flicker of something unreadable in her dark eyes. Shots of the impossible outfits Luminary procured, not just the public gowns, but the private lingerie, the silk robes, the things only the handlers and the highest-tier clients ever saw. The green one. The back.

And she sends them. Regularly. Without comment, mostly. Sometimes a single emoji: a diamond. A fire. A smirk. An unspoken acknowledgment of the game. You’re not just one of her handlers now; you’re her confessor. Her witness. The only one who sees the price tag dangling from every triumph. 

The thrill is—complicated. It’s power, yes—the power to demand, and receive. It’s the voyeuristic pleasure of seeing this untouchable star comply to your every whim. But it’s also something darker, more intimate. A fascination. Watching the fire of her ambition consume her old self is perversely gratifying. You see her strength, her ruthless adaptability, and it resonates with the cold efficiency Luminary demands of you.

Tonight, in Paris, the texts feel different. Charged.

> Milan tomorrow. The fitting for the Dolce shoot. Black. Or red?

Her reply is swift, not a photo this time: Black is predictable. Red is—obvious. Surprise me.

A challenge. Or an invitation. The boundaries aren’t just crossed; they’re disintegrating into nothingness.

> I prefer you in white. Like innocence. Before.

A pause. Longer than usual. You imagine her in the silent, opulent suite, the city of light sprawled beneath her, utterly alone. The ghost of the girl who cared flitting across her face before being ruthlessly suppressed.

> Innocence is overrated. And fragile. White stains too easily. 

A beat. Then: The Ascendant’s contact in Rome wants dinner. Thursday. Palazzo something.

Standard. Another carefully curated connection. You start typing the confirmation, the security protocols.

Her next message cuts across: After Rome. Before I go back to Seoul. I’m free Tuesday. Dinner.

It hangs there. Not a Luminary directive. Not a client meeting. Not even framed as a briefing. Just—dinner. You and her.

The handler’s mask slips for a nanosecond. This wasn’t protocol. This was—personal. Dangerous. The line between controller and asset, between watcher and participant, blurring into nothingness. This was the culmination of the sent photos, the shared darkness, the witnessing of her gradual transformation. She wasn’t only folding in; she was reaching across the abyss Luminary had created between you.

You stare at the message. Dinner. A simple word loaded with the weight of everything unsaid, everything done, everything she’s become. The callousness is complete. She’s not just accepting her role; she’s initiating the next phase. With you.

The reply forms, cool, professional, belying the pulse hammering in your throat: Location preferences? Discretion paramount, as always.

Her answer is instantaneous, final: You decide. Somewhere quiet. Where the lights are low.

And just like that, it’s set. Not just another transaction in Luminary’s endless ledger. A date. With Karina. Sold out, shining, soul adrift, and hurtling towards you in the dim light of a quiet restaurant. 

The handler feels a smile, thin and predatory, touch his lips. He chooses the place immediately. Somewhere very discreet. Somewhere very dark. Perfect for watching the final embers of whatever was left of the old Karina flicker and die. Or perhaps, perfect for igniting something else entirely. 

Karina was Luminary’s asset. But by the end of Tuesday night, she might just be all yours.

—————

The Japanese restaurant hums with the mild thrum of money and discretion. Walls of pale, polished wood curve like frozen waves. Shoji screens diffuse the light into something liquid and gold. The air smells of yuzu, grilled binchotan, and the faint, expensive chill of climate control. Your table is a private island in a sea of murmured conversations conducted in half a dozen languages, all promising mergers, acquisitions, and sins yet to be committed. 

Across the lacquered expanse, Karina is a study in contained luminosity. She wears midnight blue, a column dress that clings and then spills. Simple, but devastating. Her hair is a dark waterfall, her makeup minimal, amplifying the sharp perfection of her features. Looking less like an idol and more like a CEO of her own desirability. Untouchable. Yours to touch, if you play this right.

"Champagne?" you offer, nodding to the bottle chilling beside the table.

A trace of a smile touches her lips, barely there. "Why not? Celebrating Nike, I suppose." 

Her voice is low, polished. The crude edges you remember from the SM office, the choked fury, are buried six feet deep. She surveys the room, her gaze sweeping over oligarchs and heiresses with the same detached appraisal she might give a stage setup. "They chose well. This place."

"You approve?" You pour, the bubbles whispering secrets as they rise.

"It’s—efficient. Quiet. No phones out." She accepts the flute, her fingers brushing yours. A calculated accident? You can’t tell anymore. That’s the point. "Unlike Waterbomb." She takes a sip, the liquid catching the light. "That feels like another lifetime."

"It was," you reply, leaning back. The handler observing the asset. The man observing the woman. The lines are deliciously blurred tonight. "Before the myth swallowed the scandal. Before the world decided it wanted Karina, globally." 

You gesture vaguely, encompassing the room, the city below, the billboards doubtless bearing her face somewhere. "How does it feel? Answer honestly. The Nike deal alone—tremendous."

She shrugs, a minute lift of one bare shoulder. The dress strap is a whisper of silk. "It’s work. Good work. Exposure. The design team in Oregon—surprisingly collaborative." 

Her answer is cool, professional. Dismissive. As if global ambassadorship is just another line on a schedule. She spears a sliver of sashimi, the knife-edge of the chopsticks precise. "The music videos? Interesting. Learning different directors’ languages. Fashion Week—" A pause, the barest flicker of something—fatigue, cynicism—"Loud. But necessary."

"Necessary," you echo, swirling your champagne. "But transformative. You move differently now. Command a room differently. Even here." 

You let your gaze linger, appreciative, predatory. "It’s more than just ‘work,’ Karina. It’s elevation. A stratospheric repositioning Luminary engineered for you. Own it."

Karina meets your eyes. Hers are dark pools, reflecting the golden light but giving nothing back. "I am owning it. By being here. By doing the job." 

She deflects. The old Karina, the one who blushed at innuendo, who fretted over group image, is a fossil beneath layers of designer armor. This Karina trades in results.

"Denying the rush is beneath you," you counter, your cadence dropping, intimate despite the space between tables. "Seeing your face dominate Times Square? Closing a show in Milan? Knowing presidents and princes want a seat next to you?" You lean in slightly. "That’s not just exposure. That’s power. Raw, untamed power. Luminary did more than erase a scandal; they handed you the keys to a kingdom. Admit it. Just once. Between us." You gesture around the secluded space. "Who else knows the price tag?"

A beat. Two. The only sound is the distant clink of porcelain, the murmur of the unseen waiter behind the screen. Her facade doesn’t crack, but it shifts. Minutely. A slight tilt of the head. A fractional softening around the eyes that isn't warmth, but acknowledgment. 

"It’s—significant," she concedes, the word carefully chosen. "The scale. The speed. It changes perspective." She takes another sip, her gaze drifting past you, seeing not the restaurant, but the dizzying heights. "You stop asking ‘how’ and start asking ‘what next.’" 

"Precisely." Triumph curls warm in your chest. It’s the closest to an admission you’ll get. The soul isn’t lost; it’s been ruthlessly streamlined for ascent. Principles traded for pinnacles.

"Luminary recognizes potential,” you push, subtly. “True, generational potential. They don’t elevate everyone. Only those who deserve it. Who can handle it." You let the flattery hang, thick as the miso broth the waiter silently places before her. "Think of Wonyoung. That effortless dominance. The way she owns every frame, every front row. Luminary saw that spark, fanned it. Jennie? That global brand, straddling music and fashion with lethal sexiness and cool? Not an accident. Curated opportunity meets innate fire. Like yours." 

You hold her gaze, willing her to see the connection, the lineage. "They saw the queen in you, Karina, buried under SM’s cautious packaging. They just—liberated her."

A faint, almost imperceptible flush rises on her neck. Not embarrassment; recognition. Validation. The handler’s words, wrapped in velvet admiration, finding their mark. She dips her spoon into the broth. "They have—resources. Vision." 

A concession. A tiny crack in the armor, just for you.

"And the clients?" You switch gears, casual, probing the decay directly. "The ‘curated opportunities’? Are they living up to Luminary’s impeccable billing?" You take a bite of perfectly seared wagyu, the fat melting like sin on your tongue. "Enlighten me. For operational feedback, naturally."

Karina considers the question, dissecting it as cleanly as the fish. "Efficient," she states finally. "Mostly. Well-organized schedules. Discreet venues. They understand the—parameters." She spears a piece of tender beef. "Old money. New tech. Pharmaceuticals. Mostly predictable. Mostly—" searching for the word, landing on one that chills with its detachment. "—uninteresting."

"Uninteresting?" You raise an eyebrow, feigning surprise. Delighted by the casual dismissal. "Even the ones who try to stray beyond the pre-dinner PowerPoint presentation? The hands that linger? The invitations whispered after the cognac?"

A flicker of something cold and hard in her eyes. Not fear. Annoyance. The disdain of a professional interrupted. 

"There are always those," she says flatly. "They pay for proximity, for association. Some confuse that with—ownership. Or entitlement." She takes a deliberate sip of water. "I’m there for the exposure. For the connections Luminary facilitates. For the check that clears before I even step into the room." 

She states it plainly. A transaction. Her presence, her light, traded for advancement. The moral compass isn’t just broken; it’s been surgically removed. The clients are tools. Means to an end. Their desires—reduced to irrelevant background noise.

The thrill of her corruption is a physical thing, sharp and sweet. She’s magnificent in her pragmatism. A beautiful machine, purring on the fuel of ambition. 

You lean closer, the low light carving shadows on your face. "So, none of them have managed to—secure a private audience?" 

The question hangs, loaded. A break of silence.

"Giselle’s words feel relevant: ‘Proper gentleman. Until he’s not.’" You quote it softly, watching her reaction. Not fear, but a tightening. A recognition of the game’s inherent danger.

Karina’s gaze locks onto yours. There’s a challenge there, and something else: a weary understanding. "They try. Luminary’s screening is good, but desire—complicates." She doesn’t flinch. "So far, the gentlemen have remained—gentlemen. Mostly. Knowing the consequences helps." 

Her implication is clear: Luminary’s retribution is a powerful deterrent. But her tone also holds a burgeoning concern: How long. How long before one decides the risk is worth it.

The shared knowledge binds you, the handler who knows the system’s teeth, the asset who feels their potential bite. The air crackles. The pretense of operational feedback evaporates. You see the faint pulse at the base of her throat. The way her fingers rest lightly on the stem of her water glass. Not poised to flee, but waiting.

"You deserve better than ‘mostly’ gentlemen," you whisper, dropping to a low thrum that vibrates in the intimate space between you. Your wit is a scalpel, your charm the anesthetic. "You deserve someone who understands the game. Who appreciates the value, the rarity, of what Luminary has forged. Someone who sees the fire, not just the figure on the invoice." You hold her gaze, letting the intensity build. A slow, deliberate pressure. "Someone who knows exactly what it cost you—and finds the result utterly intoxicating."

Her breath hitches, just slightly. The detachment wavers. For a fraction of a second, the old Karina flickers: the one capable of shock, of outrage. But it’s instantly submerged by the new reality. The pragmatist assesses the offer. The star recognizes a different kind of power play. The woman—hesitates.

It’s in that sliver of hesitation that you move.

Not abrupt. Not forceful. Inevitable. Like the tide claiming the shore. 

You reach across the small table. Your fingers don’t grasp, they graze—the back of her hand resting beside her glass. A feather-light touch charged with everything unsaid: the photos, the control, the shared corruption, the dark fascination. Her skin is cool, smooth. She doesn’t pull away.

Your other hand lifts, cups the impossibly perfect line of her jaw. Your thumb brushes the high curve of her cheekbone. She doesn’t flinch. Her dark eyes hold yours, wide, unreadable, reflecting the low golden light and the hunger you no longer bother to hide.

"Karina," you breathe her name, not a handler’s command, but a lover’s invocation. Or a predator’s claim.

Then you kiss her.

It’s not gentle; not tentative. It’s the culmination of weeks of calculated erosion, of shared secrets traded like diamonds in the dark. It’s the taste of champagne and ambition and the faint, expensive trace of her lipstick. It’s power acknowledging power. Corruption tasting its mirror image. Your lips move against hers with a confidence born of knowing she won’t—can’t—truly refuse. Not here. Not now. Not after everything.

For a heartbeat, she is utterly still. A statue kissed, a lover’s resurrecting act. Then, a subtle yielding. Not passion, not yet. Not surrender either. Acceptance. A pragmatic acknowledgment of the trajectory you’ve both been on since the Ascendant’s office. 

Her lips part, infinitesimally. Not an invitation, but a concession to the inevitable force of this new equation. Your tongue traces the seam, a silent demand met with a slow, reluctant softening. The taste of her is expensive, laced with the metallic tang of the game itself. The kiss deepens, a slow, deliberate exploration of conquered territory. Her hand beneath yours doesn’t move, but her fingers tense slightly against the tablecloth. 

You pull back first, leaving a breath of space charged with static. Her lips are slightly swollen, her eyes darker, deeper pools now. A faint flush, real this time, stains her cheeks. She doesn’t look away. The detachment is fractured, replaced by a wary, calculating intensity. Karina touches her lower lip with the tip of her finger, a gesture that feels both unconscious and obscenely deliberate.

The silence stretches, thick with the echo of the kiss and the hum of the unseen restaurant. The waiter will return soon. The world waits.

When your voice returns, it comes as a low rasp, stripped of the handler’s polish, fueled with the charged energy of the boundary obliterated. "My hotel is five minutes away. Top floor. Discreet." 

It’s not an ask; it’s a statement, a declaration. The logical next step. The ultimate proof of her heel turn, her embrace of the decay, the price of glory. "Come with me."

You watch the calculation flicker behind her eyes. Weighing the consequences. The loss of the final shred. 

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blush. Meeting your gaze, her own eyes is a reflection of the cold, hard light of the world she’s chosen. The kingdom Luminary built for her. The unseen forces you represent.

A beat. The clink of distant chopsticks. The sigh of the air conditioning.

Then, a single, soft syllable, delivered with the same pragmatic finality she used to discuss the Nike contract.

"Okay."

—————

Your suite is a monument to sterile opulence. Floor-to-ceiling windows drink in the skyline, a billion glittering witness lights. Plush, silent carpet. The air tastes filtered, chilled. You lock the door; the snick is obscenely loud.

Karina doesn’t wait for direction. Doesn’t look at you. She walks towards the bedroom: a deliberate, unhurried prowl. The slit in her dress parts with each step, revealing a flash of toned thigh, the shadowed promise beneath. At the threshold, she pauses, back still turned. Her hands rise. Not hesitant. Efficient. She finds the hidden zipper at the nape of her neck. A whisper of silk against skin, then the midnight blue slithers down her body like ink poured over marble. It pools at her feet.

She steps out of it, leaving—absolutely nothing.

The view from behind is a masterpiece of controlled power. Shoulder blades like sculpted wings above the impossibly narrow taper of her waist. The flare of her hips, lush and defiant. The perfect, taut curve of her ass, dimpling slightly where it meets her thighs. But it’s the sheer completeness of her that arrests you. Not just an idol’s disciplined frame, but a woman’s body rendered in breathtaking, almost intimidating detail. Muscles defined but not harsh, flowing beneath smooth, flawless skin that glows faintly in the city’s reflected light. 

And then she turns.

Her breasts are large, heavy, perfectly shaped, defying gravity through complete structural perfection. High and full, tipped with nipples already pebbled hard in the cool air or anticipation—you can’t tell. They dominate her upper body, a lush counterpoint to the sharp lines of her collarbones, the taut plane of her stomach. 

Her gaze meets yours. No coyness. No shame. Just a cool, assessing look. A commodity presented.

Here I am. This is the cost.

The hunger that lances through you is feral, obliterating the calculated cool. You cross the space in three strides. Your hands don’t go to her breasts, not yet. They clamp onto her narrow waist, fingers digging into the resilient muscle there, pulling her hard against you. The heat of her skin sears through your shirt. Your mouth crashes down onto hers.

This kiss isn’t like in the restaurant. There’s no audience, no pretense. It’s pure, devouring possession. 

She doesn’t yield passively; she meets you thrust for thrust, a low moan vibrating in her throat as her own hands fly to your chest. Fingers scramble for purchase on silk and cotton, finding buttons. She tears at them, impatient, the fabric straining. A button pings off, skittering across the polished floor. Her breath hitches against your mouth as she shoves the shirt open, palms sliding over the hard planes of your chest, nails scraping lightly.

"Fuck," you groan into her mouth, breaking the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed bites down the elegant column of her throat. Your hands slide up from her waist, thumbs brushing the sensitive undersides of her heavy breasts. She arches into the touch, a gasp escaping her. "Christ, Karina—you’re fucking unreal."

She doesn’t respond. Her hands drop to your belt buckle. The clink of expensive metal is loud. Her fingers are deft, purposeful, working the leather free, then the button of your pants. The zipper rasps down. 

You kick off your shoes, step back just enough to let your trousers and boxers slide down your legs. Your cock springs free, thick and already painfully hard, bobbing against your stomach. 

Her gaze drops, lingers. Not shy. Appraising. Calculating the tool, the weapon.

You reach for Karina again, pulling her flush against your naked body. Skin on skin. The heat is staggering. The soft, heavy weight of her breasts crushed against your chest, the hard points of her nipples branding you. Your cock nestles against the smoothness of her lower belly. You grind against her, a slow, deliberate roll of your hips, feeling the length of your cock slide against her, leaving a slick trail of pre-cum on her flesh. Your mouth finds hers again, swallowing her sharp gasp of breath.

Then you guide her backwards towards the massive bed. She moves with you, her steps small, her body pliant against yours. When the backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress, she sinks down, sitting on the crisp, white duvet. Her eyes, dark and fathomless, lock onto yours. Then they drop to your cock, standing rigid before her.

Her hand wraps around the base. Her touch is firm, cool. She pumps slowly, once, twice, her thumb swirling over the swollen, leaking head, smearing the wetness. The sensation is electric, a jolt straight to your spine. You hiss, fingers tangling in her dark hair, not forcing, just anchoring.

"Slowly," you grit out, roughened with her touch. "Make it last."

She looks up at you, a challenge flickering in her eyes. 

"But I want it," she answers seductively. Not the cool idol, not the detached asset. Something primal, awakened. 

Her tongue darts out, pink and deliberate, tracing the flared ridge of your cockhead. A bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure shoots through you. Your hips jerk involuntarily.

"Fuck, Karina—" 

Your grip tightens in her hair.

She ignores the warning. Her lips part, enveloping the head. The heat, the wet suction is immediate, devastating. 

Karina takes you deeper, inch by agonizing inch, her tongue working flatly along the sensitive underside. Her eyes stay open, watching your face, gauging your reaction. Hollowing her cheeks, sucking hard, drawing a ragged groan from your throat. One hand still pumps the base of your shaft, the other drifts between her own legs. You can see her fingers move, hidden, hear the soft, slick sound as she touches herself.

The sight, the feel, the sound—it’s too much. Too perfect. Too much like the transaction she’s supposed to be, yet twisted by this ravenous, unexpected hunger. 

The memory of the Ascendant’s office, that first coerced blowjob, slams into you. The violation. The power play. This—this feels different. Dangerous. Like she’s claiming you now. The handler is losing control.

You can’t let it end like that. Not again. Not with her.

With a guttural sound, half-growl, half-plea, you pull your cock from her mouth. A string of saliva connects her swollen lips to the glistening tip for a second before snapping. She looks up, startled, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. Her lips are slick, reddened.

"Not like that," you rasp, breathing hard. "Not—not again." 

You push her shoulders gently but firmly. She yields, falling back onto the bed, her dark hair fanning out on the white duvet. Her body is a feast laid bare in the city light: the heavy, perfect breasts rising and falling with her quickened breath, the flat stomach, the flare of her hips, the dark triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs, glistening with her own wetness.

Kneeling on the bed between her legs, you spread her thighs wide. The scent of her arousal hits you like a physical force, musky and sweet. Leaning down, not to kiss her mouth, but to bury your face in the hot, wet center of her. Your tongue finds her clit, hard and swollen. 

You lap at it, firm, relentless circles.

She cries out, a sharp, broken sound. Her back arches off the bed, her hands fly to your head, fingers tangling in your hair, not pushing you away, but holding on. "Oh God! Fuck!"

You feast. Your tongue delves lower, tasting her entrance, fucking into her tight, wet heat. She’s drenched, her cunt pulsing around your probing tongue. Her thighs clamp around your head, trapping you there. Her hips buck, grinding against your mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. The sounds she makes are animalistic: gasps, whimpers, choked moans. 

Gone is the controlled idol. This is pure, desperate need.

"Please," Karina gasps, torn and ragged. "Please, fuck me—"

You lift your head, your chin glistening in her slick. Her cunt looks ravished, dripping. Her eyes are wild, unfocused. "We’re in no rush," you hush, dragging a finger through her slickness, circling her clit again. She whines, high and desperate.

"Stop—teasing—" she pants, her chest heaving, breasts swaying with the force of her breaths. "Just do it."

Her demand shatters the last of your control. You grab your cock, thick and throbbing, slick with her wetness and your own. Positioning the broad head at her entrance, pressing against the tight, hot ring of muscle. She’s so fucking wet, but still so deliciously tight. You push, slowly, relentlessly, watching her face. Her eyes squeeze shut; her mouth forms a silent ‘O.’ Her body tenses, then yields, accepting the thick invasion inch by glorious inch.

"Fuck," you groan, the sensation almost blinding. Hot, impossibly tight velvet gripping you, sucking you deeper. "Your cunt—Karina—fuck—"

You bottom out, your hips flush against hers. Pausing, deeply buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, letting the sheer, overwhelming fullness register for both of you. She gasps, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around your cock. Her eyes open, blazing into yours. 

"Move," she commands, finding her steel through the sensation. "Fuck me. Hard."

There’s never been an easier command to obey. 

Pull back almost all the way, then slam home. A cry tears from her throat. You set a punishing rhythm, hips pistoning, driving into her with deep, hard strokes that make the bed frame creak in protest. The sounds are obscene: the wet slap of skin on skin, her choked cries, your ragged grunts. You lean down, burying your face in the fragrant curve of her neck, biting, leaving marks on her flawless skin. Your hands find her breasts, large and heavy, filling your palms. You knead them roughly, pinch her hard nipples, drawing sharp gasps from her.

"Yes! Like that! Fucking—harder!" Karina demands, her voice cracking on the razor’s edge. Her legs wrap around your waist, heels digging into your ass, pulling you deeper with every thrust. She meets your movements, grinding up against you, taking everything you give, demanding more. Her velvety cunt is a furnace, gripping you, milking you. 

"Don’t stop! Fuck me! Use my fucking cunt!"

The unfettered filth spilling from her perfect mouth is the most potent aphrodisiac. You’re losing yourself in the heat, the friction, the, bliss of fucking Karina. Luminary asset, global icon, reduced to a writhing, demanding animal beneath you. The control you wielded, the handler’s detachment—it’s all burning up in this inferno.

"I’m close," you gasp against her neck, your thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. "Fuck, Karina—your pussy I’m gonna fucking cum—"

"Cum!" she snarls, nails raking down your back. "Do it! Fill me! Mark me! Cum in my fucking cunt!"

The command, the utter, wanton demand—it pushes you over the edge. 

With a roar ripped from your gut, you slam into her one final time, burying yourself to the root. Your cock pulses violently, jet after hot jet of cum erupting deep inside her clutching cunt. The intensity is blinding, a white-hot detonation that sears through every nerve. You grind against her, emptying yourself, shuddering uncontrollably as her inner muscles spasm and clench around your oversensitive cock, milking out the last drops.

You collapse onto her, spent, gasping, your face buried between her neck and shoulder, the scent of sex and sweat and her expensive perfume overwhelming. Your cock, still half-hard, twitches inside her warm, slick sheath. You feel utterly, deliciously wrecked.

Before you can even register the aftershocks, her hands are on your face. She pulls you up, her mouth finding yours in a fierce, demanding kiss. It’s messy, tasting of salt and sex and her. And while your mind is still fogged with the euphoric haze of your orgasm, her body moves with startling strength.

Mid-kiss, she rolls. Leverage, momentum, the element of surprise—Karina uses it all. In a fluid, powerful motion, she reverses your positions. You land on your back with a soft whumpf, staring up at her, caught off-guard, stunned. She straddles your hips, her weight pinning you, your softening cock still nestled inside her, her inner walls still fluttering around it. Cum, your cum, glistens at her entrance, an obscene claim against her flushed skin.

Her hair is a wild, dark halo around her face. Her lips look swollen, her eyes burning with an intensity that steals your breath. She’s flushed, magnificent, utterly in control. Leaning down, bracing her hands on your chest, her large, perfect breasts swaying tantalizingly close to your face. 

The look she gives you isn't sated; it’s hungry, calculating, possessive.

She takes your hands from where they’d fallen limply to the sheets. Slowly, deliberately, she lifts them. Places them firmly, palm up, onto the heavy, warm swell of her breasts. Her skin is hot silk under your touch. She holds your hands there, pressing them into her flesh, making you cup the full, heavy weight.

"Stay," she commands, low and rough, still breathless, but utterly certain. 

Her hips grind down minutely on your softening cock, a reminder, a promise. Your hands remain on her breasts, anchors in the shifting dark.

Moonlight bleeds through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting silver stripes across the rumpled sheets, the discarded midnight blue dress pooling on the floor like a fallen shadow, and the expanse of Karina’s bare back as she shifts. She’s propped up on one elbow beside you, tracing idle, meaningless patterns on your chest with a fingertip. Her breathing is deep, even, but the energy humming beneath her skin is anything but settled. 

The silence isn't comfortable; it's charged, a live wire strung taut between the things done and the things yet to be claimed.

You’re softening, spent from the first frantic claiming against the door, then the slower, deeper possession on the bed, where she’d arched and gasped, her nails scoring your back, not in protest, but in a kind of furious, focused greed. But the sight of her, even now—the impossible dip of her waist flaring into the perfect, heavy curve of her hip, the moonlight catching the sweat-slicked line of her spine, the dark fall of hair against the pillow—keeps a low, persistent heat smoldering in your gut.

She feels it. Of course she does. 

Her hand slides lower, fingers trailing down your abdomen, feather-light, teasing. They bypass your softening cock entirely, tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh instead, a knowing smirk playing on her swollen lips. Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, she swings a leg over you, straddling your waist. Her weight settles, warm and possessive. Her eyes, dark pools in the dim light, lock onto yours. Not shy. Assessing. Calculating the angles, even here.

Her hand finds you then, not where she’d teased, but wrapping firmly around your cock. It’s still thick, heavy in her grip, responsive despite the earlier release. She squeezes, a slow, testing pressure, her thumb rubbing a deliberate circle over the sensitive head, slick with the remnants of her and your combined spend. You hiss, your hips jerking involuntarily off the mattress.

"Still eager, babe?" 

Karina’s voice is a low purr, rough around the edges from earlier cries, laced with a new kind of confidence. She begins to move, a slow, torturous rocking of her hips, the hot, wet seam of her pussy grinding against the base of your shaft, coating you anew in her slickness. Her other hand drifts up, fingertips brushing over your collarbone, your throat, coming to rest possessively on your jaw. 

"All that control you wield—over schedules, scandals, me—" She leans down, her breath warm against your ear, her magnificent breasts, full and heavy, brushing against your chest. "Does it ever—slip?"

Her hips rock again, a slow, deliberate undulation designed to coax blood back into aching flesh. She’s building the pressure, the friction, working you back towards hardness beneath her. "Do you ever," she mumbles, her lips grazing your earlobe, "let them take the reins? Giselle? Winter? Ningning?" 

Her name for her members is casual, almost dismissive. Assets. Tools. Like her. "Do they get you like this? Weak? Needing?" 

She punctuates the question with a sharp downward grind of her hips, forcing a choked groan from your throat as your cock twitches, thickening perceptibly under her expert attention.

"Never." The word rasps out, harsh, definitive. Your hands, which had been resting loosely on her thighs, tighten, fingers digging into the firm muscle. Possessive. "Control," you grind out, watching her face, the moonlight catching the sharp planes, the dark challenge in her eyes, "isn't relinquished. It’s permitted. A gift. A calculated risk." 

You buck your hips up, meeting her slow grind, feeling the delicious drag of her wetness, the insistent pressure building. "They get what I allow them. A taste. A fleeting illusion of power." Your gaze travels down her body, a slow, hungry appraisal that makes her breath catch. "Giselle—fuck, that ass. Built for punishment. Taking it deep, hard, screaming into the pillows." 

You shift your grip, one hand sliding up to palm the glorious swell of her own ass, squeezing hard, making her gasp. "Winter—ah, Minjeong—those lips. Perfect for wrapping around a cock, sucking like she’s starving." 

Your other hand drifts up her flank, tracing the defined ridge of her ribs, the taut plane of her stomach. "Ningning—tight little cunt. So fucking responsive. Makes the sweetest noises when she cums." 

Your hand keeps moving, higher, skimming the underside of her breast, feeling its heavy, warm weight. 

"But you—" Your voice drops, thick with a hunger that feels ancient, primal. "Karina. Fuck."

Your hand closes fully over one perfect breast. It’s impossibly full, heavy, the skin like silk over firm muscle. Your thumb finds the hardened peak of her nipple, rolling it roughly, pinching just enough to make her cry out, her hips stuttering their rhythm. 

"I’ve wanted these," you growl, squeezing, kneading the lush flesh. "Dreamed of them. Since before I found Luminary. Since before the fucking red jacket." You release her breast only to cup the other, identical in its perfection, worshipping the weight, the shape. "Wanted them in my hands. In my mouth."

You lean up, straining against her weight, your mouth latching onto the neglected nipple. Then you suck hard, drawing the peak deep, flicking your tongue relentlessly, teeth grazing the sensitive bud. She arches above you, a low moan tearing from her throat, her hands flying to your hair, not to pull away, but to hold you there, pressing you closer.

The taste of her skin floods your senses. You move from one breast to the other, lavishing the same rough, worshipful attention, sucking, biting, licking the valley between them. Karina’s gasping, writhing above you, her earlier control fracturing under the relentless assault. Your cock, trapped beneath her, is fully hard now, achingly so, throbbing against the slick heat of her lower belly, begging for friction, for release.

You pull back from her breast, your lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses up the column of her throat, tasting the frantic pulse there. You reach her jaw, her ear. 

"Want them wrapped around my cock," you breathe, the words feeling dangerously hot against her skin. "Your perfect fucking tits. Want to fuck them. Hard. Until I paint them white. Cover that flawless skin. Mark it." Your hand slides down her back, fingers pressing into the dimples at the base of her spine, urging her up. "Do it. Now."

For a heartbeat, she hesitates, looking down at you, her chest heaving, her lips parted, eyes wide and dark with a mix of shock, arousal, and the dawning realization of just how deep this corruption runs. Then, the pragmatist, the survivor, the star Luminary forged, takes over. A slow, deliberate smile curves her lips. Not sweet. Predatory. Accepting the terms of this new, intimate transaction.

"Alright," she whispers, the title laced with a new, dangerous intimacy. "Show me how much you wanted it."

Karina pushes herself up, kneeling tall above you. The moonlight bathes her, turning her skin alabaster, highlighting the sweat-slicked curves, the magnificent swell of her breasts. She looks like a goddess carved from ice and desire. Her hands come up, cupping the heavy undersides of her breasts, lifting them, pushing them together. The sight is obscenely perfect: the deep cleavage, the hard, pebbled nipples pointing proudly. She leans forward slightly, guiding your cock, thick and straining, between the yielding, silken heat of her mounds.

The first touch is electric. Hot, soft skin enveloping your shaft. She presses down, firm, trapping you in that exquisite, slick valley. A groan rips from your throat, raw and involuntary. She looks down, watching, a flicker of something like fascination in her eyes, watching her own body used this way.

She starts slow. A tentative, experimental lift and drop of her upper body. The friction is minimal, teasing. Her breasts are so soft, so full, the sensation is maddening. 

"Fuck, Karina," you gasp, your hands flying to her hips, not to guide, but to anchor yourself. "Harder. Tighter."

She obeys, pressing her arms closer to her sides, squeezing her tits together with more force, creating a hot, snug tunnel. She begins to move in earnest now, a rhythmic rise and fall, fucking her breasts up and down the length of your cock. 

The slide is exquisite: slick from her sweat, your precum, the sheer friction generating its own heat. The softness is deceptive; the pressure is intense, the tightness unbelievable. The visual is devastating: the dark crown of your cock disappearing between those pale, perfect orbs, reappearing glistening, the moonlight catching every wet slide.

"Fuck—fuck yes," you hiss, bucking your hips upwards to meet her downward thrusts. "Just like that. Fuck, your tits—so goddamn incredible. Made for this. Made for me." 

Your thumbs dig into the soft flesh spilling over the top of her self-made cleavage, rubbing, pinching her nipples roughly through the skin. "Squeeze them. Harder. Milk my cock with these perfect fucking tits."

She moans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through her chest and into your cock. Her eyes flutter shut for a second, then snap open, fixed on where your shaft pistons between her breasts. She increases the pace, the rhythm becoming faster, more desperate. The slick, wet sounds fill the room, a lewd counterpoint to her ragged breathing and your own harsh gasps. Her skin glistens, dewy with effort and the sheen of precum leaking steadily from your tip, smearing across her cleavage, over her collarbones.

"You feel that?" you force out, watching the mesmerizing slide, the way her breasts jiggle with the force, the flushed skin. "Feel how hard you make me? How fucking bad I wanted this? Wanted to ruin you like this? Mark you?" 

You slide one hand up her stomach, over the frantic pulse in her throat, to grip her chin, forcing her gaze to meet yours. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips parted, panting. 

"None of them," you snarl, the possessive fury rising like a dark tide. "None of those fucking clients got this. Got to see you like this. Got to feel this." You thrust up harder, deeper into the hot, tight embrace of her flesh. "Got to make you their titfuck slut. This is mine. You’re mine."

The vulgarity, the perverse claim, seems to ignite something in her. Not shame. Not resistance. A dark, answering hunger. A twisted pride in being the object of such consuming, degrading desire. 

Karina pushes faster, her movements becoming almost frantic, her breasts bouncing, slapping softly against your stomach with each downward plunge. Her head falls back, a choked cry escaping her as she squeezes her tits together with punishing force, the pressure on your cock becoming almost unbearable.

"Fuck yes!" you cry out, the coil in your gut winding impossibly tight, the pressure building to a screaming peak. The sight of her—debauched, magnificent, yours—using her body like this, the feel of her soft, hot skin milking you, the absolute depravity of it all collides with the overwhelming physical sensation beyond resistance. "Gonna cum again! Gonna fucking paint those perfect tits! Take it! Take every fucking drop!"

She doesn’t slow. Rather, she drives down harder, faster, her eyes locked on yours now, burning with a challenging light. 

"Do it," she gasps, her voice shredded. "Cum. Cover me. Take your fucking asset. Don’t waste a single drop."

The command, the acceptance, the fucking audacity, shatters the last thread of control.

You explode.

It’s not a gentle release; it’s a violent eruption. Thick, hot ropes of cum blast from your cock, jetting forcefully against the soft, yielding flesh of her upper chest. The first shot hits her collarbone, glistening white against her moonlit skin. The next paints a stripe across the swell of her right breast. Another splatters her throat. The force, the sheer volume, surprises even you. Karina gasps, a sharp intake of breath, but she doesn’t pull away. She holds her position, pressing her tits together even tighter, milking you through the pulses, her body trembling as the hot fluid splashes her skin, some even catching the edge of her jaw, a single, glistening drop landing perilously close to her parted lips.

You roar, a sound ripped from deep in your chest, as the spasms wrack you, emptying you utterly onto her, marking her in the most primal, possessive way. The room fills with the sharp tang of sex and needed release. Afterward, you collapse back onto the pillows, completely spent, gasping, your cock twitching weakly in the slick, messy cradle of her breasts.

Karina remains kneeling above you, breathing heavily, her chest and throat and chin painted in streaks of your cum, glistening obscenely in the moonlight. She looks down at herself, then slowly, deliberately, raises a hand. Swipes a finger through a thick stripe on her collarbone, bringing it to her lips. Her dark eyes hold yours as her tongue flicks out, tasting you. A slow, deliberate movement. Not submissive. Evaluative. Accepting. The final seal on her transformation. 

The idol is gone. Only the asset, the possessed, remains.

A shudder runs through you, a mix of satiation and a deeper, darker satisfaction. You reach up, your hand trembling slightly, and wrap your fingers around her wrist, pulling her down towards you. She comes willingly, collapsing onto your chest, her cum-smeared skin pressing against yours, cool and sticky. The smell is overwhelming; you ignore it. Your other hand cups the back of her head, fingers tangling in her dark, sweat-damp hair.

"Mine," you rasp again, the word a vow, a curse, a benediction in the wreckage of the night.

You crush your mouth to hers. The kiss is desperate, tasting of expensive lip balm and the faint, metallic tang of your own release. It’s not tender. It’s a claiming. A confirmation. A passionate affirmation in the ruins of everything she was. 

She kisses you back with equal ferocity, her tongue clashing with yours, her body melting into yours, accepting the ruin, embracing the filth, sealing the pact in the shared darkness of the provided Luminary penthouse. The silence returns, deeper now, filled only with the ragged symphony of your breathing and the indelible proof of her surrender smeared between you.

—————

Hours on, the suite still reeks of you both: Chanel No. 5 and sweat, expensive whiskey and sex’s acrid perfume. Moonlight bleeds through the parted curtains, painting Karina’s bare back as she kneels on the king-sized ruin of the bed, her spine a perfect, deep curve. You’re behind her, hands possessive on the flare of her hips, fingers digging into the incredible, toned muscle there. Her ass is a work of art, high and round, and you guide your cock, slick with her and your earlier release, back to the swollen heat of her cunt. She gasps, a broken little sound, as you push in, hard, burying yourself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. 

"Fuck," she breathes, her throat utterly wrecked, forehead pressing into the tangled sheets. "So deep—"

Immediately you set a punishing rhythm, hips pistoning, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the high ceilings. Her body is a fucking revelation: the impossible narrowness of her waist flaring out to those hips, the sculpted lines of her back muscles tensing and releasing with every thrust. But it’s her tits that are almost obscene in their perfection, heavy and full, swaying pendulums with every jolt of your body into hers. You reach around, palming one, feeling the weight, the softness over taut muscle, thumb finding her nipple, already a hard pebble. 

She cries out, arching back into you, fucking herself back onto your cock. "Yes! God, yes, right there! Fuck me!" 

Her submission isn't passive; it’s hungry, demanding, meeting your force with her own desperate need.

Later, it’s against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the glittering, indifferent sprawl of Milan. Her palms are splayed against the pane, breath fogging the view. You’re pressed flush against her back, one hand braced beside her head, the other tangled in her dark hair, pulling just enough to tilt her head back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat. You bite, not gently, sucking a bruise into the delicate skin as you drive into her from behind. Her reflection is a blur of pleasure and strain, eyes screwed shut, mouth open on a silent scream. 

"Look," you growl against her ear, leaving your mark on her earlobe. "Look at yourself. See how fucking perfect you take it." 

Her eyes flutter open, meeting yours in the glass: wide, dark, utterly owned. Her cunt clenches viciously around your cock. 

"Mine," you snarl, slamming home, feeling her shudder, her inner walls fluttering wildly. "All fucking night, this perfect cunt is mine."

The mirror in the opulent bathroom witnesses the next act. You have Karina bent over the marble sink, her cheek pressed to the cold surface, your reflection a tableau of absolute possession behind her. Her legs are spread wide, trembling with the effort. You’re kneeling, worshipping, but it’s a slavish kind of devotion. Your tongue is relentless, licking broad stripes through her soaked folds, circling her clit, plunging deep inside her. She’s incoherent, babbling curses and pleas, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth stone. 

"Please—oh God—please—I need—I need to cum! Let me cum!" 

You suck her clit into your mouth, hard, flicking your tongue rapidly. Her back bows like a drawn bowstring, a shattered scream tearing from her throat as she comes, gushing over your chin, her body convulsing violently under your mouth. You don’t let up, drinking her in, fucking her with your tongue through the aftershocks until she’s sobbing, limp against the counter.

The plush carpet in front of the fireplace becomes an altar. She’s on her back, legs hooked over your shoulders, heels digging into your spine. You’re driving into her with long, deep strokes, your gaze locked on her face. Sweat glistens on her collarbone, between her magnificent breasts that bounce with every thrust. You lean down, capturing a nipple in your mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive peak. Karina moans, long and low, her hands fisting in your hair. 

"Harder," she gasps. "Fill me up—wanna feel you—deep inside—claim it." 

Her words ignite something primal. You fuck her harder, faster, the angle perfect, hitting that spot deep inside that makes her eyes roll back. 

"Gonna cum?" you grind out, watching your own control fraying. "Gonna milk my cock dry, you perfect fucking slut?" 

She nods frantically, far beyond words, her cunt gripping you like a vise. 

"Do it," you command. "Cum on it. Now." 

Her body obeys, seizing around you, a guttural cry ripped from her chest as her orgasm detonates. It triggers yours: a blinding, white-hot explosion. Burying yourself to the root, pulsing jet after hot jet deep into her clutching channel, filling her, marking her womb as yours. She whimpers, her body still fluttering weakly around your spent cock as you collapse onto her, both of you gasping, slick with sweat and cum.

The night bleeds into a haze of repositioning, rediscovery. Against the ornate bedroom door, her legs wrapped around your waist. On the velvet chaise lounge, Karina riding you, those incredible tits bouncing in your face as you dive in and bite. Bent over the luxurious desk, papers scattering as you take her from behind again, your hand smacking her ass, leaving a red handprint on her pristine skin. 

Each time, it’s a fresh rediscovery of her body: the softness of her inner thighs, the surprising strength in her dancer’s legs, the way her breath hitches when you trace the shell of her ear with your tongue, the addictive tightness of her cunt, the hot, wet grip of her mouth when she takes you deep, gagging but determined, tears streaking her mascara as you fuck her throat. 

You make her your canvas: stomach, tits, face. Sticky streaks of white spread all over as evidence of your obsession. 

You fill her over and over—her pussy, her ass when she begs for it later, whispering intoxicating filth into your ear about being stuffed completely and wanting to be used repeatedly—until she’s dripping, overflowing, a mess made entirely by you. And through it all, the same refrain, growled against her skin, bitten into her shoulder, hissed as you watch her swallow: 

"Perfect. So fucking perfect. Every fucking inch."

Exhaustion, when it finally wins, is absolute. Dawn is a grey smear at the windows when you collapse onto the less-destroyed side of the bed, a tangle of limbs and damp sheets. You drag the heavy duvet over both of you. The silence is thick, broken only by the ragged symphony of your breathing. Her back is pressed to your chest, your arm slung heavily over her waist, fingers idly tracing the dip of her navel. Her skin is feverishly hot.

Her voice, when it comes, is small, reduced to near-tatters. "Did you—ever fuck them like this?" 

She doesn’t name Winter, Giselle, and Ningning. There’s no need to. "The others?"

The question hangs, sharp in the spent air. You feel the slight tension coil in her body beneath your arm. Tighten your hold, pulling her closer, burying your nose in the sweaty mess of her hair. 

"No." 

The word is simple, absolute. 

"Never like this." You press a kiss, surprisingly tender, to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Your clients—they fuck you. They take what Luminary sells. They don’t get this." 

Your hand slides down, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of her hip, dipping slightly lower. "No one pushed me like you did tonight. No one made me want to ruin them and worship them in the same fucking breath."

A tremor runs through her. She’s silent for a prolonged moment. You feel the dampness on your arm before you hear the quiet sniff. 

"Luminary—" she starts, "They protect us. From scandals. From—difficult choices. But they can’t protect me from—this feeling. From wondering what piece of me is left."

Karina shifts, turning slightly in your arms. In the dim light, her eyes are huge, luminous pools reflecting the grey dawn. They hold a profound sadness, a stark clarity cutting through the post-coital haze. 

"That deal—it saved aespa. It made me a megastar. It gave me this."

Her gaze sweeps the opulent, debauched room. "But it cost—everything else. My soul? Maybe. The girl who just wanted to sing? To perform for people who genuinely loved the idol? I don’t know if I can ever be that girl ever again." 

A single tear escapes, tracing a path down her temple into the pillow. "I wish—fuck, I wish it happened differently. That I wasn’t so scared. That I fought harder. That I actually said no." 

She swallows hard, meeting your gaze directly, her vulnerability terrifying and beautiful all at once. "But I don’t regret it. Not the success. Not the protection. Not—tonight." Her hand finds yours where it rests on her hip, her fingers lacing through yours with surprising strength. "Not you."

The brutal honesty hits you like a physical blow. You see the echo of your own compromise, the ruthless ambition that curdled into something darker, yet undeniably potent. The handler’s mask, the detached power broker, feels like a flimsy costume in this moment. The man beneath—the one who saw her defiance and wanted to break it, then found himself broken alongside her—surges forward. 

"Listen to me, Karina. I mean—Yu Jimin,” you say, cupping her face, your thumb brushing away the tear track. It’s a low sound, stripped bare, devoid of its usual Luminary chill, the procedural corporate calculus. It’s just the man, rough with exhaustion and something dangerously close to personal tenderness. "Luminary’s protection has limits. It shields you from the wolves outside, but it can’t shield you from choices inside its walls. Not really. What happened tonight—it wasn't Luminary. It wasn't an assignment." You hold her gaze, willing her to understand. "You wanted it. You demanded it. And I—I couldn't fucking resist. No one in these shoes could. 

That power you talk about giving up?" You lean in, your forehead resting against hers. "You have it. Right here. Right now. You always have the right to say no. To anyone. To anything. Including me." 

You pull back slightly, your twinkling eyes searching hers. "I fucked you like that because you wanted your brains fucked out. Because you wanted to forget, to feel, to own a piece of something."

A shaky breath escapes her. The guilt, the clarity, it doesn't vanish, but it shifts. Settles. Karina sees the same acknowledgement in your eyes: the cost, the corruption, the undeniable, fucked-up connection established in it. 

She nods, slowly. "I know."

The handler’s mantle settles back onto your shoulders, but it’s different now. Tempered. The promise you make isn’t from Luminary; it's from the man who saw her crack and stepped into the fissure. 

"I’ll protect you," you say, the power returning, but directed, focused. "Not just as one of your handlers. Not just with Luminary’s backing." Your fingers tighten on hers. "As the man who saw you in that damn red jacket and knew you’d burn the world down. As the man who wanted you, even before he owned you." 

It’s a vow laced with darkness, a protector who also happens to be the corrupter. "No one touches you without your say. No one uses you without your consent. Not even the highest bidder Luminary throws your way. And not," you add, your gaze hardening just a fraction, the handler reasserting control, "even me. Unless you ask. Unless you want it."

Karina stares at you, the last vestiges of the guilt eclipsed by a weary kind of understanding, a recognition of the complex, dangerous creature you both are. 

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches her swollen lips. She doesn't say thank you; she doesn't need to. She simply shifts closer, her head finding the hollow of your shoulder, her body relaxing completely against yours, utterly spent, utterly claimed, utterly aware of the devil's bargain that brought her straight into your arms.

(And by God, she’ll do it all over again.)

—————

(A/N: Thank you for the commission! Before I go on about the fic itself, I'd like to say I liked Dirty Work on the first listen. Probably a hot take, but its one of the few aespa songs I got on the first listen. Surprised at how polarizing it is, considering they've been on a killer title track run since Spicy.

Now for the fic itself: If it wasn't clear by the OC's line of work, this takes place in the same universe as Power! I wanted to focus on a radically different POV this time. If Power was about the average man discovering the secrets of the wealthy elite and trying to stay true to one's self within the system in a fun, lighthearted tone, then this serves as a mirror of sorts, showcasing the dark side from the POV of a public figure, or in this case, the idol, Karina, and how the wealthy elite control everything, including narratives. Inspired by Illuminati conspiracies and such. I'd like to assume these two stories happen within close proximity of each other, so you can choose which one is first in the timeline, but considering I'm using a real life issue here (Karina's red jacket scandal), you could argue this happens earlier in the timeline. Was really fun to experiment! The OC in this one is one of the more despicable ones I've personally written, even moreso than the OC in Power, which says a lot. Unfortunately, I've been informed that school starts up in a couple of weeks, which is a damn shame. I've really enjoyed writing these longer pieces; they feel a lot more complete. Here's to brighter days and stories ahead. Thank you for reading!)

[capslocked]

what do u think about smutoperator quitting?

it definitely puts a pause on the audiobook I was slowly narrating that's for sure.

[capslocked]

Between the Lines

Irene x Seulgi x male reader

word count: 15k

A sudden warmth envelops you from behind, arms sliding around your shoulders and pulling you back against a soft, firm body. You don't even have to guess. The specific mix of her flowery perfume and that little hint of vanilla is unmistakable, a scent you've associated with playful ambushes and heartfelt hugs for years. You lean your head back, still smiling, and twist in your chair to see her. And damn. Just, damn. Seulgi is glowing. It’s a word that gets thrown around a lot, but right now, it’s the only one that fits. Her reception dress, a sleek, form-fitting number covered in subtle shimmering beadwork, catches the light from the paper lanterns aboves, she looks like a human star. Her cheeks are flushed with happiness and maybe a little bit of champagne, and a few strands of her dark hair have escaped her elegant bun, framing her face in a way that’s effortlessly, breathtakingly beautiful.

The wedding was perfect. Now, the after-party is a necessary chaos.

You feel a surge of pride so strong it almost knocks the wind out of you. This is your best friend. And she looks so, so happy.

“So? What’s the verdict? Best party of the year or best party of all time?”

You reach up, your hands finding hers where they rest on your chest, and you give them a gentle squeeze. You turn more fully in your seat to face her properly, your own goofy happiness reflected in her beaming smile. “Are you kidding me? This is incredible, Seulgi. Everything is. You two looked… seriously. Up there at the altar? It was unreal. You and Irene, you both looked so beautiful I think I almost cried for real.”

Seulgi lets out a peal of laughter. “You’re more emotional than my mom, and she was sobbing before the music even started.”

“Hey, this moment means a lot to me, too,” you protest, rubbing your thumbs over her knuckles. “Watching my two best friends in the whole world get married? It’s like the finale of a movie I’ve been watching for years. This is it. The peak. There’s no way this night could possibly get any more special than it already is.”

She tilts her head, and for a split second, a look you can’t quite decipher flickers in her eyes that’s there and gone before you can even begin to process it. She leans in a little closer, her words a soft, teasing murmur just for you. “I don’t know about that. The night is still young. More things could still happen, who knows?”

You just grin back at her, completely taking it at face value. Maybe they planned a surprise fireworks display, or there’s a late-night taco truck coming. That sounds exactly like something she’d do. “Oh yeah? Well, you know me. Whatever you guys have planned, I’ll be waiting with open arms.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” The way she says it is low and smooth, and the smile that spreads across her lips seems deeper, more satisfied, for reasons that fly right over your head. She gives your hands one last squeeze before letting go and straightening up. “Okay, I gotta go make the rounds. I promised Irene I’d help her hunt down her cousin for the bouquet toss. I’ll see you later?”

“Always,” you reply, watching as she navigates through the tables, stopping to laugh with a group of relatives. You turn back to your drink, a warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the whiskey. You find yourself drifting, your gaze unfocused as you get lost in memories. You remember the night you first introduced them at a crowded, sticky-floored bar downtown. Seulgi, with her boundless, goofy energy, had just spilled a drink down the front of her shirt and was laughing it off, while Irene had been in the corner, looking like a porcelain doll someone had accidentally placed in a mosh pit; all quiet grace and reserved observation. They were polar opposites. Seulgi was the unstoppable force, Irene the immovable object. And yet, from that first night, you saw how they just… fit. Seulgi made Irene laugh, a real, unguarded laugh that transformed her entire face. And Irene’s calm, steady presence seemed to ground Seulgi, giving her a safe harbor in the middle of her own happy chaos. They completed each other in a way you’d never seen before. And you, you got to have a front-row seat for the whole thing. Yeah, you think, swirling the last of the amber liquid in your glass. It really, truly, doesn’t get any better than this.

—

The whiskey has done its job. Hours have bled into one another, marked only by the changing songs the DJ plays and the dwindling number of sober people. Your head is fuzzy in that pleasant, warm way, your limbs feel loose and uncoordinated, and your brain is operating on a significant delay. The main tent is still a riot of sound and light, but it’s starting to feel a bit like being in a fishbowl. You need air. Stumbling just a little as you push your chair back, you navigate your way past the dance floor and out onto the stone veranda that overlooks the hotel’s sprawling, manicured gardens. The cool night air is an instant relief, clearing some of the fog from your head. And that’s when you see her.

Leaning against the stone balustrade, a champagne flute held loosely in one hand, is Irene. Even from a distance, she’s captivating. The moonlight catches the intricate lace of her own white dress, a more elegant and ethereal counterpart to Seulgi’s sparkling one. Her posture is perfect, her profile sharp and regal as she stares out at the distant city lights. She looks exactly like what she is: a work of art. Her beauty is of a different kind than Seulgi’s; where Seulgi is all warm, kinetic energy, Irene possesses a quiet, stunning grace that makes you feel like you should lower your volume just by being near her. She looks serene and maybe a little lonely, and your drunk, loyal heart decides that can’t be allowed. You make your way over, your steps a little unsteady on the flagstones.

“Hey, stranger.”

She turns her head, and the reserved, thoughtful expression on her face melts away into a small, genuine smile when she sees it’s you. It’s a rare, precious thing, an Irene smile, and it makes you feel like you’ve been let in on a secret. “Hey yourself. I was wondering where you’d gotten to.”

“Just… you know.” You gesture vaguely back toward the tent. “Social obligations. Telling my buddy Dave for the tenth time that no, I don’t think his ex is here. The usual stuff. You okay? Needed to escape the madness?” You lean against the railing beside her, following her gaze out to the horizon. She gives a tiny shiver, rubbing her bare arms, and without a second thought, you’re shrugging out of your blazer. It’s a little rumpled and probably smells like whiskey and whatever perfume rubbed off on you from the dozen congratulatory hugs you’ve received, but it’s warm. “Here. You look cold.”

She looks at the jacket, then at you, and her smile softens even more. “Thank you.” She slips her arms into it, pulling the lapels closed in front of her. The dark fabric is huge on her delicate frame. “That’s much better.” You both fall into a comfortable silence for a moment before you gesture to a nearby stone bench, half-hidden in an alcove of jasmine vines. “Wanna sit?” She nods, and you sit down together, the scent of the flowers thick in the air. “So, what’s on the mind of one of the beautiful brides on her wedding night? World domination? The merits of champagne versus prosecco?”

A quiet laugh escapes her, a delicate puff of sound. “Everything. Just… everything. How insane this all is. How happy I am. What comes next.”

“What does come next?” you ask, genuinely curious. “You two are gonna finally take that trip to Spain you’ve been talking about for three years, right?”

“Eventually,” she agrees, taking a small sip from her flute. “But first, the usual. Find a house somewhere a little quieter. Settle down. Start a family.”

You can picture it so clearly: Irene trying to teach a kid how to be patient, Seulgi teaching them how to climb a tree. They would be the absolute best moms. “Yes! I knew it. That’s amazing. You guys are going to be incredible parents.” Then, your alcohol-soaked brain connects a few dots in the worst possible way. “So how’s that gonna work? You gonna just, you know, try your luck on the wedding night and hope for the best? Or are you having one of those stork delivery situations?”

The look she gives you isn’t angry, but it’s sharp enough to cut through some of your drunken haze. The words are calm and level, but they carry a distinct chill. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

You immediately recoil, shamefaced. “Oh, god. Shit. Irene, I’m so sorry. That was stupid. It’s the alcohol. I’m being an idiot, seriously. I didn’t mean anything by it.” You run a hand through your hair, groaning. “Of course you guys will figure it out. You always do.”

She watches you for a second, then her expression softens, accepting your apology. “It’s okay. And yes, we will. In fact,” she says, swirling the champagne in her glass, her gaze distant again, “Seulgi and I have been thinking about some… possibilities. Ways to make it happen.”

That sounds complicated and private, and your dumb mouth has already gotten you into enough trouble. “Hey, you know what? Better if I don’t even know the details. It’s your journey. Just send me a text when I’m officially going to be an uncle, that’s all I ask.”

She smiles at that, a real smile again. “We’ll do that.” She nudges your shoulder with hers. “What about you? When are you finally going to let someone tie you down? Get married, start a family. You certainly wouldn’t have any problems with the second part.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh, shrugging. “Nah. I wasn’t cut out for all that. I’d be a terrible husband. And a terrible father? Even worse.”

“That’s not true.” Irene’s reply is immediate and firm, and she turns on the bench to face you properly. Her eyes are serious. “You’re one of the kindest, smartest, and most decent men I have ever met. You’re loyal and you’re good.” She pauses, a hint of a playful smirk touching her lips. “And you’re quite handsome, you know. That girl, Park Sooyoung? From Seulgi’s office? She was asking me about you earlier.”

You just shrug again, feeling a flush creep up your neck, embarrassed by the praise. “It’s better this way. Spare her the disappointment of getting to know me and breaking the spell.”

“What are you two whispering about over here?”

Seulgi’s cheerful query breaks the moment, and you both look up to see her approaching, already beaming. Without any hesitation, she bypasses the empty space on the bench and plops herself right onto Irene’s lap, wrapping an arm around her wife’s shoulders and stealing her champagne flute for a long sip. Irene, for her part, just settles back, looking completely content with her lapful of Seulgi.

Irene smooths a hand down Seulgi’s back. “Just talking about the future.”

“Ooh, our favorite topic,” Seulgi says, her eyes sparkling as she looks at you. “We were just saying earlier how we’re thinking about starting our family. Soon.”

“Yeah, Irene told me,” you say, a big, genuine smile returning to your face. You lean forward, putting all the sincerity you can muster into your slurred words. “And I meant what I said. You guys can count on me for anything. Babysitting, building a crib, being the goofy uncle who teaches them bad jokes. Anything. I would do anything for you two.”

Irene and Seulgi exchange a look over your head, a silent conversation that you’re not privy to. Then, at the same time, they each reach out and take one of your hands. Irene’s grip is cool and delicate, Seulgi’s is warm and firm. “We know,” Irene says, her gaze intense.

“We know we can count on you,” Seulgi finishes, and her smile is wide, but it holds that same unreadable, knowing quality as before.

A huge yawn suddenly cracks your jaw. The combination of the booze, the emotional highs of the day, and the cool night air is finally catching up to you. “I’ll be here for whatever you need,” you mumble, your eyelids feeling heavy. Just then, one of Irene’s cousins pokes her head out onto the veranda.

“There you are! They’re about to do the cake cutting!”

Seulgi groans dramatically, leaning her head back against Irene’s shoulder. “Duty calls.” They both start to get up, reluctantly releasing your hands. “You coming?” Seulgi asks.

You shake your head, trying to clear it. “Nah, I think I’ll just stay out here for another minute. Enjoy the quiet before I brave the dance floor again.”

Seulgi leans down, and for a second you think she’s going to hug you, but she just adjusts the blazer on Irene’s shoulders. The words she speaks are for you, though, a low, playful murmur. “Don’t go to sleep just yet. The party isn’t over.”

“I’ll try,” you say, giving them a weak wave as they walk back toward the light and noise of the reception, hand in hand. You lean back against the cool stone, closing your eyes, feeling happy and drunk.

—

The last of the guests have finally trickled out, their happy, drunken goodbyes echoing in the grand hotel lobby. The party is officially over. All you can think about is your bed. Your body feels heavy, a pleasant, bone-deep exhaustion from a day packed with emotion, dancing, and far too much good whiskey. You manage the elevator ride up in a bit of a daze, humming one of the songs the DJ had on repeat and fumbling for your room key as you navigate the plushly carpeted, blissfully quiet hallway. You’re just about to slide the key into the lock when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, squinting at the bright screen.

It’s a message from Irene.

Hey, are you still up?

You type back, your thumbs feeling thick and clumsy.

Barely. About to crash. What’s up?

Can you come by the suite? I want to give you your blazer back.

You groan. The presidential suite is two floors up, and the thought of getting back in the elevator feels like a Herculean task right now.

Its fine just give it to me tomorrow at brunch. Go enjoy ur wedding night lol

The three dots appear instantly. She’s typing again.

No, I want you to have it now. COME NOW.

The all-caps hits you like a splash of cold water. It’s so unlike her usual calm, measured texting style. It’s a command, not a request. You let out a long, weary sigh that seems to deflate your whole body. Arguing with Irene, especially when she’s using that tone, is a battle you learned long ago you would never win.

Ok ok. On my way.

The door to the presidential suite is a heavy, dark wood affair that makes your own room’s door look like a flimsy piece of cardboard. You knock twice, the sound seeming way too loud in the silent hall. You can hear faint music from inside. A moment passes, and then her reply comes, clear and calm. “You can come in.” You turn the handle, push the door open, and step inside, already launching into a good-natured, drunken complaint. “You know, for someone who just got married, you’re awfully demanding, summoning me up here at this hour. I was having a very important meeting with my pillow, you should know…”

You stop. Your words die in your throat, your brain short-circuiting as it tries, and fails, to process what you’re seeing. The suite is enormous, all cream-colored couches and dark wood furniture, with floor-to-ceiling windows showing the glittering cityscape. The lights are dimmed, casting everything in a soft, warm glow. And right in the center of it all, on the massive, perfectly made king-sized bed, are Irene and Seulgi. And they are wearing almost nothing. Irene is in a delicate, intricate black lace piece that seems to both hide and highlight everything, looking like a dangerous, beautiful queen on her throne. Seulgi is beside her in a soft, white silk teddy that contrasts sharply with her dark hair, one knee bent, leaning back on her elbows with a lazy, confident smile. They aren’t doing anything. They’re just… waiting.

A hot flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck, and you feel the whiskey sour in your stomach. You’ve just walked in on your best friends on their wedding night. Your idiot brain finally catches up, and you instinctively start to back away, raising your hands in surrender. “Oh. Shit. My bad. So sorry. I’m just—I’m gonna go. I’ll see you tomorrow. Congrats again!” You’re fumbling for the doorknob behind you, your only thought to escape the mortifying situation you’ve created.

“Idiot.” Seulgi’s tone isn’t angry, it’s fond, but it stops you dead. “Get back here.”

You freeze with your hand on the doorknob, turning your head just enough to see them. Irene hasn’t moved a muscle, her gaze fixed on you. “Come closer,” she says, and it’s not a suggestion.

“Uh, I really don’t think that’s a good idea. You guys are, you know. Busy.”

A small smirk touches Seulgi’s lips. She sits up a little straighter. “What, are you scared of us?”

The honesty blurts out of you before you can stop it. “At this point? Yeah. A little bit.”

Irene finally moves, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed, the movement fluid and deliberate. “Get over here before I have to get up and pull you.”

You know she means it. With a feeling of profound dread, you let your hand fall from the doorknob and slowly, hesitantly, walk towards the bed, feeling like you’re approaching two very beautiful, very unpredictable wild animals. You stop a few feet away, unsure what to do with your hands, your body, anything. As if on cue, they each reach out, their hands finding yours. Seulgi’s is warm and strong, Irene’s is cool and delicate. They gently but firmly pull you forward, making you sit on the edge of the thick, soft mattress between them. The bed dips under your weight. You’re overwhelmed by the scent of their perfumes, the warmth radiating from their skin. Seulgi leans in close, her breath tickling your ear.

“This is where the real party happens.”

The last of your drunken fog evaporates, replaced by a sharp, ringing confusion. “What the fuck is going on? What are you two doing?”

Irene squeezes your hand, drawing your attention. Her expression is perfectly serious. “Do you remember earlier tonight? When we said we were thinking about starting a family?” You nod slowly, your throat dry. “Well,” she says, her gaze unwavering, “this is it. This is where it starts.”

It takes a second for the words to land. When they do, it’s like a physical blow. You wrench your hands from their grasp and scramble off the bed, stumbling backward until you hit a plush armchair. The implication, the sheer insanity of what she’s suggesting, hits you all at once. “No. No, no, no, absolutely not.” You shake your head, waving your hands frantically. “No way. I am not doing that.”

“Why not?” Seulgi asks, her tone genuinely curious as if she can’t possibly comprehend your objection.

“Why not?” you repeat, your pitch rising with disbelief. “Because you’re my best friends! You’re… you’re married! To each other! I was the best man, for Christ’s sake! I can’t do… that.”

“That’s exactly why it has to be you,” Irene says calmly, her logic cutting through your panic. “Because we trust you. Completely. We don’t trust anyone else in the world with something this important.” She cocks her head. “And besides… you have good genes. You’re smart, you’re healthy. That’s not an insignificant detail.”

“That is a really, really weird thing to say to me right now, Irene,” you manage, running a hand over your face.

“You promised,” Seulgi says. “Tonight. You said you’d do anything for us.”

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to force your spinning thoughts into some semblance of order. You have to be the rational one here. “Okay, look. If you’re being serious about this, then… okay. But there’s a way to do this. I’ll… I can donate. We can go to a clinic, I’ll sign whatever you want. I’ll give you my sperm, or whatever. We can do it the right way.”

Irene shakes her head, a look of distaste on her face. “No. I don’t want to go through all that. The paperwork, the cold, sterile rooms, the bureaucracy. It’s impersonal. This way is easier. It’s… warmer. It’s all of us, together.”

A horrible, practical question pops into your head before you can stop it. “So… who? Who is going to…?”

“Both of us,” Seulgi answers immediately, showing they’ve clearly discussed this. “The chances of one of us getting pregnant will be higher this way.”

“I was just asking out of curiosity!” you clarify, panicked again. “I didn’t agree to anything!”

And then, in a move so unexpected it completely disarms you, they both slide off the bed and onto the floor. They kneel in front of you, Seulgi grabbing your right leg, Irene your left, looking up at you with wide, pleading eyes. “Please,” Seulgi begins, her lower lip pushed out in a ridiculous pout. “Please, please, please do this for us.”

You can’t help it. A shocked, slightly hysterical laugh bursts out of you. You’re still a little drunk, and the situation is so profoundly absurd you can’t process it any other way. “Get up. Stop it. You guys are insane. This is completely insane.”

“It would be the perfect wedding gift,” Irene says, her voice dead serious even as she’s kneeling on the floor, clinging to your pants.

“Please,” they say in unison.

You look at Irene, a genuine question cutting through the madness. “By the way… I thought you were a lesbian?”

She gives a small shrug, a wry, determined look in her eye. “Mostly. But for this? For you? I’m willing to make a very specific, one-time exception.”

They get up, still holding your hands, pulling you to your feet. They stand close, their faces earnest and open, their expressions now stripped of all games and theatrics. “Think about it,” Irene says softly. “We want to be mothers more than anything in the world. And we want our child to have a piece of the best man we know. Someone kind, and funny, and loyal.”

“We want our baby to have a piece of you,” Seulgi finishes, her eyes shimmering. “Our family, started with our best friend.”

The emotional appeal, the raw sincerity of it, hits you right in the chest, bypassing all of your panicked objections. This isn’t just a crazy, impulsive scheme to them. They mean it. Every word. You look from Seulgi’s hopeful, pleading face to Irene’s steady, determined one. Your shoulders slump in defeat. A long, shaky sigh escapes you.

“Okay.” You clear your throat and say it again, louder. “Fine. Okay.”

The explosion of joy is immediate. They both let out triumphant whoops, their faces breaking into radiant smiles. They throw their arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug and then falling backward onto the bed in a heap of limbs and laughter. You’re sandwiched between them, their joy so infectious you almost forget the insane reality of what you’ve just agreed to.

“We love you so much!” Seulgi shouts into your shoulder.

“We love you,” Irene echoes.

And in that moment, tangled up with them, you mean it more than ever. “I love you guys, too.”

Irene lifts her head from your shoulder, her dark eyes searching yours. Seulgi does the same on the other side. And then, before you can process it, they both lean in. Irene’s lips find yours, soft and surprisingly warm. At the exact same time, Seulgi kisses the corner of your mouth, a messy, enthusiastic press. It’s overwhelming, a dizzying, confusing collision of silk and lace and the taste of champagne.

You’re lying on your back, sandwiched between them, the weight of their bodies a comforting, terrifying pressure. The scent of their perfume, the soft silk of Seulgi’s teddy, the intricate lace of Irene’s lingerie - it’s a sensory overload that has your head spinning faster than the whiskey ever did. Your brain is still screaming a frantic, high-pitched no, but your body, pressed flush against theirs, is humming a traitorous tune. You have to try, one last time, to anchor this to something you understand.

“Wait,” you manage, your words muffled by a curtain of Seulgi’s hair. You push yourself up slightly, so you can look between them. “You have to promise me. Promise me this doesn’t change things. Between us. That we’re still… us.”

Seulgi pulls back, her expression softening with genuine sincerity. “Of course. You’re our best friend. Our family. That is never, ever going to change. This doesn’t replace that; it just… adds a new layer.”

“She’s right,” Irene adds. “This is about making a family. It’s built on our friendship, not destroying it. We promise.”

Her promise is punctuated by the slow, deliberate slide of Seulgi’s hand from the small of your back, down over the curve of your ass, and onto your thigh. The touch is electric, a clear signal that the conversation part of the evening is well and truly over. Seulgi’s eyes have a mischievous, challenging glint in them. “Okay, promise made. Now, you have to promise something. Admit it. You think we’re attractive.”

“Of course I do. You’re both beautiful. You know that. But I’ve just… I’ve never thought about you like that.”

“Don’t play nice now,” Irene chides softly, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “There’s no need to be polite anymore. We’re past that.”

As if to prove her point, Seulgi’s hand continues its journey, sliding from your outer thigh inward, her palm coming to rest directly over the strained fly of your pants. You suck in a sharp breath. There’s no hiding the rigid length pressing against her palm. Her smirk widens, full of triumph. “See? For someone who has never thought about us ‘like that,’ you seem pretty excited down here.”

“It’s—it’s just a natural reaction,” you stammer, your face burning with a heat that has nothing to do with body warmth. “An involuntary physiological response.”

Seulgi lets out a delighted laugh. “Oh, I love when you get all technical.” She leans over you to speak to Irene, her tone full of bubbly excitement. “You know, Irene has never tried a real one before. Just dildos and strap-ons. This is going to be an interesting new experience for her.”

Before you can even process that piece of incredibly intimate information, Irene is already moving, her focus singular. Her nimble fingers go to the top button of your shirt. “Let’s get these off,” she says, her movements deft and practiced. “You look uncomfortable.” At the same time, Seulgi shifts, moving to the end of the bed. She grabs one of your feet, easily pulling off your shoe and then your sock before starting on the other one. Then, her hands are at your waist, unhooking the button of your pants with a decisive flick.

The feeling of being undressed by them is surreal. Irene’s fingers brush against your chest as she works her way down the buttons of your shirt, each touch sending a shiver through you. Seulgi tugs your pants down your legs, her movements efficient and surprisingly strong. Within moments, your pants and shirt are tossed onto a nearby chair. Irene leans over you, her hair tickling your skin as she presses a soft, wet kiss to the sensitive spot on your neck. Her hands begin to roam, mapping the planes of your chest, her cool fingers a stark contrast to the heat of her mouth.

“You’re so strong,” she murmurs against your skin, her hands squeezing your biceps. “All this time, and I never really noticed.” They both seem fascinated, their hands exploring your shoulders, your stomach, your arms, appreciating your body in a way that’s both clinical and deeply sensual. Irene nips gently at your earlobe, her breath hot as she whispers. “Is this okay? Your two best friends treating you like this?”

Your eyes are screwed shut. Your brain is a warzone of ‘no’ and ‘yes,’ of ‘wrong’ and ‘right,’ but your body has already surrendered. A low groan rumbles in your chest. “It’s good,” you admit. “Unfortunately, it is.”

You’re only in your boxer briefs, feeling impossibly exposed between them. Irene kneels on the bed next to Seulgi, so they’re both positioned in front of you, looking down. Then, in unison, they hook their thumbs into the elastic waistband of your underwear and slowly, deliberately, pull them down. The cool air of the hotel suite hits your exposed skin, and you feel yourself twitch, fully, shamelessly hard in front of them.

Seulgi lets out a low whistle, her eyes wide with genuine surprise and appreciation. “Whoa. Okay. I did not know you were hiding that. If I’d known about this nice cock back in college, maybe you and I would be married by now.”

“Seulgi,” Irene says, nudging her with her shoulder.

“I’m joking! I still love you baby, don't worry,” Seulgi says, her eyes still fixed on you. And then their hands are on you. It’s an immediate, overwhelming shock of sensation. Seulgi’s touch is exactly what you’d expect: confident, hungry, her fingers wrapping firmly around your base while her other hand cups you from below. But Irene’s is different. Her touch is one of pure curiosity. She traces the veins with a single, delicate finger, her touch light and questioning. She gently weighs your balls in her palm, exploring their shape and texture with the focus of a scholar examining a rare artifact. Your cock throbs in their dual grip, pulsing with a desperate, needy rhythm.

Then Irene does something that shorts out every thought in your head. She leans down, her hair falling around your thighs, and she simply… smells you. A deep, curious inhalation, as if trying to memorize your scent. At the same time, Seulgi leans in and presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss directly to the swollen, weeping tip of your cock. It’s too much. A strangled noise escapes your throat. And then, it gets even more intense. Seulgi’s tongue darts out, licking at the bead of pre-cum, a sweet, possessive taste. Irene, seeming to take her cue, mirrors the action, her own tongue, tentative at first, tracing a wet line down your shaft.

You grip the bedsheets, your knuckles white, your back arching as they both lower their heads and take you into their mouths. It’s a wet, hot, chaotic collision of sensation. Seulgi is all enthusiastic suction, taking as much of you as she can, her head bobbing eagerly. Irene is more methodical, her lips soft, her tongue exploring, learning. You can feel the slight scrape of her teeth, a sign of her inexperience that’s somehow more arousing than any practiced skill. You are being worshipped, studied, and devoured all at once by your two best friends, and the last vestiges of your resistance melt away into pure, unadulterated sensation.

Your thoughts are a thick, soupy mess of whiskey and want. This is so wrong, on so many levels. It’s a violation of a decade of friendship, a line so bright you never even conceived of crossing it. And yet… it’s them. It’s Seulgi, your goofy, steadfast companion who once helped you move a couch in the pouring rain. It’s Irene, your poised, brilliant friend who proofread your college thesis three times without complaint. The overwhelming love you have for them, a deep, platonic bedrock of your life, is getting twisted up in the slick heat of their mouths, and it’s making everything a thousand times more intense.

Seulgi is a force of nature. She knows exactly what she’s doing, her mouth working on you with a practiced, powerful rhythm that has your hips bucking instinctively. She takes you deep, her throat muscles contracting, and you can feel a low, appreciative hum rumbling from her chest. Irene, on the other hand, is a study in intense concentration. Her movements are more hesitant, her lips and tongue mapping you like she’s trying to create a detailed blueprint in her mind. You can feel the occasional, accidental scrape of her teeth, a mistake that Seulgi immediately corrects without breaking her rhythm.

“Loosen your jaw a little more, baby,” Seulgi murmurs against your skin. She pulls back just enough for Irene to have more room, her own lips still circling your base. “Don’t think of it like you’re just trying to fit him in. Use your tongue. Like this.” She demonstrates, her tongue swirling around the head of your cock in a dizzying pattern that makes you see stars. Irene watches for a second, her dark eyes wide and focused, before she mimics the movement. Her technique is less fluid, more deliberate, but the effect of their combined effort is devastating.

Your hands, which had been gripping the sheets, find their way into their hair. You fist your fingers in Seulgi’s dark, silky strands, and gently cup the back of Irene’s head, your thumb stroking behind her ear. A low groan escapes you, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“Oh, he likes that,” Irene notes. She glances up at you, her cheeks flushed, her lips slick and red. “Is that right? Am I doing it right?”

“You’re doing great,” Seulgi encourages her, before turning her attention back to you. “She’s a fast learner, isn’t she?” Seulgi then shifts her focus, her mouth sliding lower, her tongue flicking against the sensitive underside of your shaft. “Don’t forget the rest of him,” she instructs Irene. “It’s a full meal.” She moves lower still, taking one of your balls fully into the heat of her mouth, sucking gently. The sensation is exquisite, a deep, tugging pull that radiates through your entire body. You let out a choked cry, your hips lifting off the bed.

Irene watches, fascinated, before she hesitantly follows suit, her lips closing around your other testicle. Her touch is softer, more reverent, her tongue carefully licking, tasting. She seems completely absorbed by the task, by the newness of it all. They continue like that for a long moment, one pleasuring the shaft while the other lavishes attention on your balls, a coordinated assault on your senses that has you trembling on the edge of reason.

“Can you believe it, baby?” Seulgi says, her words hot against your skin as she moves back up your length. “This is it. This is the magic wand that’s going to bring us our baby.”

“It’s so much… warmer than the toys,” Irene replies, full of a strange, clinical wonder as she presses her cheek against your thigh, looking up at your cock, which is still being expertly serviced by Seulgi. “It feels… alive.”

“Of course it’s alive,” Seulgi laughs. “It’s our perfect, beautiful, baby-making machine.” She takes you deep again, as if to emphasize her point. “He’s going to fill one of us up so full,” she continues. “And our perfect little baby is going to start right here. Made from your love, and my love, and this incredible cock.”

The words should be weird. They are weird. But hearing their deepest desire spoken so plainly while they have you in their mouths is pushing you closer and closer to a ledge. “Fuck,” you gasp out, your fingers tightening in their hair. “Seulgi…”

“Shhh, not yet,” she whispers, pulling off for a second. “We’re not done appreciating the gift just yet.” She looks at Irene, who seems to understand immediately. Irene pushes herself up, her eyes locking with yours. She looks determined, a perfectionist ready to ace her final exam. She takes you into her mouth again, and this time, there’s no hesitation. She mimics Seulgi’s movements with a newfound confidence, her jaw working, her tongue swirling, her throat opening to take you deeper than before.

She’s trying so hard to please you, and the sheer force of her effort is intoxicating. While Irene gives you her full, undivided attention, Seulgi’s hands are still busy, her fingers tracing patterns on your inner thighs, her thumbs pressing into the muscle right where your legs meet your torso, sending sparks all through you. You are completely at their mercy, a trembling, groaning mess, caught in a feedback loop of their desire and your own exploding pleasure, the thought of release a frantic, burning need that they are expertly holding just out of your reach.

The feeling of their mouths on you is a slick, hot paradise. Your brain has officially checked out, leaving your body in the very capable hands (and mouths) of your two best friends. It’s a relentless, dual-pronged assault. Seulgi’s deep, confident suction at the base sends waves of pleasure crashing through you, while Irene’s more tentative, curious work at the head makes you twitch and tremble. This is happening. It’s really, fucking happening.

Then, Seulgi changes her approach. You feel her pull back for a second, a slick, wet pop that makes you whine in protest. But then she comes back, her lips wide, and you feel an impossible pressure as she engulfs you. Her mouth slides all the way down, the tip of your cock bumping softly against the back of her throat. She takes you completely, swallowing you whole in a move of pure, breathtaking skill. Your eyes roll back in your head.

Irene stops what she’s doing, pulling away with a gasp. “Jesus Christ, Seulgi,” she breathes. “How many dicks have you had to suck to learn how to do that?”

Seulgi pulls off you slowly, a trail of spit connecting her lips to the head of your cock. She looks at her wife with a soft, reassuring smile, completely unfazed. “Don’t you worry about that,” she says, reaching out to cup Irene’s cheek. “Your pussy is and always will be my favorite meal, baby. No dick is ever coming near it.” She leans in and gives Irene a soft, lingering kiss, a gesture of pure love and ownership that feels insanely intimate to witness. Then she turns her predatory grin back to your throbbing erection. “Now, where were we?”

They descend on you again, working together. It feels so fucking good, the combination of Seulgi’s expertise and Irene’s determined, focused effort. The pleasure is building, coiling tight and low in your gut, a frantic, unstoppable pressure. “Fuck,” you gasp, your hips starting to jerk off the mattress. “If you keep… holy shit… if you keep doing that I’m gonna cum.”

Irene pulls off, looking concerned and excited. “Should we start? Is it time for the penetration?”

“Relax, baby,” Seulgi says without pausing her efforts, her words a wet slur against your skin. “No need to rush. I’m sure he’s got plenty of loads for us tonight.” She looks up at Irene. “And besides, you told me you wanted to taste it for the first time. Remember? We can’t waste this first one inside somebody. It’s for us.”

The words are like gasoline on a fire. The thought of them sharing your cum, of Irene tasting it for the first time, makes your cock throb violently.

“Hey, Irene,” Seulgi says. “Wanna see something cool?” Without waiting for an answer, she shifts her focus. Her tongue, hot and wet, darts out and flicks directly against the thin, hyper-sensitive ridge of your frenulum. An electric shock, white-hot and blinding, shoots through you from the tip of your dick to the base of your skull. You cry out, a sharp, involuntary sound.

“Is it sensitive there?” Irene asks, full of genuine curiosity as she watches your whole body arch.

“Yes! Fuck, yes!” you manage to get out, your voice cracking.

“It’s like the G-spot of the dick,” Seulgi explains, her tongue flicking against the spot again and again, a precise, torturous rhythm. “The secret button.” She looks at her wife. “Come on. Help me out.”

Irene needs no further encouragement. She leans in, and now you have two tongues, two sets of wet, slick muscles, zeroing in on that one tiny, agonizingly sensitive point. They lick and flick in perfect unison, maintaining intense eye contact with each other the entire time, as if they’re communicating in a secret language of pure filth. You can see the spit glistening on their chins, the focused, predatory look in their eyes.

“Licking him right here,” Seulgi murmurs, her tongue never ceasing its relentless assault. “It makes his cum like a fucking volcano, Irene. Watch.”

The feeling is too much, too intense, too targeted. Your vision whites out. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum!” you shout, and your body gives a massive, shuddering convulsion. The first thick, heavy pulse of your orgasm erupts from the tip of your cock. Irene flinches for a split second, a natural instinct, but Seulgi doesn’t stop. If anything, she gets more intense, her tongue lapping greedily at the hot jet of your cum. Seeing this, Irene’s hesitation vanishes. She dives back in, imitating her wife, their mouths and tongues working frantically as you continue to spurt.

You’re groaning loudly, helplessly, as your cum just keeps coming, thick ropes of it pumping out of you, coating their lips, their chins, their tongues. They don’t miss a drop. They lick you clean as you pulse, their faces smeared with your release. Finally, you fall back against the pillows, twitching and panting, completely and utterly drained.

They both pull back, their faces shiny, their lips glistening with your seed. Irene’s eyes are wide, her breathing heavy. She tentatively licks her lips, tasting a man’s cum for the very first time.

Seulgi watches her, a smug, satisfied smile on her face. “So? What’s the verdict?”

Irene looks from Seulgi to your wilting, messy cock, and then back to Seulgi. “It’s very hot,” she says, voice husky. “It’s… a different taste. Salty. But it’s not bad. It’s good.”

“Good,” Seulgi says. “Now watch this.” She puts a hand on the back of Irene’s neck and pulls her in. “Open up,” she commands, and Irene obeys instantly. Seulgi crashes her mouth against Irene’s, a hot, filthy, open-mouthed kiss. You have a perfect, head-on view as they swap your cum between them, their tongues tangling in a slick, messy dance. You can literally see the pearly white ropes of your own seed moving from Seulgi’s tongue to Irene’s, a shared, conquered prize. It is the most insane, most depraved, most amazing thing you have ever seen in your life.

Your softening cock gives a hard throb against your thigh, a defiant pulse of life reacting to the sheer depravity of the scene. Seulgi finally pulls away from Irene, her tongue darting out to lick a stray white smear from the corner of her wife’s lips, a final, possessive cleanup. Irene’s breathing is heavy, her gaze flicking between Seulgi’s face and your twitching dick.

“So,” Irene says. “Should we… wait for him to get hard again?”

Seulgi doesn’t take her eyes off you as she speaks to Irene. “We don’t have to wait for anything, baby. We can help him.” With the fluid grace of a panther, she rises from the floor, her body, still clad in that flimsy piece of white silk, a breathtaking sight. Irene, ever her perfect mirror, follows the movement, getting to her feet as well. They approach the bed where you’re sprawled, a willing, panting sacrifice. They gently push you back until you’re lying flat on the mattress, your arms spread wide. You are completely at their mercy.

Seulgi leans over you, her dark hair curtaining your face, and lowers her mouth to your chest. She latches onto your nipple, her mouth hot and wet, her tongue flicking against the sensitive nub before she begins to suckle, a strong, rhythmic pull that sends a bolt of lightning straight to your groin. On your other side, Irene copies the action, her technique more delicate, her lips softer, but no less effective. The dual sensations are insane. You never knew you were sensitive there, but now it feels like they’ve plugged a live wire directly into your nervous system. You groan, your head lolling to the side as their hands drift down from your chest, finding your semi-hard cock. Four hands, a collection of soft palms and curious fingers, begin to stroke you lightly, teasingly, coaxing you back to life.

As they work you over, their mouths latched onto your nipples, their hands gently stroking your shaft, Seulgi’s voice, a wet murmur against your skin, cuts through the haze of pleasure. “So,” she says, as if asking what you want for dinner. “The big question. Who do you want to breed first?”

The question is so blunt, so fucking insane, that it takes you a second to even process it. You look from Seulgi’s face, her cheeks hollowed as she sucks, to Irene’s, her eyes closed in concentration. “I… fuck… I don’t know,” you stammer out. How are you supposed to choose?

“Maybe it should be Seulgi,” Irene says, her voice surprisingly clear. She pulls off your nipple, her gaze sharp and analytical. “She seems… the most excited. Practically vibrating with it.”

“I’m excited to be a mother,” Seulgi retorts, not missing a beat in her ministrations. “I’m excited to get filled up with his baby batter and feel my belly start to swell. That’s what this is all about.”

Irene lets out a short, disbelieving snort. “Okay, you hormonal slut. Whatever you say.”

Your cock, which was merely half-mast moments before, surges with blood, kicking hard against their palms until it’s standing at full, rigid attention, thick and throbbing and ready.

Seulgi feels the change instantly. A triumphant, guttural moan escapes her. “Oh, yeah. Look at that. I think he’s ready for me.” She pulls away from your chest, leaving a wet, red mark on your skin. “Okay, then. Decision made. I’ll be the first to take our magic wand for a ride.” She looks down at you. “You just stay right there. Don’t move a muscle. I want to feel every inch of you filling me up.”

She turns to her wife. “Baby, help me out of this.”

Irene is on her feet in an instant, her movements efficient. She finds the tiny, complicated clasps on the back of Seulgi’s teddy and undoes them with practiced ease. The white silk slides down Seulgi’s body, pooling at her feet, leaving her completely, gloriously naked. Irene places her hands on Seulgi’s waist and gives her one last, deep kiss. “Milk him nicely for us,” Irene whispers against her lips. “Get every last drop of that baby-making cum.”

Seulgi approaches the bed again, and the sight of her, naked and purposeful, steals the air from your lungs. She’s perfect, her body lean and strong, her skin glowing in the dim light. She climbs onto the bed, straddling your hips, her knees on either side of you. Her own cunt is glistening, a wet, rosy pout in the thatch of her dark hair. She reaches down, her fingers slick with her wetness, and wraps her hand around the base of your cock. “God, you’re so hard,” she breathes, painting your shaft with her own juices. “Perfect for breeding. Just perfect.”

She guides the thick head of your dick to her entrance, rubbing the slick tip against her swollen clit for a moment, making you both groan. “Irene, watch,” she commands. “Watch him make me a mom.” Then, bracing her hands on your chest, she begins to lower herself.

The feeling is fucking incredible. She is unbelievably, impossibly tight. You feel her wet folds stretch, her inner walls clenching around you as she takes you one slow, agonizing inch at a time. Her head is thrown back, a long, keening moan tearing from her throat, her eyes squeezed shut in a rictus of pure pleasure and pain. “Oh, fuck… you’re so big… so thick…” she pants, her knuckles white where she’s gripping your pecs. You can feel the muscles of her pussy fluttering and spasming around you as she continues her descent. Irene is kneeling on the bed right beside you, her face inches from the point of connection, her eyes wide and unblinking, watching every millimeter of your cock disappear inside her wife.

Finally, with a last, shuddering gasp, Seulgi sinks all the way down. Your entire length is sheathed inside her, her pussy gripping you like a hot, wet fist. You can feel the tip of your cock bumping against her cervix. You are completely buried inside her. She lets out a long, shaky breath, a triumphant smile spreading across her face. “There,” she whispers, looking down at you. “It’s all in. The magic wand is ready to cast its spell.”

You’re pinned to the bed, a willing sacrifice to their singular, shared purpose. With you buried deep inside her, Seulgi begins to move. It’s not a frantic, hurried pace; it’s a slow, deliberate, grinding motion, designed for maximum friction. She lifts her hips with painstaking slowness, your cock sliding out of her hot, wet depths until just the thick head remains inside, and then she sinks back down with a heavy, wet squelch that echoes in the quiet room.

Her entire body is engaged, her lean, hard abs already slick with a sheen of sweat, her thighs trembling with the effort. Every downward slide feels like she’s trying to absorb you, her tight inner walls milking your shaft relentlessly. Your hands find her waist, your fingers digging into her soft skin, holding on as if she’s the only solid thing in a world that has completely dissolved into pure sensation.

Irene watches from her spot on the bed, her expression a rapturous blend of awe and a deep, abiding love. She’s not just watching a fuck; she’s watching her wife in a moment of pure, primal bliss, and she’s mesmerized. Her eyes are glued to the point where your bodies are joined, to the sight of your thick, hard cock disappearing completely into Seulgi’s wet, swollen folds with every downward rock of her hips. “Oh, baby,” Irene breathes. “You look so beautiful like that. So fucking perfect.” She scoots closer, reaching out a hand to caress Seulgi’s sweaty stomach. “Are you enjoying it? Does he feel good deep inside you, trying to make our baby?”

Seulgi’s head lolls back, her eyes fluttering shut as she lets out a long, guttural moan that seems to be pulled from the very depths of her soul. “Yes… Oh, fuck, yes.” The words are a ragged pant. “He’s so… so full. I can feel him hitting my cervix… It’s like he’s knocking on the door, trying to plant his seed.”

Irene leans in, capturing Seulgi’s mouth in a deep, passionate kiss just as Seulgi sinks down onto you again. While they kiss, Irene’s hands slide up to cup Seulgi’s breasts, which are flushed and bouncing with her rhythm. Irene squeezes them, her thumbs rubbing hard over the beaded nipples, and Seulgi moans into the kiss, her body arching, grinding down onto you even harder.

The feeling of her tight pussy clenching around you as another wave of pleasure hits her is almost too much. Seulgi is loving every second of it, completely lost in the triple assault of your cock filling her, Irene’s mouth on hers, and Irene’s hands on her tits. Breaking the kiss, Irene takes Seulgi’s free hand in hers, their fingers lacing together. Then, she reaches for your hand, linking it with theirs, so all three of you are connected, a closed circuit of raw, procreative energy.

“That’s it,” Irene whispers. “Keep riding him like that. Take every inch of his big cock. He’s going to knock you up so good for me.”

Seulgi’s eyes snap open, locking with yours. They’re wild, dilated, and full of a terrifying, exhilarating purpose. “Did you hear that?” she pants, her rhythm picking up slightly, her pussy getting even wetter, slicking your shaft with her juices. “She wants me to take it all. She wants you to fill me up.” She grinds down hard, a delirious smile on her face. “This is how it should be. No cold clinics, no fucking needles. Just our best friend, fucking me raw on our wedding night until I’m pregnant with his baby.”

“Fuck my wife,” Irene encourages. She leans in close to your ear. “Fuck her so good for us. I want you to imagine you’re pumping your hot load right up against her cervix. I want to watch her belly swell up because of what you’re doing to her right now.”

The explicit, filthy talk is like a drug. You’re not just having sex; you’re participating in their deepest, most twisted fantasy. “I want to feel you pulsing inside me when you shoot your load,” Seulgi groans, her nails digging into your shoulders. “I want to feel our baby starting its life inside my womb, made from this perfect fuck.” She leans down, her sweaty hair brushing against your face, her lips right next to your ear. “Don’t you want that, too? Don’t you want to be the one who makes me a mother? Don’t you want to knock me up?”

You can’t speak. You can only nod, a helpless, jerky motion, your hips starting to thrust up to meet her downward grind. The sounds in the room are a symphony of depravity: the wet, slapping sound of her body hitting yours, their combined moans and gasps, and the constant, relentless stream of their breeding dirty talk, promising you, commanding you, to fill her up and turn their wedding night into the night their family truly began.

The slow, deliberate pace Seulgi had started with is a distant memory. Now, she’s riding you with a frantic, desperate energy, her hips slamming down onto yours with a wet, percussive slap that echoes off the hotel room walls. Her body is slick with sweat, her muscles taut, her head thrown back as a continuous stream of breathless moans escapes her lips. You’re no longer just a passenger; your hips are bucking up to meet her, chasing the incredible friction, burying your dick as deep as it can possibly go inside her tight, hot channel.

“Oh, fuck… yes, just like that,” she pants, her hands braced on your shoulders, her knuckles white. “Your cock feels so good, so fucking perfect inside me.” She grinds down, a circular motion that makes you see stars. “I can feel the head of your dick rubbing my g-spot with every single thrust. You’re going to fuck me pregnant tonight, I can just feel it.” Her eyes are wild, her voice a raw, pleading cry. “You’re going to fill my womb up with our baby!”

The sight of her, so completely lost to pleasure, so focused on her mission, combined with the feeling of her pussy milking you, is intoxicating. But as you look past her, you see Irene, kneeling on the bed, watching with an expression of pure, unadulterated lust. Her own hand is between her legs, her fingers rubbing furiously through the thin fabric of her lingerie. A new, demanding thought cuts through your pleasure-soaked haze. You want more. You want all of it.

“Irene.”

Her head snaps up, her eyes locking with yours.

“Come here,” you order, your hips still thrusting up into Seulgi. You gesture with your head. “Sit on my face.” The words taste like power. "None of the mommies should be left out of the fun.”

The effect is instantaneous. Both of their faces light up with identical, predatory smiles. They see it. They see that you’re finally with them, not just physically, but mentally. You’re part of the game now. “Fuck yes,” Seulgi grunts, her pace getting even harder. “Listen to him, babe. He wants to worship you, too.”

Irene needs no more encouragement. She crawls up the bed, her movements sinuous and deliberate. She positions herself over your head, and you get a perfect, intoxicating view up at her. She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her lacy black panties, but she doesn’t pull them off. Instead, she just pulls the crotch gusset to the side, revealing the prize beneath. Her pussy is gorgeous, a perfect, swollen pout, glistening with her own wetness. Her clit is a hard, beaded pearl, already engorged.

“You want to taste your future baby’s other mommy?” she whispers, a sultry purr. “You think you can handle it?” She lowers herself slowly, giving you an agonizing moment to just look, to smell the heady, musky scent of her arousal, before she settles down, her wet folds pressing against your mouth.

The taste of her is electric. She’s salty, sweet, and musky all at once. You dive in, your tongue darting out to lick at her slick, swollen lips before focusing on her clit. You flick your tongue against the sensitive nub, and a sharp gasp escapes her. Above you, Seulgi screams in delight. “Yes! Eat her out! Eat my wife while you fuck me!”

Irene’s hips begin to grind against your face, a mirror of Seulgi’s movements on your cock. You open your mouth wider, sucking her clit between your lips, laving it with your tongue. She moans, a high, keening sound, her fingers tangling in your hair, holding your head in place. “Oh, god, yes, just like that,” she pants. “Get it all wet and ready for your cum. You have to breed me next, you hear me? You have to fill me up, too.”

You’re in a sensory overload, a heaven of pure filth. You can feel the hot, tight clench of Seulgi’s pussy around your dick, the relentless, pounding rhythm of her riding you. You can hear her screaming your name, begging you to put a baby in her. At the same time, you have the taste of Irene on your tongue, the feeling of her wetness dripping into your mouth, the sound of her own desperate moans as you eat her out, her own dirty talk a filthy counterpoint to her wife’s.

“Listen to her moaning for you,” Seulgi grunts, her body slapping against yours. “She’s getting so sloppy wet for her turn on your baby-making cock. Fuck, we’re going to take turns riding you all night until we’re both dripping with your seed.”

“Make me cum, please,” Irene begs, her voice cracking as you slide two fingers inside her, feeling her slick, tight heat. She’s so fucking wet. “I want to cum on your face while she’s riding your dick. Please.”

You oblige, your tongue working faster on her clit while your fingers pump into her. Seulgi feels the shift in energy, her own movements becoming more frantic. “Are you eating her out good?” she screams. “Is she as wet as I am? Fuck, I think I’m getting close just watching you.”

The scene is one of beautiful, obscene chaos. Your world has been reduced to the incredible friction of Seulgi’s pussy, the delicious taste of Irene’s, the weight of their bodies, and the sound of their voices, a constant duet of moans and gasps and filthy, desperate promises of the family you’re all making together.

Seulgi’s riding becomes a desperate, powerful piston. She’s no longer just seeking pleasure; she’s hunting it, her hips slamming down with a force that has the whole bed shaking. “Oh, fuck, he’s so deep inside me,” she screams. “Irene, can you feel how deep he is? He’s hitting my cervix with every single thrust! He’s trying to force his baby seed right into my womb!”

Below you, Irene is trembling, on the absolute ragged edge. Your tongue is a whirlwind on her clit, never stopping, never slowing, while your fingers pump a steady rhythm inside her slick channel. “Keep riding him, baby!” Irene cries out. “I’m so close! His tongue… oh god, his tongue is magic! I’m going to cum on his face, Seulgi, watch me!”

“Yes! Cum for him!” Seulgi encourages, her own pace becoming even more frantic. “Show him how wet you are for his cock! I’m right behind you, baby, I can feel my orgasm building! He’s going to make me cum so hard my eggs will just drop and catch his sperm!” She looks down at you, her eyes glazed over, a line of spit connecting her lip to her chin. “You feel that? My pussy is getting so tight around your dick! It knows your cum is coming soon! It wants to be bred!”

“Let’s cum together!” Irene shrieks, her body starting to buck and spasm against your mouth. “Let’s show him how his good little mommies feel when they orgasm! Reach for my hand, Seulgi!”

As Irene’s orgasm begins to take hold, her inner muscles clenching violently around your fingers, she reaches a trembling hand out. Seulgi, still pounding herself onto your cock, meets her halfway. Their fingers lock together, a desperate, sweaty grip, their knuckles white. They are a single entity, united in their ascent.

Irene goes first. A piercing, soul-shattering scream is torn from her throat as her whole body goes rigid. You feel the eruption as a scalding hot flood in your mouth. Her cunt convulses around your fingers, pulsing uncontrollably as she pumps her slick, musky orgasm all over your face, down your chin, into your mouth. You don’t stop, you keep your tongue on her clit, licking her through the climax, swallowing every last drop of her release. Her hips grind down, a helpless, frantic motion as she moans your name over and over, her body completely lost to the waves of pleasure you’re giving her.

The sight of her wife coming apart is the final push Seulgi needs. With a guttural roar, her own orgasm hits. Her back arches so severely she’s almost lifted off you, her pussy clenching around your hard cock in a series of violent, ecstatic spasms that threaten to pull you over the edge with her. It feels like she’s trying to milk you dry, to pull the seed from your very balls with the sheer force of her climax. “Fuck! Yes! You're putting a baby in me!” she screams. “I’m cumming on your cock! I’m cumming for our baby!”

She collapses forward, her body still shuddering, her tight, hot pussy still fluttering around your shaft. Irene goes limp above you, her breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps, her hand still locked with Seulgi’s. The only sounds in the room are their desperate panting and the wet, slick noises of their cooling bodies.

You are so, so close. The feeling of Seulgi’s post-orgasm convulsions gripping your dick is a special kind of torture. Every pulse sends a jolt of near-unbearable pleasure through you. Your own balls are tight, aching, your entire body buzzing with a need that is screaming for release. But you hold on, biting your lip, riding the aftershocks of their pleasure. You are still buried deep inside Seulgi, Irene is still sprawled across your face. You are surrounded by them, drenched in them, and still throbbing, still ready for more.

Irene lifts her head, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. A shaky sigh escapes her lips as she pushes herself up, her face flushed and beautiful, her lips swollen and still glistening. She looks down at you, her eyes full of a new, profound respect. “Fuck,” she breathes. “You are amazing with your tongue.”

Seulgi is a boneless, panting weight on top of you, her face buried in the crook of your neck. Her entire body is humming like a live wire. “I’m so tired,” she gasps, her voice muffled against your skin. “I can’t… I can’t ride anymore.” She lifts her head, her eyes dazed and unfocused, but a sliver of her determined spirit shines through. “You have to finish the work,” she commands. “It’s your turn now.”

“No problem.”

With a surge of strength, you grip Seulgi’s slick, sweaty waist. With a guttural grunt, you lift her off you, flip her over, and press her down onto the mattress in one smooth, dominant motion. The wet sound of your cock pulling out of her is obscene. She lands on her back with a soft noise looking up at you with wide, expectant eyes, her legs already falling open for you.

You don’t waste a second. You move between her thighs, grab your own thick, dripping cock, and drive back into her pussy without any preamble. She screams as you fill her again. She’s so unbelievably hot and wet, her post-orgasm cunt swollen and impossibly sensitive, clenching around you like a fist. You begin to fuck her, a hard, relentless, driving rhythm that’s all about your own building pleasure. You slam into her again and again, your balls slapping against her wet flesh, your hips grinding against hers.

“You feel that?” you growl. You pull out almost all the way and slam back in, hitting her cervix with a force that makes her cry out. “You feel how much I have for you?” You lean down, your mouth next to her ear. “You want it, don’t you? You want my cum deep inside that pretty womb of yours.”

“Yes… oh god, yes…” she babbles, her head thrashing on the pillows. The hypersensitivity of her pussy is driving her insane, every thrust sending waves of aftershock through her spent body.

“It’s not enough to want it,” you command, your pace getting faster, harder. “You have to beg for it. Beg me to fill you up. Beg me to put my baby inside you.”

“Please,” she sobs, the word torn from her. “Please, I’m begging you… cum inside me… Fill me up… I want your baby so bad… Please give me your cum!”

Irene, seeing that the moment is finally here, kneels beside the bed, her eyes wide and fervent. She becomes your cheerleader, your priestess of filth. “That’s it, Seulgi, beg him!” she urges. “Beg him to give you his hot load! He’s got so much for you, you have to earn it!” She puts her hand on your back, her touch electric. She pleads with you, for her wife. “Please, cum in her! Fill my wife’s pussy up with your seed! Drown her cervix in it! Make her pregnant for us, please!”

Their voices, Seulgi’s desperate begging and Irene’s filthy encouragement, are the final trigger. The sight of your beautiful best friend spread out beneath you, taking your pounding, her legs shaking, while your other best friend coaches her, begging for your release… it’s too much. A tidal wave of pressure builds in your balls, a feeling so intense it borders on pain. You let out a roar, a deep, animalistic sound of pure, unrestrained release.

“I’m cumming!”

You drive your hips down one last time, burying yourself as deep as you can possibly go, and your orgasm rips through you. The first massive load shoots from your cock, a hot, thick jet that you feel pump deep inside her womb. Seulgi screams as it hits her, her inner walls clenching down on you. A second, heavier load follows immediately after, flooding her completely. You groan, your teeth gritted, your whole body locked and rigid as a third and final torrent empties from your balls, ensuring she is absolutely, unequivocally full of you.

You collapse on top of her, your body trembling, your mind a complete, blissful blank. You can feel her heart hammering against your chest. Below you, Irene lets out a long, satisfied sigh, her hand still resting on your back. After a long moment, you find the strength to pull out. Your cock slides free with a wet, sloppy sound, and immediately, a thick, pearly white stream of your cum begins to leak from her swollen, gaping cunt, threatening to spill onto the pristine hotel sheets.

Before a single drop can be wasted, Irene is there. She darts forward, dips two fingers into the puddle of your seed at the entrance to Seulgi’s pussy, and gently but firmly pushes it all back inside her wife. “Nope,” Irene murmurs as she holds her fingers there for a second, a human plug. “We’re not wasting a single drop. You just stay in there and make a baby.”

Seulgi is still panting beneath you, her body a warm, pliant weight. Irene’s fingers, slick with your seed, finally pull away from Seulgi’s swollen pussy.

Seulgi lets out a weak, breathless laugh. “You know you only need one microscopic sperm to get pregnant, right?”

“Better to have too much than too little,” Irene retorts with a smug, clinical satisfaction. She crawls up your body, her movements tired but graceful. She wraps her arms around your neck, ignoring the sweat and grime, and plants a firm, proprietary kiss on your cheek. “You did an excellent job,” she murmurs.

With a groan, Seulgi rolls off you and onto the bed. She looks at her wife, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. “My turn now,” she announces, and it’s clear she’s not talking about getting fucked. She’s talking about her role as the orchestrator. She approaches Irene, who is still kneeling on the bed, and begins to work on the clasps of her black lace lingerie.

“Let’s get this off you,” she whispers, pressing soft kisses to Irene’s shoulders and neck as the fabric falls away. “You are going to be such a beautiful mommy. Your belly is going to look so perfect when it’s round and full of our baby.”

“So is yours,” Irene whispers back, eyes full of love for her wife. “We both will be.”

Once Irene is naked, Seulgi gestures to the space between them. “Come on,” she says to you. “Lie down. He’s going to need a little help getting ready for round two.” You obey, settling back against the pillows, propping yourself up on your elbows. Your dick is soft, spent, lying against your thigh. Seulgi looks at it, then at her wife. “Irene, baby. You know what to do. He needs your magic mouth.”

Irene nods, a newfound confidence in her eyes. She crawls between your legs, her gaze locked with yours. She’s learned so much in the last hour. She reaches out, her touch surprisingly sure as she takes your soft cock in her hand. “You were so good to my wife,” she says. “Now it’s my turn to be good to you.” She leans down and takes you into her mouth.

The sensation is different this time. There’s no hesitation, no learning curve. She knows what you like. Her mouth is hot and wet, her tongue immediately flicking against the most sensitive spots, her lips creating a perfect, gentle suction that coaxes you back to life. You watch, mesmerized, as she works, her cheeks hollowing, her dark hair pooling on your thighs. You can feel your cock stirring, thickening, slowly but surely hardening right there in her mouth.

Seulgi lies down on the bed next to you, her head propped on her hand, watching the spectacle with a proprietary air. She leans in, her lips brushing against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “Look at her,” Seulgi whispers. “Isn’t she so beautiful sucking your cock? Look at how she takes it. She wants it so badly.”

“She looks so fucking hot,” you groan, your hips giving a small, involuntary buck.

“She learned from the best,” Seulgi purrs. “Me. But she’s a natural. She knows exactly how to get that magic wand ready to breed her.”

Irene continues her ministrations, her pace picking up as you get harder, until you are fully, painfully erect, throbbing in her mouth. She sucks you for a moment longer, drawing a groan from deep in your chest, before she pulls off with a wet pop. She leans down and plants a soft, loving kiss right on the weeping head of your cock, as if anointing it for its holy purpose.

Seulgi’s hand comes to rest on your chest, her expression turning serious for a moment. “Don’t hurt my girl,” she says. “She’s not used to this. It's her first time with a real cock. Go easy on her. At first, at least.”

“I promise,” you say. You turn your attention to Irene, who is looking up at you with wide, trusting eyes. You reach out and take her hand. “Come here,” you say gently, pulling her up onto the bed. You maneuver her until she’s lying on her side, facing away from you. “We’ll do this with care.”

You lie down behind her, your body spooning hers, your chest pressed against her back. The position is intimate, tender. Seulgi is right there, on Irene’s other side, stroking her hair, whispering encouragement. “That’s it, baby,” Seulgi murmurs. “He’s going to be so good to you. Just relax and let him fill you up.”

You reach down, your hand slick with Irene’s spit, and take your own cock. You guide the head to her entrance. She’s so wet, you can feel the heat radiating from her. You press forward, very, very slowly. Her pussy is tighter than Seulgi’s, a slick, almost virginal heat that greets you with a slight resistance. You push gently, steadily, entering her one painstaking inch at a time. She gasps, her fingers gripping Seulgi’s hand tighter.

“It’s okay, baby, you’re doing so good,” Seulgi coos.

You continue your slow, careful invasion until you are all the way inside her. She feels incredible, a snug, wet sheath gripping you from base to tip. You rest there for a moment, letting her body adjust to the feeling of being completely full.

“Oh, god,” she whispers. “You’re so… hot. You’re so hot inside me. It’s so different from a dildo. It feels… alive.”

Your cock is sheathed inside her, and the world seems to pause. The feeling of Irene’s pussy is a revelation. It’s a different universe from Seulgi’s. Where Seulgi was a confident, hungry heat that gripped and pulled, Irene is a shy, tight velvet that seems to be cautiously, curiously learning your shape. You can feel the delicate, sensitive texture of her inner walls, the way her muscles flutter around you in tiny, involuntary spasms. She is so, so tight. You stay completely still, letting her adjust, your chest pressed against the elegant line of her back, your arm wrapped around her waist, your hand resting on her stomach. It’s an intensely intimate position, more tender than anything else you’ve done tonight, and it makes the raw carnality of the act feel even more profound.

Irene lets out a long, shaky breath, her body melting against yours just a fraction. “It’s… so much,” she whispers. “I can feel every ridge. Every vein. It’s like… you’re a part of me.”

Seulgi leans in closer, stroking Irene’s hair back from her face. “He’s perfect, isn’t he?” she murmurs. “The perfect magic wand to make our perfect baby. Just relax and let him in, baby. Let him feel like he’s home.”

“It’s… it’s good,” Irene admits, her voice gaining a bit more strength. She shifts her hips just a fraction, a tiny, experimental movement that sends a wave of pure fire through you. “It feels good to be this full.”

You can’t help yourself. You have to move. You pull back, just an inch, the motion agonizingly slow. Irene gasps, a sharp, surprised sound. You push back in, just as slowly. “Just tell me if it’s too much,” you whisper, your lips brushing against her ear.

“No,” she breathes. “Don’t stop.”

So you begin. A slow, gentle rhythm. In and out. You’re barely moving, just sliding a few inches, letting her get used to the friction, the feeling of being stretched and filled by you. Every slow thrust is a lesson for her body, teaching it your length, your thickness. With every careful movement, you can feel her muscles starting to relax, her initial tension melting away into a pliable, wet heat.

“That’s it,” Seulgi purrs from her ringside seat. “Look how she’s taking you. My girl is a natural. She was made to be bred by a cock like yours.” She places a hand on Irene’s thigh, her thumb rubbing slow circles. “Are you getting wet for him, babe? Is he making you feel like a good mommy-to-be?”

Irene doesn’t answer with words. She answers by pressing back against you, a clear, silent instruction to go deeper. You oblige, your next thrust sinking further inside her, your rhythm becoming a little stronger, a little more confident. Her breathing hitches, and a soft, mewling sound escapes her lips. It’s the sound of her resistance breaking, of her body succumbing to pure pleasure.

This is Irene, your brain marvels. The quiet one. The composed one. And you’re inside her. You’re making her make these sounds. You’re unlocking a side of her that maybe no one, not even Seulgi, has ever seen before.

You continue your slow, steady fucking, your hand moving from her stomach to cup her breast, your thumb stroking her nipple through her skin until it beads into a hard point. You lean in, whispering in her ear. “You feel so good, Irene. So fucking tight and hot. I can feel every inch of you squeezing me.”

“You’re so big,” she pants, her hips starting to meet your thrusts in a shy, tentative rhythm. “I feel like you’re splitting me in two, but… I like it. I really, really like it.”

“I told you,” Seulgi says. “I told you she’d love it. She just needed the real thing. She needed to feel a real man’s dick stretching her pussy open, getting her ready for his seed.” She leans over Irene to look you in the eye. “Don’t you think she’d look beautiful with her belly swollen up with your baby? Can’t you just picture it?”

The image flashes in your mind, unbidden and shockingly vivid: Irene, her belly round and full, looking at you with that same soft, trusting expression. It sends a fresh surge of blood to your cock, and your pace quickens, your thrusts becoming deeper, more powerful. Now, you’re fucking her. And from the way she’s crying out, a string of breathless, high-pitched moans, she’s more than ready for it. Each stroke sinking you to the hilt in her tight, wet heat.

Seulgi’s arms are wrapped around her, holding her close, her lips pressing reverent kisses to Irene’s forehead, her cheeks, her neck. Their hands are clasped tightly, a lifeline in this storm of pleasure.

“Oh, fuck, look at that,” Seulgi breathes right next to Irene’s ear. Her free hand moves down, her fingers spreading across Irene’s lower belly, right above her pubic bone. “Look, you can actually see him inside you.”

Your eyes follow her hand. And she’s right. With every deep thrust you make, you can see a distinct, hard ridge pressing up against Irene’s pale skin from the inside. It’s the outline of your own cock, moving within her. The sight is so fucking obscene, so possessive, it almost makes you lose your mind. You are visibly marking her, filling her so completely that you’re changing her shape.

“She’s so petite,” Seulgi continues her worshipful commentary, her thumb stroking the hard bulge that is you. “So small and perfect. And you’re just stretching her, filling her up so completely. Does it feel good, baby? Does it feel good to have his big, hard cock rearranging your guts, getting you ready for his baby?”

“Yes,” Irene sobs, the word breaking in the middle. Her pussy clenches around you, a desperate, involuntary squeeze. “He’s so… so deep…”

“He’s trying to get to your eggs,” Seulgi says. “He’s trying to find them and cover them in his cum. You have to let him. You have to take all of his dick, all of his power.” She kisses Irene’s temple again. “That’s it, take it all, baby. Take all of his dick for me. Show him what a good girl you are. Show him you’re ready to be a mommy.”

You don’t need any more encouragement. You pull out until just the head is inside her, then drive back in with all your force, a brutal, deep thrust that makes them both cry out. You find a rhythm, a hard, punishing pace that has the bed groaning in protest. You’re fucking Irene with an abandon you didn’t know you possessed, driven by the sight of your cock bulging in her belly and the sound of Seulgi’s constant, filthy praise. Your hand continues to cup Irene’s breast, your thumb rolling her nipple relentlessly, while your other arm holds her pinned against you.

“Fuck… please…” Irene pants, her body starting to tremble with an energy that has nothing to do with the motion of your fucking. Her inner walls are fluttering around you, a sure sign she’s getting close.

“That’s it,” Seulgi urges, her voice rising in excitement. “He’s making you feel so good, isn’t he? He’s going to make you cum so hard. Let it happen, baby. Come for him. Come for our new daddy.”

The words, the sensations, the sheer intimacy of the moment all converge. Irene’s body goes rigid. Her back arches, pressing her pussy even harder onto your cock. Her hand grips Seulgi’s with bone-crushing strength. A high, keening wail tears from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. “Seulgi!” she screams, her pussy convulsing around you in a series of violent, exquisite spasms. Her orgasm is a tidal wave, her whole body shaking, her head thrown back as she comes undone.

The feeling of her climax gripping your cock is the most intense thing you have ever felt. It’s a hot, wet, spasming fist, milking you, pulling at you, begging for your own release. You’re right there, on the absolute precipice, your balls aching, your own cum a desperate, burning pressure. But you hold on, gritting your teeth, your own body trembling with the strain of holding back. You continue to fuck her through her orgasm, your deep thrusts fueling her climax, pushing her higher and higher until she’s a sobbing, shuddering mess, completely and utterly spent, her body still twitching around your impossibly hard cock.

Irene’s body is a live wire against you, her orgasm rippling through her in glorious, shuddering waves. You hold her tight, your cock still buried deep inside her, feeling every last exquisite spasm of her climax. Seulgi, ever the devoted wife, leans over and begins to pepper Irene’s face and shoulders with soft, adoring kisses. You follow her lead, your own lips finding the slick, sweaty skin of Irene’s neck, tasting her. Irene is overwhelmed, a helpless, blissful sigh escaping her as she’s cocooned between the two of you, drenched in affection and the afterglow of her own release.

“You’re so beautiful when you come apart like that,” Seulgi whispers. She kisses Irene’s lips, a tender, lingering press. After a moment, she pulls back, a wicked, familiar glint returning to her eyes. “You know,” she says. “I know how to make this even better.”

Irene, still boneless and dazed, manages a weak, “How could it possibly be better?”

“Oh, I have my ways,” Seulgi says, her grin widening. She looks from Irene’s face to yours, a silent, filthy proposition hanging in the air. “Remember that night, a few months ago, after all those margaritas? When you confessed your deepest, darkest fantasy to me? The one you were too shy to say out loud when you were sober?”

A deep blush creeps up Irene’s neck. She knows exactly what Seulgi is talking about. “Seulgi…” she warns, a weak protest.

“You said you wanted to try DP,” Seulgi announces, completely ignoring her wife’s protest. “You wanted to feel a cock in your pussy and a cock in your ass at the same time.” She gestures between you and herself. “Well, it just so happens that he has a dick. And, as luck would have it, I brought my dick. So, I think we can make this work.”

You feel your own cock, still sheathed inside Irene, give a hard, involuntary throb. Irene looks at you, her eyes wide, a flicker of fear warring with a blaze of pure, unadulterated lust. She gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. She wants it. And goddammit, you want it too. The thought of filling Irene’s pussy while Seulgi fills her ass, of the three of you connected in the most intimate, depraved way possible… it’s a fantasy you didn’t even know you had until this very second.

“Fuck yes,” you breathe, the words escaping before you can stop them.

With a triumphant whoop, Seulgi scrambles off the bed. “Don’t you two move,” she orders, heading for her suitcase, which is sitting open on a luggage rack in the corner. She rummages through neatly folded clothes with a casualness that is utterly at odds with the situation, finally pulling out two items: a large, economy-sized bottle of lube and a black harness with a thick, realistic silicone dildo attached.

“Okay,” she says, returning to the bed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “First things first. We need to get this pretty little asshole nice and ready. It’s been a while since she took it in the ass.”

She directs Irene to move, and Irene obeys without question, rolling off you and onto her hands and knees, presenting her perfect, heart-shaped ass to her wife. The sight is breathtaking. Seulgi squirts a generous amount of lube into her palm, rubs her hands together to warm it, and then places her hands on Irene’s cheeks, spreading them gently. “She really likes to take it in the ass every now and then,” Seulgi informs you, her voice taking on a clinical, instructive tone as she begins to work the lube into Irene’s tight, puckered hole. She slides one finger in, then two, her movements slow and careful. “Especially when she’s drunk. The alcohol makes her naughtier, loosens her up.”

“Seulgi, stop talking,” Irene groans, though she’s already arching her back, pushing back against her wife’s probing fingers.

Seulgi just grins and gives her a sharp, stinging slap on the ass, the sound echoing in the room, leaving a pink handprint behind. “I’m not telling any lies,” she says cheerfully. “You love being a little slut for us.”

“You were the one who suggested anal first,” Irene retorts, her voice muffled by the pillow.

“And you were the one who agreed immediately,” Seulgi counters without missing a beat. She continues her work, her fingers sliding in and out with practiced ease, until Irene’s ass is thoroughly prepped, glistening and ready. “There we go. All slick and ready for a good fucking.”

She stands up and quickly straps on the harness, adjusting the buckles until it sits snugly on her hips. She grabs the thick, veiny dildo, giving it a few practice thrusts in the air. Then she turns to you, striking a pose, and asks in a comically deep voice, “So? What do you think? Mine’s bigger than yours.”

You can’t help it; you burst out laughing. “Just shut the fuck up and get over here.”

“Alright, alright, positions everyone,” Seulgi says, back to business. “This requires some coordination.” She points at you. “You, on your back. Irene, you’re going to straddle him. I’ll get behind you, baby.”

You lie back on the pillows, your heart hammering in your chest. Irene moves over you, her body a perfect silhouette against the city lights. She straddles your hips, her knees on either side of your waist, her wet, ready pussy hovering just inches above your waiting cock. Then, Seulgi moves into position behind her, a formidable, powerful presence with her artificial dick jutting out from her hips. The three of you are in place, a perfect, obscene triangle of flesh and intention.

You’re lying on your back, a willing foundation for their depraved architectural project. Irene is poised above you, her eyes wide with a potent cocktail of fear and feral desire. Behind her, Seulgi stands like a conquering hero, her fake dick glistening with lube. This is her fantasy as much as Irene’s.

“Okay,” Seulgi says. She places her hands on Irene’s hips, steadying her. She looks at you. “We go in together. Slow and easy. Don’t you dare rush it. I want her to feel every single millimeter.”

You nod, your throat too dry to speak. You reach up and take Irene’s hands, pulling her down slightly so she can brace herself on your shoulders. Her hands are trembling. You guide the head of your cock to her slick, waiting entrance. Behind her, Seulgi does the same, pressing the thick, purple head of the dildo against her wife’s well-lubricated asshole.

“Ready, baby?” Seulgi murmurs. Irene gives a shaky, terrified nod. “Okay. On three. One… two…”

On three, you both push forward.

A strangled scream is torn from Irene’s throat. Her body goes rigid, her back arching as she’s simultaneously impaled from both sides. Her eyes roll back in her head, and her hands grip your shoulders with painful intensity. The feeling is beyond anything you could have imagined. Her pussy, already impossibly tight, clenches down on your cock with a desperate, spasming grip as it tries to make sense of this new, overwhelming invasion. You can feel the reverberations inside her as Seulgi’s dick slides into her ass.

“Oh, god… oh, fuck…” Irene chokes out, her head thrashing from side to side. “It’s too much… I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Seulgi grunts. She’s only halfway in. “You were made for this. My greedy little slut, wanting two cocks at once.” She thrusts her hips forward, pushing the dildo deeper into her wife’s ass. “Take it. Take both our cocks.”

You push forward as well, your own movement slow and steady, until you are both fully, deeply buried inside her. She is completely, utterly full. The sight is staggering. Your best friend, the quiet, elegant Irene, being spit-roasted by you and her own wife.

For a long moment, nobody moves. The only sound is Irene’s ragged, frantic panting as her body tries to accommodate the sheer volume of being so thoroughly stretched and filled. Then, the initial shock begins to fade from her eyes, replaced by a dawning wonder, a slow-blooming pleasure. A low, guttural moan rumbles in her chest.

“It feels…” she whispers, “so good. I’m so full.”

“That’s my girl,” Seulgi praises. She begins to move, a slow, powerful thrust of her hips. “Look at you, taking two dicks like a champ. My perfect little whore.” The degrading words are spoken with so much love, it’s a paradox that only makes the scene hotter. “You love this, don’t you? You love having both your pretty little holes stretched wide open.”

Irene doesn’t deny it. Instead, she begins to move her own hips, starting to ride you with a slow, grinding motion that matches the rhythm of Seulgi’s thrusts. “Don’t… stop,” Irene begs. “Please, don’t stop.”

And you don’t. You begin to fuck her from below, your thrusts deep and steady, a grounding rhythm against Seulgi’s harder, more punishing pace. The three of you find a tempo, Seulgi’s possessive thrusts into her ass make Irene’s pussy tighten around your cock, sending waves of pleasure through you both. Your own deep strokes make Irene grind back against Seulgi’s dildo. It’s a perfect, perverse feedback loop.

“Look at her,” Seulgi says to you, full of pride. “Taking it like she was born for it. I bet she wants us to fill her up at the same time. A load of your baby batter in her pussy,” she says, nodding at you, “and a nice, creamy load in her ass from her wife.” She leans down and kisses Irene’s shoulder. “Would you like that, slut? A pearl necklace on the inside?”

Irene can only sob in response, her body completely given over to the overwhelming sensations. She’s being used, claimed, and utterly worshipped, all at once. Her head is thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy, her body a vessel for your shared, depraved fantasy.

You are no longer being gentle. You are fucking Irene with a raw, driving power, your hips a relentless piston of flesh and need. Seulgi matches your energy, her own thrusts with the strap-on becoming harder, faster, a possessive, punishing rhythm against her wife’s asshole. Seulgi’s free hand comes up and smacks down hard on Irene’s ass cheek, the sharp crack echoing in the room, leaving a bright red print in its wake. Irene just screams, a sound that’s half pain, half pure ecstasy, and grinds back harder against both of you.

You are so fucking close, a razor’s edge away from release. The feeling of Irene’s tight, hot pussy clenching around you with every thrust, the sight of her beautiful, overwhelmed face, the sound of Seulgi’s filthy encouragement; it’s all converging into a single point of unbearable pressure in your balls.

“Oh god, it’s so good,” Irene wails. “Don’t stop… please, don’t ever stop, it’s so fucking good… I love it… I love you both…”

The pressure is becoming too much. You know you can’t hold on for much longer. “I’m going to cum.”

The announcement acts like a lightning rod. Their shared focus, which was already intense, becomes laser-sharp, zeroed in on you and the precious load you’re about to deliver. They need this. They need your seed.

“Yes!” Seulgi screams. She slaps Irene’s ass again, harder this time. “Did you hear that, you little breeding whore? He’s going to fill you up! He’s going to knock you up right now! You have to take it all! Take all of daddy’s cum!”

“Please,” Irene sobs, her eyes locking with yours, wide and pleading. “Please cum inside me. Give me your baby. Fill my womb up, please!”

Their desperation is the final push. You surge with a fresh wave of adrenaline, a dominant, possessive energy. You reach up, your hand wrapping around the back of Irene’s neck, holding her in place as you pound into her even harder, your rhythm brutal and deep. You lean down, your lips brushing her ear, the heat of your breath a stark contrast to the cool sweat on her skin. “Is that what you want?” you demand. “Do you want me to make you a mommy?”

“Yes!” she screams.

“Say it, then!” Seulgi commands, punctuating the order with another loud, stinging slap to Irene’s ass. “Call her what she is! Our perfect little mommy!”

“Our slutty mommy,” you add, the words tasting like power on your tongue.

Irene rolls her eyes in a gesture of pure, ecstatic surrender. She is having the time of her fucking life, being used and praised and degraded by the two people she loves most in the world. The sight of her, so completely undone, is your undoing. The orgasm hits you with the force of a physical blow, a blinding, white-hot wave that surges from the base of your spine.

“I’m cumming!” you roar. “It’s now!”

“Give It to me!” Irene screams, arching her back to take you even deeper.

“Fill her up!” Seulgi bellows, giving one final, massive thrust with the strap-on, burying the dildo to the hilt in her wife’s ass.

And then you explode. Your hips pump uncontrollably, a frantic, repeated pounding as you shove your release as deep inside Irene’s womb as you possibly can. The first massive load shoots from you, hot and thick. Irene screams, her own orgasm triggering in perfect, earth-shattering synchrony with yours, her inner walls convulsing violently around your erupting cock. A second, heavier load follows, flooding her completely.

As you pump a third and final torrent into her, Seulgi holds her dildo deep inside, pinning her, holding her steady as she’s filled and fucked and sent soaring. Irene’s body is a conduit for all three of your combined energies, a beautiful, screaming, convulsing mess. Your cock throbs inside her, pulsing endlessly even after you’re empty, and Seulgi watches the whole thing, a look of fierce, triumphant love on her face as she sees her wife get pregnant right before her eyes.

Finally, the waves subside. You collapse onto Irene, your body trembling, your mind blissfully blank. She goes limp beneath you, her head lolling to the side, her breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps. You’re still inside her, your now-softening cock bathed in the combined heat of your cum and her pussy. You gently brush the damp strands of hair from her face, your touch tender, protective. You hug her close.

Seulgi waits a moment before slowly, carefully, pulling her dildo out of Irene’s ass. Irene moans softly into your neck as it slides free. With a sigh, Seulgi unstraps the harness and tosses it onto the floor. She crawls onto the bed, her movements tired but graceful, and wedges herself into the space beside you.

“That,” she says, “was beautiful. It was perfect.” She leans over and kisses Irene’s forehead, then turns and kisses your cheek. She settles down, lying next to you, completing the tangle of limbs. Irene is on top of you, Seulgi is beside you, the three of you a single, exhausted unit. “I love you both so much,” Seulgi whispers into the quiet room. She strokes Irene’s back. “How are you feeling, baby?”

A slow, lazy smile spreads across Irene’s face. She doesn’t even open her eyes. “I’ve never been better,” she murmurs.

Seulgi laughs, a soft, happy sound. You feel a sense of profound peace settle over you. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, you start to move, intending to pull out of Irene. Her arms immediately tighten around you, her legs locking you in place.

“No,” she whispers, a hint of panic in her voice. “Not yet.” She shifts her weight, pressing down, as if to keep you from escaping. “I want to feel you inside me for a little longer. I want to keep all your cum stored up nice and warm.”

You relax, sinking back into the pillows. “Okay,” you agree, the thought of your seed being carefully incubated inside her sending a pleasant shiver through you. The girls visibly relax, their bodies melting against yours, happy and content that you’re so willing to play along with every part of their dream.

“This is… this is everything I ever wanted,” Irene says softly. “Us, you… all of us together.”

“I know,” Seulgi agrees, her hand finding yours and giving it a squeeze. “So,” she says, “place your bets. Who do you think it’ll be? Who’s the lucky mommy?”

“My money’s on you,” Irene mumbles. “He really filled you up. I saw it. It was… a lot.”

“Yeah, but he came inside you and we kept it all in there. Your pussy got the prize.” She pauses, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Unless… what if it’s both of us? What if he’s just that potent? We could have twins! One for each of us to carry.”

The idea is so insane, so utterly them, that you can’t help but laugh.

“Thank you,” Irene says suddenly. She lifts her head to look you in the eyes. “Thank you for this. For agreeing to this crazy, insane plan. For trusting us.”

“Yeah,” Seulgi adds, her own eyes full of genuine emotion. “Thank you for being our best friend. And… for being our perfect daddy.”

The weight of their words, of the whole night, settles on you, but it’s not a burden. It’s a warm, heavy blanket of love and belonging. “You don’t have to thank me,” you say. “I’d do anything for you guys. You know that.”

“We do,” Seulgi says. She yawns, a wide, jaw-cracking yawn. “You should spend the night. Don’t go back to your room.”

“The bed is big enough for the three of us,” Irene adds, already snuggling back down onto your chest. “It’ll be more enjoyable this way. We can all wake up together.”

You look at the two beautiful women tangled up with you, their mission for the night accomplished, their faces full of hope and happiness. There’s nowhere else in the world you’d rather be.

“Okay,” you say softly, wrapping your arms around them both, pulling them closer. “I’ll stay.”

—

The text message from Seulgi arrives on a Tuesday afternoon. The past few weeks had been a strange, quiet limbo. You’d replayed the events of that insane wedding night in your head a thousand times, each memory a vivid, high-definition snapshot of lust and love and beautiful, shared madness. But you hadn’t pushed. You’d waited, giving them the space they needed to navigate the beginning of their new life together, your new, bizarre role in it still undefined. The message is short, simple, and utterly devoid of context.

Hey, you free tonight? Need you to come over. It’s important.

That’s it. No smiley faces, no explanation. Just a summons. Your heart immediately starts hammering against your ribs. Important. What kind of important? Did their families find out? Did someone get sick? Are they regretting it? Is this the conversation where they tell you it was a huge, drunken mistake and they need you to pretend it never happened? The drive to their chic, downtown apartment is a special kind of torture, your mind a frantic whirlwind of worst-case scenarios. By the time you’re standing outside their door, you’ve convinced yourself that this is the end of the most beautiful and insane chapter of your life. You take a deep breath and knock, your hand trembling slightly.

The door swings open, and they’re both there, standing side-by-side like a welcoming committee. They look… different. Not bad, just… charged. There’s a nervous, electric energy crackling in the air around them, a barely contained vibration that sets you on edge. Seulgi is wearing a simple grey sweatshirt and leggings, her hair piled into a messy bun. Irene is in an elegant, oversized cashmere sweater, looking as poised as ever, but her hands are clasped tightly in front of her, a tell-tale sign of her nerves.

“Hey,” you say. “You said it was important. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Irene says, a little too quick, a little too bright. “Come in, come in.”

They usher you into the entryway but don’t invite you to sit down. They just stand there, facing you, shifting their weight from foot to foot. The suspense is killing you.

“Okay, you’re officially scaring the shit out of me,” you say, trying for a light tone and failing miserably. “What’s going on? Are you guys breaking up? Did you burn the apartment down trying to cook? Just tell me.”

“No, nothing like that,” Seulgi says. She shares a look with Irene, a silent, lightning-fast conversation passing between them. “We just… we have something to tell you. Something to show you, actually.”

“A surprise,” Irene clarifies.

Your mind races. A surprise? Your anxiety immediately gives way to confusion. “A surprise? What, did you finally buy that ridiculously expensive espresso machine you were arguing about?”

“No,” Seulgi says, shaking her head, her smile widening.

“Did you get a cat? Please tell me you didn’t get a cat, Irene is allergic,” you guess again.

“Not a cat,” Irene confirms.

“Okay, I give up,” you say, throwing your hands up in surrender. “What is it?”

Seulgi’s expression turns serious, though the excited energy is still buzzing around her like a force field. “Close your eyes,” she says. “And hold out your hand.”

“Oh, come on, this is ridiculous,” you protest, but you do it anyway, closing your eyes and extending your hand into the space between you. You feel her take your hand, her palm warm against yours. Then, she places a small, light, plastic object into your palm. It’s long and thin. A key? A flash drive? You have no idea.

“Okay,” she says, voice trembling slightly. “You can open them.”

You open your eyes and look down at your hand. You’re holding a pregnancy test. And on its small digital screen, in clear, undeniable letters, is the word: PREGNANT.

The world goes silent. You stare at the little plastic stick, at that one, life-altering word, and your brain slowly, painstakingly, connects the dots. Your gaze drifts up from the test to their faces. They’re watching you, their expressions a mixture of terror and hope, waiting for your reaction.

“Is this…” you start. “Is this what I think it is?”

Seulgi’s face breaks into the widest, most radiant smile you have ever seen. She nods, a single, explosive movement. “If you’re thinking that our insane plan actually fucking worked,” she says with happy tears, “then yes. You’re right.”

“Oh my god!” you shout, lunging forward and pulling them both into a massive, clumsy group hug. You lift them both off the ground, spinning them around in a circle, laughing like a madman. “Holy shit! You did it! We did it!”

You finally put them down, and you’re all laughing and crying at the same time. You take a closer look at the test, as if the word might have changed. “This is incredible,” you say, shaking your head in wonder. Then, the logical question hits you. “Wait, whose is this?”

Seulgi’s smile, if possible, gets even wider. She raises her hand slowly, like a student who knows the answer to the teacher’s question. “That one,” she says full of pride, “is mine.”

“Oh my god, Seulgi!” You pull her into another tight hug, lifting her off her feet again. You hold her face in your hands. “You’re going to be a mom. A real mom. That’s… that’s insane.” You then turn to Irene and pull her into an equally enthusiastic hug. “And you’re going to be a mom! You guys are going to be parents!”

You’re buzzing, absolutely levitating with joy. You’ve never felt happiness like this. It’s pure, uncut, overwhelming. But as you pull back, you see a strange, playful look on Irene’s face. She’s watching you, a quiet smile on her lips.

“That’s wonderful news for her,” Irene says, voice calm and even, which only makes her next words more impactful. “But what about mine?”

She holds up her hand. And in it, she’s holding a second test. Another little plastic stick. And on its screen is the same impossible, beautiful word. PREGNANT.

The world stops spinning. It screeches to a dead halt. You stare at the first test in your hand, then at the second test in hers. You look at Seulgi’s beaming face, then at Irene’s serene, triumphant one. The math doesn’t add up. It can’t be. It’s not possible. But it is. Your brain finally catches up, and the only two words that can possibly encapsulate the magnitude of this moment escape your lips in a raw whisper.

“Holy. Shit.”

They burst into laughter at your reaction. “Yes,” Irene says, her eyes shimmering. “Both of us.”

“You’re… you’re both pregnant?” you ask.

“Surprise,” Seulgi says, wiping a tear from her eye. “It seems you’re a little more potent than we anticipated.”

You just stand there, dumbfounded, shaking your head, a wide, stupid grin plastered on your face. You pull them both into another hug, this one gentler, more careful. You’re hugging three people now. No, four.

“We wanted you to be the first to know,” Irene says softly, her head resting on your shoulder. “Before our parents, before anyone. We wanted to have this moment, just the three of us.”

“You made this happen,” Seulgi adds, her hand finding yours and squeezing it tight. “We literally couldn’t have done it without you.”

You laugh, a real, deep belly laugh this time. “Well,” you say. “It was my absolute pleasure to help. Literally.”

They both groan and laugh, swatting at you playfully. They pull you over to the couch, and for the next hour, they talk excitedly, often over each other, about everything. They’re already looking at houses a little outside the city, with yards and extra bedrooms. They argue playfully about nursery themes; Irene wants something minimalist and neutral, Seulgi wants cartoon animals and bright colors. They talk about car seats, and strollers, and the sheer, terrifying, wonderful reality of having two babies at the same time.

“Listen,” you say, interrupting their debate. You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. “Okay, but for real. What am I to them? What do you want me to be?”

“That’s… a conversation we wanted to have with you,” Irene says. “We didn’t want to just decide for you. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“There’s no roadmap for this, you know?” Seulgi adds, gesturing between the three of you. “We broke the map and set it on fire on your wedding night. We can’t just go online and search ‘what to call my best friend who knocked up me and my wife so we could start a family’.” She says it with a wry smile, but her eyes are completely serious. “Honestly? We don’t have a fucking clue.”

“We know we want you in their lives,” Irene states, her gaze locking with yours. “Deeply. Not as some distant uncle or just a… friend. But what we call it? What it looks like day-to-day? That’s something the three of us have to build from scratch. Together.”

You look at their faces: the fear of the unknown is still there, but it’s overshadowed by the absolute certainty of their trust in you, and yours in them. You take a deep breath, the path forward uncertain but undeniably shared.

"Okay. Then let's figure out how to be a family.”

[capslocked]

WOLOLO

A chance?

christ, that's a lot of ass.

my to-write list is too long for a lisa fic, i think. jisoo & rosé are already there, and I'm a snail's pace writer.

My next fic is gonna be one of these drafts i'm plugging away at:

[capslocked]

Ultraviolette

LE SSERAFIM Chaewon x M Reader

Tags: Smut

9k words

People don't come to parties like this to be themselves.

Not to be anyone, really.

The point—or the lack of one—is to let loose. To give in to feelings they'd swear don’t exist. Get stupid drunk and high. Make out with strangers in random hallways. In short: act like they've never heard the word "decency.” And the next morning? Drop it off like a temporary persona, head to work, and pretend nothing ever happened.

Heejin's taken it to heart, evidently.

“That girl definitely likes it rough,” she says, clicking her tongue. “Y’know—on her knees, mouth fucked senseless, head against the wall. Till she can’t feel her throat. Or anything.” She takes a sip from her straw—you don’t even want to know what’s in the drink. “And finish with slick dripping all over her.”

You stare at the speakers, bass thumping through the floor. “God, I wish they’d turn up the music just a bit. So I could go deaf. Permanently.”

Apparently, she’s already deaf, because: “Probably likes being called fuckslut when you fuck her up. Fuckslut or cumslut? Can’t decide which fits better.”

(Oh, and about forgetting nights like this. By morning—you'll be praying for that kind of luck.)

“Does the first thing you say about a stranger always have to be how they’re in bed?”

“Don’t be mistaken—there’s no bed involved. Just her knees on cold tiles, bathroom floor. Wall behind her.” She drains her glass, swirling the straw around. “I've never been wrong. Go ask her if you want.”

“Gee, and here I was thinking I’d start with a ‘What’s your name?’ sorta thing.” The blue lights swing around, catching you right in the eye. You flinch and raise a hand, squinting.

“Bow and call her queen while you’re at it,” Heejin mutters and drifts off towards the drinks table.

You exhale, shoulders sagging. Your fault for pointing the girl out to her in the first place. Should’ve known better.

Lonely Friday nights drive a man to dark places. In your case: a shitty party, where the only person you know is Heejin? That’s about as dark as it gets.

You came here begrudgingly, Heejin doesn’t hear “no” when it comes from you. And you were right: you were enjoying yourself exactly as much as expected. Not at all.

Until you saw her.

The girl.

You weren’t trying to notice her; she just kept appearing in your line of sight. A constant. And you’ll admit she’s nice to look at. Like now, the way she leans against the wall—glass dangling loose between her fingers, head tipped just right for the light to trace the curve of her throat.

She lifts the glass. The light follows—up, towards her face. A jolt: her hand trembles, nearly drops the glass. A faint pop, a subtle crack in the air, but she recovers quickly. As the light shifts away, so does the tension. And you're back in your head again:

Those lips, parted beneath your teeth. Her body, pinned and pliant against the wall—

Fingers tap your shoulder. You turn, Heejin’s back, a fresh refill of her poison in hand.

Ugh.

Sober Heejin is unbearable. A few glasses in? There’s a reason no one but you ever sticks around.

“No one ever told you staring's rude?” She sips through a new straw that takes several unnecessary detours on the path to her mouth.

“I wasn’t.”

“Uh-huh. And I’ve been drinking tea all night,” she bites. “You sure you don’t wanna drink tonight?”

“No. I’m driving us home.”

“One glass won’t kill you. Here—I’ll ask AI if you like.” She pulls up her phone, holding the power button. “Hey Google, how many glasses before you can’t—”

You snatch it, switch it off, and shove it back in her purse. “I’m good.” You couldn’t care less about Heejin, or the drive home, or anything else she’s whining about. Your focus is elsewhere entirely.

A look back confirms it: the girl’s still there.

“I think she’s alone,” Heejin says, peeking over your shoulder. “Name’s Chaewon, by the way. A little birdie told me. Come on, let’s go talk. Maybe she’ll—”

You cut in: “Forget her. Wanna go dance?”

Why you asked is anyone's guess.

Maybe because you don’t want to keep imagining things you shouldn’t; shut down the reel playing in your head.

Maybe because even if you did talk up the girl—Chaewon, it wouldn’t be with Ms. No-filter, 5 drinks deep, as your wing-woman. Or anywhere in the same zip code, for that matter.

And when’s she ever taken no for an answer.

Heejin snorts, raising a brow. “I didn’t come here to dance with you.”

“I know, but I don’t see anyone hitting you up. And me, well.” You shrug. Needs no explanation.

“Didn’t think you’d like flailing around in that sweaty mess. But sure, if it floats your boat.”

She heads toward the crowd, and you trail behind. Chaewon’s disappeared now, nowhere in sight.

First order of business: ditch Heejin in the crowd.

The crowd swells as you step in. Bodies press in, the bass rattling in your chest. You lose track of where Heejin is in the mess. She was ahead of you, but now you think she’s somewhere behind?

On track so far.

You scan the edges, trying to spot Chaewon—but no luck. Just a swirl of backs and raised arms. Party lights slice through the dark, leaving flickers of blue and white on damp skin.

“Your moves suck,” a voice cuts in behind you. Heejin, unmistakable even over the thrum of the speakers.

Can’t catch a break tonight.

“Never claimed to be a dancer.” You turn to spot her shaking her hips, lifting her glass high like a trophy.

“Everyone’s got one in them. Just need a little encouragement.”

Before you can react, she tilts your chin up—her fingers cool against your sweat-warm skin—and brings her glass to your lips. She pours what’s left of it into your mouth in one swift motion.

The drink hits fast and sharp. Sharp, burning, with a hint of sweet. You burst out coughing, nearly stumbling as someone brushes past you. But you’ve swallowed most of it. Your throat’s on fire.

She grins, patting your back. “The shit I threw in it should give you a spine now.” Among other things, you'd fucking think.

“Fuck you,” you spit.

Just when you think the night’s tapped out on ways to fuck with you, a bead of sweat rolls down your neck when you see who’s right behind her.

Chaewon. Dancing. Alone.

Just hope to god she disappears before Heejin spots her. You throw your arms in the air and move, swaying to the pounding music.

“There we go,” Heejin says, amused. “Alcohol finally gave you a dancing bone.”

You keep your eyes locked on her. Try your best to hold her attention. Keep her gaze from drifting where it’s not needed. She holds your stare without looking away—surprisingly long.

Strange.

Then it hits you: she isn’t looking at you. She’s looking just over your shoulder. Small, but crucial difference.

You glance back, heart skipping.

See, the thing about crowds at parties is they’re never still: bodies shift, swirl, rotate—and the flow has just turned, perfectly, to line you up with her. The light spins around to land on her, and there she is: Chaewon, now right behind you. The blue light slides across her face, casting her features sharply.

Fuck.

Something else’s off, too. Her eyes quiver—not a blink, more a microquake—under the light, with a look on her face you can't quite attribute to any emotion you've known. A glitch is the only way you can put it. But that thought quickly drops in priority because—

Amusement slips into Heejin’s eyes as she pushes past you, heading straight towards her. To utter something totally fucked, no doubt.

“Heyyyy, beautiful.” Drags the y out like it’s for show. “I was just telling him. Do you prefer fuckslu—”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you.” You don’t even remember deciding to push Heejin; your hands moved before you could think. The last thing you see before the crowd swallows her up is her body tilting, on a collision course with the floor.

Good thing the tiles are hard.

The press of bodies returns, but there’s an opening now.

Chaewon, standing there in an expensive dress, looking at you with an expression that says both curious and you’re-fucked-in-the-head. Which, okay. Fair.

The light hangs on her longer than it should.

“Why are you wearing a dress like that? You’re classing this shithole up.”

“I was expecting a…” She looks around, lips parted, searching for the right phrase. “Different kind of party.”

“One with less physical violence?”

“You could say that.” Her lips curl slightly. “Not that I’m particularly averse to it.”

She says it casually—like a throwaway line, an obvious extension, an aside of no particular importance.

You should walk away. You know how this night ends—with you passing out in the middle of nowhere. And you know what this girl is: nothing but trouble, wrapped tight in a 5’4” package.

But—seeing her now. All dolled up, perfect makeup, a pretty one-shoulder dress. Hair pulled back neat with a band. Sticks out in the middle of a dirty party like a flame flickering in smoke. The dress hangs criminally low off the other shoulder, showing off smooth collarbones—delicate, catch-the-light sharp. It ends right where it should, too, exposing pale thighs you can already imagine your fingers sinking into.

Goddamn if that isn’t an attractive fucking package.

“She was insane, by the way. Batshit crazy. Had it coming for a while.” You wave a hand vaguely in the direction of where you sent Heejin spiraling.

Her shoulders drop in a shrug. “I didn’t say a thing. Are you convincing me or yourself?”

“You gave me a look.”

“Maybe. But I wasn’t the only one giving looks.”

It feels like another unholy cocktail was just poured down your throat; something sour twists in your gut. Oh, she’s got you. In the palm of her hand. In under a minute.

She’s a killer, that one.

“Shouldn't we find a better place to talk than dead center of the dance floor?”

She tilts her head, leaning in close. “Talking, is that what we're calling this?”

Honest hand to god, you don't even know what else this is.

Okay, maybe you’ve got some idea. Promises don’t count at parties. Not when the girl in front of you looks like that. Or something.

“Whatever it is.” You catch her wrist, pull her close—a sharp elbow slices through where she just stood. “Not the place.”

See, humans have definitions: a set of principles, rules. Little lines in the sand that make each identity (or the illusion of one) unique. Without those, people blur into each other. Everyone becomes one.

These definitions change, evolve over time. You're not who you were a year ago, or even yesterday, before you walked into Heejin’s room without knocking. (That’s one you’ll remember alright: always knock.)

One such definition you've carved from experience: nights like this—shady party, girl you’ve never talked to before and probably never will again—are never a good idea. It's a drink; alcohol, a numbing of something deeper. And when the high fades, the weight inside just settles heavier.

So you swear it off. No more drinks. Not a drop.

But what if a glass of scotch worth more than you'll make in a year—the kind you'd ruin just by holding—shows up? Yours to do with as you wish.

Oh, ruin it, you will.

Scene cuts. Fast-forward a few minutes. A secluded, dark corner; somehow, there's still one left that doesn’t reek of sex layered over alcohol and sweat. You're on your way to fix that problem.

The reel plays again, bolder now: your hands in her hair, hers all over your body. Lips sealed, your mouth tugging at her bottom lip, tongue teasing, teeth hovering just close enough to threaten a bite.

Except it’s not in your head anymore.

The scent of alcohol is sharp on her breath, but it only adds to her charm; luxure, if you will. Besides, with whatever toxins Heejin force-fed you, you’re probably not doing much better. Not that Chaewon seems to care, not when her dainty fingers are skating across your crotch, feeling your hardening response in real time.

Which is why it’s so jarring when she pulls back to ask, soft and almost playful: “What was she going to tell me?”

You shake your head, clear the static. “What?”

“Your friend?” She raises a brow; you give a reluctant nod. “Was telling me something before you football-tackled her. Just curious what it was.”

“You don't wanna know,” is all you manage.

“Quite the opposite, actually. I'm asking because I do wanna know.”

“And I'm telling you that you don't.”

She grabs your hand and presses your palm to the inside of her thigh, her skin cold against your fingers. Then she slides it up her curve, squeezing tighter with each inch.

“Look, we don’t even know each other’s names,” she reasons. You can find a better time to tell her that’s not completely true. “Just thought I heard something I liked.”

She squeezes again, like that’s supposed to make you more likely to give in. Which, okay. Fair.

“She was narrating a porn script. About how you’d be in bed.”

Chaewon raises her fingers in a little camera-cut rectangle, framing her own face in the center.

“Huh, interesting.” Her lips quirk. “Give me the screenplay.”

You didn't think it was possible to meet someone more fucked in the head than Heejin, but clearly, you were wrong.

“Starts with you on your knees,” you begin.

“Classic,” she says.

And you go on: ”You’re looking up at me with those pretty doe eyes, in nothing but a black bra and panties. Drool at the corner of your mouth, begging for my cock.”

She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Begging, how?”

“Well, you know… all desperate, maybe,” you offer.

“Please,” Chaewon murmurs in the filthiest tone she can manage, “stuff your thick cock in my mouth. I can’t live without it.” Her eyelashes flutter a faux pout. “Something like that?”

You nod. “Yeah. Yeah, something like that.”

“Continue.”

“Faced with begging that persuasive, I’d have to give in, right?”

Her palm presses firm against your crotch. “Obviously. Suspension of disbelief can only go so far.”

“So I wrap my hand around the back of your head, clutching your hair. In the movie, you like it rough. I push your mouth onto my cock in one go, make you swallow all of it.”

She bites her lip. “In the movie?”

“Uh-huh.” You gulp, flicking through your mind for more. “In the movie.”

She helps: “What about the camerawork? A nice angle of the spit dripping down to my tits would add texture.”

“A visual of said tits would help first.” Your hands snake back to her dress's zipper. “Bathroom? Anyone could walk in on the shoot here.”

Chaewon shrugs, lazy and amused. “Wherever you want. I don't care.”

One more cut. This one runs longer. Finding a bathroom at a party without puke all over it is about as hard as you’d expect, but you manage.

“Like I was saying—visual.” You bring down the zipper in one smooth go, and her dress falls to a puddle at her feet. There’s something ironic about a classy dress crumpled on a grimy bathroom floor, but no one’s here for the symbolism. Not your department.

Her boobs present themselves, perky and tight. The soft, creamy bits spilling from her bra make you want to lean in, nibble already. Her nipples are taut, showing faintly through the red fabric. You slide a lazy finger over one, brushing the nub.

“Good enough?” She tilts your chin up to meet her eyes.

“That works. More than, actually.”

Let your palm wrap around her boob, a mere thin cloth preventing skin contact, and squeeze—a soft moan escapes her lips.

“So, what's next?” Her tongue slips out and runs over her lip.

“Where were we? Oh yeah, the angle of spit dripping down onto your red bra—”

“Wasn't it black?” she cuts in, impatiently tapping her fingers on her thigh.

“Was it?”

“Last you said, yeah. Can't have continuity errors.”

“Definitely not. Post-production’ll have to take care of that.”

A flick of movement draws your eyes downwards—her fingers already slipped under her panties, rubbing slow, deliberate circles. Soft, wet sounds rise as her fingers slide against her pussy.

“What? Couldn't wait for the scene where we fuck?”

“You're stuck on the blowjob intro for half a fucking hour,” Chaewon snaps. “God forbid a girl gets herself off.”

“I wasn't the one pointing out continuity errors in a porno.” You blink.

“Can't we skip to a part where you eat me out or something?”

“No can do. Script says blowjob, then fucking.”

She sighs. “Of course, made for a specific gaze.”

“Maybe. But the director's strict on the vision. No going off-script.”

“Sounds very pretentious. Nobody likes pretentious movies.”

“Only if they don’t pull it off. And, well, after a while—when you see the filth people clap for, it's hard to take their opinions seriously.”

She exhales, amused. “Then at least get a move on.” With a quick twist of her hair, she drops to the floor.

“It was very specific about having you against a wall.” You take her wrist and guide her to the sink, pressing her down to her knees.

Just her knees on cold tiles, bathroom floor. Wall behind her.

First, she gets your zip undone, and you help her slide your pants and underwear down.

She spends a couple of seconds just looking. Not stroking, licking, slurping—all that will come in due time. For a few moments, her eyes stay locked on your cock like it’s the prettiest thing she’s ever seen.

Her fingers wrap around your base. She spits—a sharp, wet sound—then uses her palm to smear it over your length, slow, firm strokes from tip to base, then back again.

Not wanting to miss out, her other palm slides up your thigh, grazing your balls. It’s gentle; massaging softly as she continues stroking you up and down.

Chaewon—her dress crumpled beside, in underwear too expensive for a setting like this—is someone who shouldn’t be sucking you off in a dimly lit party restroom, blown speakers pounding stupid bass through the walls.

But that’s exactly what she does next: parts her glossy lips, swallowing your tip first, her tongue flicking out to lap along your length. You trail a finger down her cheek, down the delicate line of her throat.

She’s one of those modern artworks—the kind that actually looks like art—marked Do Not Touch. But you’ll touch anyway. You let your fingers rest right at the hollow of her throat, cradling it between your index and middle fingers.

You tug her upward slightly, and her pupils dart up at you as she slobbers around your tip. She’s agonizingly slow, dragging her tongue in lazy licks, lathering you up even more. She keeps her gaze locked on yours, mouth working leisurely, her plush, pillowy lips rubbing all over your head.

Agonizingly slow. You’ve waited long enough. Your hand tightens in her hair, and you push her mouth down onto your cock. She’s the one who wanted to get a move on—it’s alright.

Chaewon’s mouth is soft and warm. Wetter than you could ever imagine. Drool spills down the corners, streaking her chin, smudging her makeup. Her tongue flattens and swirls around you. Eager. Precise.

You grip the sides of her head and press her upright against the wall, angling just right to thrust into that warm, tight hole.

It’s hard to tell with how busy they are multitasking right now, but you swear you catch the faintest curl of a smile on those spit-slicked lips. Oh, she’s planned this alright. Planned to get that cute little mouth fucked senseless. And who are you to deny her?

Her eyes flutter shut the first time you push, your tip pressing into the back of her throat. A sharp gag—but she steadies herself with one hand on your thigh.

She tilts her head back slightly, sinking deeper and deeper into the feeling of having her mouth fucked. Her fingers slip back below, a trail of slick stretching all the way to where the dress lies on the floor. How’s that for recurring symbolism.

Oh, it’s distinctly pornographic how she rubs circles under her panties while her mouth is getting thoroughly used. Those eyes tightly shut as she gives you moans that only grow louder—vibrating all over your cock. You'll give her artistic credit for that one.

There's already slick dripping down from your cock to your balls, but she's not satisfied with it. Not when she uses a free hand to catch the spit spilling from her chin and uses it to rub your balls, all soft and fondling. Like it’s the most important thing right now that you're properly pleasured.

You’ll give her credit for all of that.

Her knees shuffle around on the cold floor, one hand bracing against the sink, adjusting her height so that it's convenient for your cock to keep thrusting into her mouth.

An interruption: the set lighting gets dodgy. The yellow bulb behind you dims further—then stutters. Chaewon’s eyes glaze, a thin film rolls over her pupils as her face freezes momentarily.

You pause, getting on the floor beside her to ask what’s wrong. She blinks twice, says she’s okay, and once the light steadies, she’s back to leaning against the wall like nothing happened. And asks you to fuck her again. That, you'll do.

You’re lucky the thrum of the speakers makes it impossible to hear anything, with the rising sounds of a number of things—moans from the pair of you, wet, filthy gargles of your cock in her mouth, and the slick noise of her fingers on cunt.

You find your rhythm—faster pumps—and Chaewon matches it.

“You wanted this all along, didn’t you?” You tilt her chin up, forcing her eyes on you again. “Wanted to get your—”

Another push deep inside, her nose brushing against your waist, before you pull back to thrust again. “—mouth fucked by me till my cum is all over you.”

All she can give in response is a moan tinged with indignation—it’s crystal clear what the accusation is: as if you didn’t.

Her fingers rub faster, leaving you with no option but to match her pace. By now, she's basically using her pussy as throttle; speed control for how fast she wants to be fucked, knowing you'll follow without hesitation.

And when she drives it up to 11, there's no way you're lasting much longer.

“Fuck—Chaewon, I'm going to cum,” you tell, and she nods with a vigor that can only mean that she’s right there with you.

A soft pop, and she pulls her mouth off, lips glistening. Her palm takes over, stroking you with the same relentless pace, the tip hovering just over her face. Driving you closer to your edge—“do it on me,” she says, breathless, and you're not about to argue.

Those soft thighs clench—a trembling mess—on the floor, lips curling into an ‘O’ as she moans, louder than you thought was humanly possible. It gets completely drenched, her panties leak and spill a visible wetness on the tiles. That's when you release too.

Thick streaks land all across her face—cheeks, lips, hair. Her mouth, open and waiting, catches a good few too.

She smiles, panting, as her tongue flicks out to taste more from her cheeks. You collapse next to her on the ground, leaning against the wall. Spent.

“Tell Heejin the script feels screen ready,” she breathes.

The dim yellow light spreads softly across her hair, casting long shadows on her face—hiding, blurring her features—as she leans back with you, dazed. Cock-drunk dazed.

You can mark “getting a room to smell like sex” as done.

Another cut: the cleanup is of little interest. You also dumped your thoughts about definitions on her while helping wash her hair off. It was kind of an accident; you don't really want to talk about it.

Once you're done and the tap’s turned off, the bathroom settles into an eerie quiet. Sure, the party music still thumps faintly in the background. But it’s just that: background. Second nature now. What matters are the layers above it. And those are gone—until her dress, crumpled in the corner, starts buzzing like her juices just brought it to life.

“Look,” you say, “I thought we had a symbolism thing going on with the dress, but this is taking it too far.”

She brings her dress over to where you're sitting—a couch make-shifted out of a bathroom tub: you on the corner, her on the floor. You weren't the one who suggested this particular seating arrangement, but you’ll surely accept it.

“Relax. There’s a phone in it. Thought it was dead already, though. Dress with pockets—greatest invention of the 21st century.”

“Think the 20th century already got there. Probably even earlier.”

“You’ll be fun at parties.” Her eyes flick through her screen.

“I’d actually be a little offended if you don’t think that after all this.”

She closes her phone and puts it back in, shaking her head. “It’s a news notification.”

“Why don’t you turn those off?”

“Never bothered learning how to. Staying away from the settings app is one of my definitions.” The last word she says in a cheeky tone you're not sure you're a fan of.

“You don't have to use that word,” you offer, sheepish.

“I like it. I want to say it.” There's a twinkle in her eyes—sarcasm dressed up as something nice, you’d guess. “What's the story behind it?”

“Don't know. Found it gives me some semblance of a structure,” is what you'll say, and she'll believe you.

“That's no fun.” Maybe not agree, but she'll believe you.

You nod to the phone. “What breaking news was so important it had to interrupt our post-sex-pre-aftercare session?”

“Guess. If you get it in 2 tries, you can have my dress.”

“Why in the hell would I want your dress?” Never mind the part where she’d have to walk home naked. That's her problem.

“You were practically worshipping it earlier.”

“Doesn't mean I wanna keep it.”

Chaewon sharply taps her wrist. “Time's ticking.”

“I dunno. Two politicians having a dick measuring contest? Planet’s still on fire?”

“Our grandchildren will be married to…” She pauses, hoping for some show of interest. When it’s clear she's not getting any, she continues: “AI, apparently.”

“Like bots with AI?”

“The whole shtick. Marriage licenses and all.”

You scoff. “Yours won’t have to, with those genes. Mine might.”

“Not if I have any say in it,” she blurts, then looks down immediately.

“What?”

“Nothing. Would you marry an AI?”

“I’m not clinically insane, so no.”

“Why not? Imagine your favorite food cooked fresh, anytime you want. Can do a lot of things girls can’t.” It’s kind of hilarious the first thing she wants from a partner is instant food. Or worse: that she thinks you would.

“And girls can do a lot of things AI can’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like being able to kiss me without tasting like silicon.”

“Depends on what she’s been drinking.”

“Or not collapsing when she runs out of compute.”

“Humans need sleep, too.” Her hands pick up the rubber ducky next to you. “For what it's worth, I'd marry a bot. AI-powered fucking would go so hard.”

“What—I wasn't good enough?”

“You were. But not AI-optimized.” She squeezes the ducky on your face—squeak. The image is ridiculous.

“You're like, disqualified to be a human being.” You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “Do you even think before saying stuff?”

“All my decisions are well thought out.”

“Like wearing that dress to this shithole?”

“Probably made it so hot for you.”

“Fluke,” you wave it off.

“I stick to it,” she volleys back. “What if I’m a bot? You wouldn’t even know.”

Your hand brushes the line of her neck—soft, sharp. As your finger drifts lower, she reaches behind and unhooks her bra with a snap. It slips off and lands on the tub floor. She takes your hands and presses against herself, filling both palms with her boobs.

“Well?” she asks. “What’s the conclusion?”

“If you’re a bot, whoever made you deserves a hell of a raise.”

She laughs. “All me, darling. Self-replicating AI.”

“Some human would have had to start you.”

“After enough copies, does that matter? For all practical purposes, I'm the maker of myself,” she says, indignant. Like you're robbing her of credit she's earned fair and square.

“That's like saying the mom's the only parent because it's been nine months since the dad was involved.” You grab the ducky from her hand and squeeze it in her face. It makes a different sound for you. Deeper, a little ragged.

“No, it's like saying your great-great-grandfather doesn't count—because you probably don't even know his name.” She snatches the ducky back and presses it again; her old sound returns. Her head tilts, trying to make sense of it.

“So somewhere along the way, the start stops mattering.”

“Like somewhere along tonight, you stopped resisting and gave in. After that, didn't matter what you were before.” Her hands shift grip, closer to how you held it. Your version of the sound comes out.

“You didn't have to point that out.”

“I know.” Her lips curl into a smile, little puzzle solved. “I just wanted to, it's like a modern version of Ship of Theseus.”

“How so?”

“I mean, how far can you replace and reinvent until the original just doesn’t matter? Same dilemma, new packaging.” She tosses the ducky aside, irrelevant now.

You squint an eye. “I can kinda see it.”

“Maybe I’m reaching,” she adds, softer.

“This whole night's been reaching.” You throw your head back against the wall.

“Cheers to that.” She lifts an imaginary glass and clinks it gently against yours, just as invisible. “I could go for a drink.”

“Drink me.”

“Any more and I'll be less me and more you.” A flicker in her tone; something undiscernible.

“What's even you?”

Her voice tightens. “What do you mean?”

“We've been talking a while, and all you've done is play one role or the other. Porn muse. AI evangelist.”

“Isn't that what everyone does, play roles?” She forms a little circle with her thumb and index finger, spinning it through the air in slow motion.

“Maybe. But I think I know less of you now than before we met. And what gang signs are you throwing?”

“You've not been paying attention. I’m swirling my glass,” she says, mock-offended. “It’s almost empty—go fetch me a refill.”

“Enough pussyfooting. I want to know the real you.” You mime grabbing her glass and smashing it against the tub. “Surely you don’t talk in riddles 24/7.”

“Ouch.” She rubs her hand, as if something stung her. “Seriously, I’ve been real all night. I'm an open book, ask whatever you want.”

You pause for a second, thinking. “What do you… do for work?”

She snorts, like that question personally insulted her. “Come on. That’s like, the worst way to get to know someone.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You used a nice word earlier: definitions. You think the least interesting part of someone's day is one of those?”

“That's the part that keeps you alive.”

“But the rest is what you stay alive for.”

“Not everyone hates their job.”

“Not the point.” She crosses her legs, resting her hand on her knee. “It’s an obligation; would you do those eight hours if there wasn’t a paycheck waiting?”

“No,” you admit. “I have to meet metrics at my job.”

Her shoulders rise in a shrug. “These metrics, would anyone give a shit about them in a vacuum?”

“Maybe it’s not a definition, more of a side effect.”

“Yeah. And even if the passion’s there—buried under all that overhead—there's better ways to reach it than that question.”

“Try this on for size: you like parties?”

She smiles. “Do you?”

“You said I could ask anything.”

“You can—and I’ll answer. But you first.”

“Not really,” you tell. “People act like decency’s optional the second the lights go out.”

“That much was clear the moment I saw you.”

Unnecessary pretense, you think. “Then why ask?”

“Curious how you’d frame it. You chose to put the blame outside. And if I may, we're not being so decent ourselves.” Chaewon dramatically motions to the various states of undress you two are in.

“My bad for asking.”

“Not a dig. Just saying—this actually says something.”

“Point taken. So I asked, and I haven't gotten anything out of you yet.”

“Parties are okay.” She unhooks the handshower from the handle and points it at her wrist, thoughtful. “But I could do without the striking lights.”

“Really? You seemed fine out there.”

A soft breath. “Not paying attention isn’t new to you, is it?”

“That one’s a dig.”

“Not really. Not being hyper-aware isn't a character flaw. Most people aren't.”

“Yeah, not everyone’s wired like you, huh?” Your case is only helped by the way she's fixated with the shower head streaming water at her wrist.

“You can put it that way, but I'm not sure you're anyone’s poster child for normal either.” Her other hand lands on your thigh, as if to ground you from any delusions.

You’ll kick yourself in the shin every time you remember you told her about definitions.

She poses: “My turn. You like your friend?”

“What do you mean—like?” You raise a brow, suspicious.

“As in, like them as a person. Not in a funny way—just, you think they're cool. Sort of.”

“Heejin’s fucking intolerable. At times. Most of the time.”

“Why hang out with her then?”

“Dunno. She's my friend. You don't ditch your friends just because they're annoying.”

“You totally can, actually,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “I have, plenty of times.”

“Yeah, who am I kidding—I probably have too.” You point the shower down, and water spills onto her legs, sliding past her ankles on the way out. Somewhat of a ritual. Just not a clean one. Chaewon’s probably the kind to think none of them are.

A ritual needs some truths too, and you'll supply them: “But it’s not all bad. She dragged me out to this party, and now I'm here. Would probably be holed up with a movie otherwise.”

“Doesn't sound too bad. That's my preferred way of spending Friday nights, too.”

“Why here, then?”

“Active effort to put myself out there—whatever that's supposed to mean.” She exhales sharply. “Thought I’d done enough of that in college.”

“If you did, you wouldn't have to now.”

“Well, enough for me. Couldn't be arsed to do more.”

“Fair,” you offer, soft. “Was expecting your question to be how I knew your name.”

“Saw Heejin talking to the only person I knew here earlier. Wasn't too hard to figure out.” She flips through the shower settings, going through her post-sex-pre-aftercare-waterplay-ritual in different flavors. “Besides, would've been a little hypocritical of me. After that whole rant on bad questions.”

“Don't like getting caught being two-faced?”

She shifts on the floor slightly. “Nobody does. I'd like to think I'm consistent.”

“Sure. Though you can never know that for a fact.”

“Says who?”

“God—”

Chaewon cuts in: “He isn't telling me anything.“

“Gödel.”

“Who? Actually—scratch that, don't wanna know.” She raises her palm at you, like a stop sign.

“That won’t make it any less applicable to you.”

“Uh-huh,” she says and squints her eyes at you, considering if your next words are worth the trouble. “Fine, I'll bite. Who is it?”

“A math—guy. Proved no system can show itself to be consistent (among other tragic facts about math; they hated him). If math can't know it’s consistent, what luck do you have?”

“Shoot for the stars, land on the moon. Yada yada.”

“Wasn't it the other way around?” You glance at the wall—squiggly green patterns ripple across a blue background. “Shoot for the moon, land on the stars.”

She shakes her head. “That doesn't even make sense—the moon’s closer.”

“A lot of sayings don't make sense.” You point the water towards your own feet. The soft flow on skin feels quite relaxing.

“Like what?”

“Like… rules were meant to be broken. I think that's the last thing the folks making the rules had in mind.”

Her lips curl into a half-smile. “You're breaking your own rules by being here.”

The water suddenly turns harsh. “Thanks for the second reminder.”

“Your turn—go.” She flicks the nozzle, switching it to a concentrated burst—no warning.

You flinch, fling the head away, and kill the tap. “You know what? I think we should get going.” You don't think that—not yet—but two can play the game of saying things just for the reaction.

“It was just starting to get fun.” Her lips pull into a fake pout.

“You'd say that.”

“You’re dying to ask something,” she clocks. “Go on.”

You grip the tub edge, moving around a bit. “Did you actually, uh, mean what you said earlier?” you mumble.

“Darling, I said a lot of things tonight.”

“About being into physical violence.”

“Oh god, no,” she says. “That was a little two-for-one special: say something clever and fuck with you a little. Couldn't pass it up.” That twinkle in her eye is back again; you hate it.

“You should be careful going around saying stuff like that,” you warn.

“I know who to say it to. The kind that’d flinch harder than myself.”

As if right on cue, the light behind you flickers again—hitting her right in the eye. She flinches—barely. A jerk you can miss if you blink. Her eyes quiver for a split second, teetering between shut and just open.

You raise a hand, shielding her eyes. She freezes. Only when the light settles do you lower it.

“Could barely tell it affected you, to be honest,” you admit.

“I've had practice. Only changed my reaction on the outside, though.”

“Let’s switch places.” You get up and offer her a hand. “It’s worse on your side, when it happens.”

“We don’t need to.”

“Just come here.” You grab her hand, palm and fingers smooth against yours—cold to the touch—and she stands up. After helping her to the tub's edge, you drop to the floor. “You could raise a hand, block it, y’know?”

“How would I have practice then?” Chaewon pauses for a second. “It’s not worth it.”

“Lights always do that to you?”

The tub floor is gross, you think about pointing it out—but she's been sitting on it for the better part of the night without any complaints. So you keep it to yourself.

“Ever since I remember.” Her gaze wanders up behind you. “Went to a doctor once. Got some tests done. Said it’s inherent and just something I should avoid,” she says without missing a beat. Like a script, rehearsed—an actress playing her part. Not too well, not too convincing; you can’t buy in totally yet. It’s a written line, meant to be heard, maybe even pitied. But to be believed, it needs more practice. Or less.

“None of that’s true, is it?”

“It's partly true. That’s the trick.”

“Which part?”

“I did go to a doctor. And they did say there’s nothing they can do about it.” A darkness pools in her eyes.

“So it wasn't always there.”

“No.”

“Since when?” you press.

For the first time all night, her replies aren’t so quickfire. “It’s not that interesting,” just doesn’t have the same wit; the cleverness you’ve gotten used to.

“You wanted good questions. This feels like a definition; the making of one.”

“It’s really not,” she insists.

You'll try a hail-mary: “You know another, timeless packaging of Ship of Theseus? Lying about yourself—so well, so long—you forget who you were to begin with.” You lean back, giving her space to think. “When do you reach that point?”

She stares at you blankly. A pause, a sigh, and then:

“You know you’re kind of an asshole, right? I used to like them, actually. The lights. My family thought I was nuts.” She laughs, dry—there’s no humor in it. “But they didn't mind it too much; it helped me sleep. At our old place, when I was young. I used to lie on my bed at night, watching the lights flickering from sirens through the window.

The sirens used to zoom past, lights entering one way—draping my room in a faint blue—and leaving from the other, as fast as they came. Used to have the best fun counting them, too. See, life was just that simple back then. But I could never get past 40 without falling asleep.”

“Of course,” she adds, quieter, “that was before that night. When the blue sirens just kept going. Crossed 40, and I got so excited. Clutched the pillow so hard it almost tore—I’d never made it that far. It kept going. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. My heart picked up with the numbers.”

A small, uneasy shock crawls up her legs—they start shaking.

“Then I realized they’d stopped at our house.”

A piercing banging on the door interrupts whatever she was going to say next.

“Occupied?” shouts a sharp, annoying voice. “Ugh. Just puke and fucking weirdos jacking off in here, I swear.”

“Is that—” Chaewon starts.

You finish: “Yeah. Heejin herself, in the flesh. Who else could it be?”

She presses her palm to her forehead. “My head's spinning. I’m getting dizzy.”

“You okay? Need some water?” The pupils in her eyes go grey, and slowly go deeper in the white. “Or meds?” you add, concerned.

“No, no, I’ll be fine.” Her voice says otherwise—faint, fraying. Like she’s losing control of herself. “I just thought—the headaches were quiet for a while.”

“You’ve had them before?”

She nods, slow. “Headaches—noises—visions. I need to leave.”

“I'll come with you,” you say, and her eyes dart up at you, an uneasy look surfacing. “Till you're okay, if you'd like.”

A soft breath escapes her lips. “Alright… thanks.”

“If I don’t hear a response, I’m kicking the door down,” Heejin barks from outside.

“Is she gonna be a problem?” Chaewon picks up her dress from the floor, trying to straighten it out.

You grip her shoulder, steadying. “Get dressed, okay? I’ll deal with her.”

Your fingers graze the doorknob. One last look behind.

Her hands are gripping her head tightly, knees drawn in. Curling inward, like she wants to disappear. Unfortunately for her, she’s still here…

Closing the door behind you, you step back into the filth of the party on its last few breaths. The bathroom, somehow, felt cleaner. Music’s back to head-pounding loud; you miss the softer hum inside.

Heejin’s eyes widen on seeing you. “Thank fuck. I was looking—”

“What do you want?” you ask, words rushing out.

“What were you doing in there?” She squints, suspicious.

You let out a long sigh. “I was with her.”

“So I was right all along—bathroom floor, knees, everything—”

“Whatever you want, make it quick.”

“Someone fucking smashed my car’s rear view mirror. We need to leave.”

“Then go, take the car and go. What the hell are you calling me for?”

She takes a step back. “You’re a dick. I came with you. Figured I should be the one getting you back.”

“No. Tell the truth: you’re too fucking drunk to drive.”

Heejin presses her lips together, frowning. “What are you being such a dick for?”

“Because Chaewon’s—sick. In there.” You jab a finger over your shoulder. “Do you mind?”

“In where?” She leans in to look past you, brows furrowing.

“In…” You turn around to find—

The bathroom door hangs wide open, creaking. Your eyes sweep the room—tub, sink, toilet, floor—there’s nobody inside.

There’s nobody inside.

One last cut: It's something you’d rather forget. (You can't.) You roam the dance floor, hallways, drinks tables; they’re all dead—of what, you're not quite sure. Searching.

Music's replaced by a high, unbearable ringing. Lights burn brighter, sharper, piercing—you can feel them enter your eyes. Yes, they enter from your eyes, boring through the soft flesh of your brain, then drilling a hole through your skull on the way out. If you place a hand behind you, you swear you can catch it in your palm and stop the light—but you're wrong; it cuts through your hand, too. 

You can't stop it.

People look different, look like nobody. Faces—aren't. Faces aren't—anything. The lights turn every expression into the same; everyone looks like everybody. But none of them are the one you're searching for: hers.

The only one you wanna see. The only one missing.

This is the longest cut of them all. Time stretches, snaps, folds. You couldn’t put a number to it if you tried. All you know is: it’s long.

It ends out on the lawn, between wet, scrunching blades of grass.

Sit down and look up. There are no lights here; not for others, that is. But in your eyes, they're more striking than ever. Dancing in the front of your eyes when open, etching themselves in the back of your eyelids when closed—you have no escape, no solace. They’ve made themselves home, manifesting vivid shades of the feelings curled deep in the folds of your mind. If anything, the visions have to be them. If anything.

Someone did say the color of dread is blue.

They’ll be your stars tonight; they’ll be your muse—what you look at to feel things you can’t elsewhere. A cocktail of emotions—mostly dark, base being a stunning flavor of regret.

If you did a post-mortem, you’d trace it back to the first mistake: coming to this party. You'll need to do some re-defining—stop listening to Heejin’s suggestions. Fuck it, maybe push her out of your life once and for all. You knew this night was a bad idea.

Ask her and she'll say you're living life like a lunatic, chained to your concepts. (About that? She might be right.)

The second misstep: breaking your own rule. Maybe it was the drink forced on you; maybe she was so magnetic that man-made barriers stopped mattering. But something, something, made you lose control. Like Chaewon said. She was right: she said a lot of things. Deflections, quick wit, smoke and mirrors. Until the first time she said something strange.

She'll be less her and more you. What if the reverse was true, too?

The excuses can go on. So, when you wake up tomorrow, cut out the part that said it's okay to break your definitions, because that's what started this. Make that a definition.

But—if you were willing to break one definition… there's nothing stopping you from breaking another.

Then what? Make a new one? Swear it'll hold? Swear you will?

You can draw one more line in the sand. You'll end up watching yourself step over it.

If you can break one, you can break them all. The underlying assumption doesn't hold.

It's not consistent. Not anymore.

It has collapsed.

And whatever you’ll face is punishment for the same.

—

“Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect, he ceases to love.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky

To be continued.

Part 1 of definitions - Ultraviolette

—

Heejin’s bloodshot eyes stay locked ahead, her palm clenched around the top of the steering wheel. A glance at the cracked rearview mirror—there’s a police car tailing, signaling her to pull over. She groans loud, annoyed, and steers to the side.

The cruiser stops behind her. A cop steps out, mutters something under his breath, and trudges up to her car.

“I swear I’m not drunk,” she protests as she rolls the window down. “I wasn’t even supposed to be driving. I had a partner—he just disappeared. And I spent a fucking fortune financing this car. I’m not leaving it at a party where it'll get trashed six ways to hell by tomorrow morning,” she finishes, flippant.

The officer reaches into his bag to pull out a breathalyzer. “Ma'am, I'm gonna need you to blow into this.”

It takes roughly three warnings. Each one a little sharper: “Last chance. Refusal to take the test will result in arrest and license suspension—I need you to breathe into this now.”

Only then does she sigh, roll her eyes, and finally blow into the device.

Nothing is said when the machine blinks with the result; he just flashes her the screen. She doesn't understand the numbers, but the implication’s obvious. So she sighs again, and steps out of the car.

A cold breeze stirs her hair. She turns—nearby, a woman hurries past, head low. Deliberately hidden, like she's trying not to be there. Which, of course, only draws Heejin’s attention more. The way she's dressed doesn't help.

A soft, elegant—though slightly crumpled—dress hangs off one shoulder, flowing down to her knees. It looks familiar. Heejin’s definitely seen it before. Where exactly? She’s too drunk to recall.

Tucked in the dark corner of the street, a phone booth sits waiting. Behind it, a shop. Or at least, what she thinks is a shop. A sign reads Sweet Decorations.

But there’s no cashier. No counter. In fact, there's only one shelf standing between the place being a shop—or just an empty room. All the walls are glass, the door too—like it’s saying: look at me, I’ve got nothing to hide.

The light inside is a dim, sterile white. It's not flickering; steady, actually—but it feels like it might go out any second and take the shop with it. It's been on too long. Far too long.

The shelf is clear, like everything else. Just big enough for two teddy bears. Still in plastic. Unused.

Her eyes dart back to the phone booth. It’s occupied now. The woman slips a coin into the receiver, dials a number, and presses the phone to her cheek—gripping it like she’d die if she let go.

One ring, two.

Two slim fingers lift from the receiver, brushing her hair back. For a moment, a sliver of her face is visible—before the strands fall forward again.

Heejin catches a glimpse—and lurches forward. She tries to run to her, but the cop’s hand clamps down hard on her shoulder, locking her in place.

“Hey—you,” she shouts into the wind.

Three, four.

The next motion unfolds in three acts, but feels like one, really:

Chaewon’s grip on the phone slowly loosens, till it slips from her grasp and is en route to a free fall to the floor. The cord is too long to matter.

Her eyelids flutter, and she collapses into a heap on the floor, cheek pressed flush against the cold concrete.

The phone hits the ground—a blunt thud. It rattles once, twice, then settles right beside her ear. She stares into the distance; eyes—lifeless.

Five, six.

An ambulance has been dispatched to your approximate location. Please look for the blue sirens.

—

[capslocked]

Lips of Ashes

Ning Yizhuo x m!reader

15K words

You're staring at the email notification on your phone screen.

Meeting request from Ning Yizhuo - Today 4:00 PM - URGENT.

Yeah, you knew this was coming. Ever since the board announced her appointment three months ago, you've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. And here you are: about to walk into what's probably going to be the most uncomfortable conversation of your professional life.

Fun times ahead, right?

The elevator ride to the top floor feels like ascending to your own execution. The numbers tick by - 47, 48, 49, 50 - each floor bringing you closer to her domain. You adjust your tie, check your reflection in the polished steel doors. You look good, you always do. It's one of your strengths, that effortless confidence that got you where you are today. No silver spoons in your mouth, just hard work and natural charm.

The executive floor is all marble and glass, the kind of ostentatious display of wealth that screams "old money." Which is exactly what Ning is - third generation chaebol princess who never had to struggle for anything in her life. Well, almost anything.

Her secretary, a nervous-looking woman in her fifties, barely makes eye contact as she gestures toward the massive oak doors. "She's waiting for you."

Of course she is.

She had been gone all this time, and yet she was never far. Tied up in another corner of her family’s empire, keeping busy, keeping away. But you knew the safety you felt was an illusion - a brittle calm, like standing on the shore while, just beyond the horizon, warships gather under a foreign flag, already cutting through the waves, already coming for you. It would be poetic in a book, but in real life it's fucking scary.

You push open the doors and there she is, exactly as you remember but somehow more. Ning Yizhuo sits behind a desk that probably costs more than most people's cars, and damn if she hasn't grown into herself since college. Her long black hair falls in perfect waves past her shoulders, framing a face that could launch a thousand corporate takeovers. Those same dark feline eyes that used to follow you around campus, but now they hold something sharper.

She's wearing a tailored black blazer that hugs her petite frame perfectly, the kind of designer piece that costs more than your monthly salary. Underneath, a silk blouse in cream that contrasts beautifully with her porcelain skin. Her legs are crossed elegantly, one foot bouncing slightly in what you recognize as barely contained energy. Everything about her screams success, power, control.

And yeah, she's gorgeous. She always was. That was never the problem.

"Close the door," she says without looking up from whatever document she's pretending to read. Her voice has matured since college, gained an edge of authority that comes with having people jump at your every word.

You do as she asks because, well, she's your boss now. Funny how life works out, isn't it? You, the scholarship kid who worked three jobs to pay for textbooks, now answering to the girl who used to have her assignments written by tutors.

"Sit."

Again, you comply, settling into one of the leather chairs across from her desk. The office is enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city skyline. Her desk is positioned so she looks down at visitors, a subtle power play that would be impressive if it weren't so obvious.

Finally, she looks up, and those dark eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. There's something predatory in her gaze, something that sets every instinct you have on high alert.

"Hello, stranger," she says, and her lips curve into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "It's been a while."

"Ning." You keep your voice level, professional. "Congratulations on the promotion."

She laughs. "Promotion? Is that what you think this is?" She stands, moving around the desk with the fluid grace of someone who's never doubted their place in the world. "I didn't get promoted. I inherited an empire."

And there it is, the same entitled attitude that made you walk away all those years ago. Some things never change, do they?

"Right," you say carefully. "Well, congratulations on your inheritance, then."

She perches on the edge of her desk, one leg swinging slightly. The movement draws your attention to her legs, and you're annoyed at yourself for noticing how the black stockings hug her thighs. Focus , you tell yourself. This is business.

Except you know it's not. Not really.

"You know," she says, examining her perfectly manicured nails, "I've been going through personnel files lately. Getting to know my... employees." The way she says the word makes it sound dirty somehow. "And I came across some interesting information about you."

Your stomach drops, but you keep your expression neutral. You've been in corporate long enough to know that showing weakness is blood in the water.

"Such as?"

"The Givens account." She tilts her head, studying your reaction. "You remember the Givens account, don't you? The one where you maybe, possibly, bent a few rules to close the deal?"

Shit. You'd hoped that particular gray area would stay buried. It wasn't illegal, exactly, but it wasn't entirely above board either. The kind of thing that happens in the real world but looks bad on paper.

"I closed that account," you say evenly. "Brought in fifteen million in revenue."

"By falsifying the timeline in your reports." She slides off the desk, moving closer. "By backdating documents to make it look like you'd disclosed certain risks earlier than you actually did."

Your jaw tightens. "The client got what they paid for. More than what they paid for."

"Oh, I'm not questioning your results." She's standing right in front of you now, close enough that you can smell her perfume - smells like danger by the way. "I'm questioning your methods. And wondering what the regulatory board would think if they saw the real timeline."

There it is. The threat, delivered with the same sweet smile she used to give professors when she wanted extensions on assignments she'd never actually started.

"What do you want, Ning?"

She laughs again, delighted by your directness. "Straight to the point. I always liked that about you." She moves behind your chair, her hands coming to rest on the back of it. You can feel her presence like heat against your shoulders.

"You know what's funny?" she continues. "Everyone told me I should fire you the moment I took over. 'He's too ambitious,' they said. 'Too independent. Too... difficult to control.'"

Her fingers trail along the leather of the chair, just barely not touching you.

"But I said no. I said, 'I want to give him a chance.' Because we have history, don't we? We understand each other."

You turn in the chair to look at her, and immediately regret it. She's leaning over you slightly, her face inches from yours, and suddenly you're transported back to that night six years ago. The party at her sorority house, her confession in the garden, the way her face crumpled when you turned her down.

You'd been kind about it, or at least you'd tried to be. Explained that you didn't want to complicate things, that you valued her friendship too much to risk it. All the polite lies people tell when they mean "I'm not interested."

The truth was simpler and crueler: you knew exactly what she was. Spoiled, entitled, used to getting everything handed to her on a silver platter. Dating her would have been career suicide - either you'd be seen as her boy toy, or you'd spend your whole life being compared to her family's wealth and influence.

So you'd said no, and she'd never forgiven you for it.

"We do have history," you agree carefully. "But that was a long time ago."

"Was it?" She moves away, returning to her position behind the desk. The loss of her proximity is both a relief and, annoyingly, a disappointment. "Because from where I'm sitting, it feels very present."

She opens a drawer and pulls out a file folder, thick with documents. Your name is written on the tab in neat handwriting.

"four years with the company," she reads aloud. "Consistent top performer. Respect of your colleagues. A real success story." She looks up. "The American dream in action, right? Poor boy makes good through hard work and determination."

There's something mocking in her tone that makes your hands clench.

"It would be such a shame if it all came crashing down because of one little... indiscretion."

You know what she's doing - the carrot and the stick, the promise and the threat. Corporate manipulation 101, except this feels personal in a way that makes your skin crawl.

"So what's the deal?" you ask finally. "What do you want from me?"

Her smile returns, wider this time, predatory. "I want what I've always wanted." She stands again, smoothing down her skirt. "I want you."

You stare at her, trying to process what she's actually suggesting.

"Ning—"

"No, let me finish." She holds up a hand. "I've thought about this for years. Six years, to be exact. Every success, every achievement, every step up the ladder, I've wondered what it would be like if you were there with me."

She starts walking again, this time moving to the window. The late afternoon sun backlights her figure, turning her into a silhouette against the glass.

"Do you know what it's like," she continues, "to have everything you could possibly want except the one thing that matters? To have power and money and influence, but to lie awake at night thinking about someone who rejected you?"

There's genuine pain in her voice, and for a moment you almost feel sorry for her. Almost. 

"That's not my fault," you say quietly.

She spins around, and the vulnerable moment is gone. "Isn't it? You knew how I felt. You knew, and you walked away like it meant nothing."

"It wasn't nothing. But it wasn't enough."

"Because I wasn't enough. The poor little rich girl, right? Too spoiled, too entitled, too much baggage to be worth your time."

She's closer now, having crossed the room while you were distracted by the pain in her words. Close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, the slight tremble in her hands that she's trying to hide.

"That's not what I thought."

"No? Then what did you think?" She's standing right in front of your chair again, looking down at you with an expression caught between anger and something that might be hope.

You consider lying, coming up with some comfortable excuse that might make this easier for both of you. But something about the way she's looking at you, the genuine hurt beneath all the posturing, makes you tell the truth instead.

"I thought you were dangerous," you say simply.

She blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. "Dangerous?"

"Not in a bad way. Dangerous like... like standing too close to the sun. You were this brilliant, beautiful, powerful thing, and I was just some nobody from nowhere trying to make something of himself. Getting involved with you would have meant getting pulled into your world, and I wasn't strong enough for that. I would have lost myself."

The silence that follows is deafening. She stares at you, processing your words, and you can see the exact moment when understanding clicks into place.

"And now?" she asks quietly.

"Now what?"

"Are you strong enough now?"

It's a loaded question, and you both know it. She's not just asking about your emotional fortitude - she's asking if you're ready to be hers, to accept whatever terms she's about to offer.

You lean back in the chair, studying her face. She's older now, more self-assured, but underneath it all you can still see traces of the girl who used to follow you around campus with hopeful eyes. The girl who wore her heart on her sleeve until you taught her to hide it.

"That depends," you say finally, "on what you're asking."

"I'm asking for everything."

She moves to the side of her desk, pressing a button on her phone. "Lisa, hold all my calls. I don't want to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon. And I don't want anyone, I repeat, absolutely anyone, to come to my office, understand?”

The speaker crackles as her assistant responds: "Yes, Ms. Yizhuo."

Then she's walking toward you again, and there's something different about her movement now. More purposeful. More predatory.

"You want to know what I'm asking for?" she says, stopping just out of arm's reach. "I'm asking for you to finally admit what we both know."

"Which is?"

"That you've thought about it too. About me. About what would have happened if you'd said yes that night."

She's not wrong, and you hate her for knowing it. Because yes, you have thought about it. More than you care to admit. There were nights, especially after particularly brutal days at the office, when you'd wonder what life would have been like if you'd taken the easy path. If you'd let yourself be swept up in the Ning Yizhuo hurricane and damn the consequences.

"Maybe," you admit.

"Maybe?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You're still playing it safe. Still calculating the risks and benefits like this is some kind of business transaction."

She moves closer, and now she's standing between your legs, her hands resting on the arms of your chair. The position is intimate, threatening, and electric all at once.

"But it's not a transaction anymore," she continues. "It's an ultimatum."

Your heart is pounding now, though you're not sure if it's from fear or something else entirely. "And if I refuse?"

"You won't."

The certainty in her voice should be infuriating, but instead it sends a thrill down your spine. Because she's right, isn't she? You both know how this is going to end. The only question is whether you're going to make her work for it.

"You seem pretty confident about that."

"I am." She leans down, bringing her face level with yours. "Because I know you. I know that underneath all that professional restraint and careful calculation, you're still the same person who used to look at me like you wanted to devour me whole."

Her breath is warm against your cheek, and you can feel your resolve starting to crumble. It's been six years since anyone has looked at you the way she's looking at you now - like you're something precious and dangerous and absolutely necessary.

"Ning..."

"Say it," she whispers. "Say you want me."

For a moment, you're transported back to college. To late nights in the library when she'd find excuses to study near you. To parties where she'd gravitate to your side like a satellite to its planet. To that night in the garden when she'd been brave enough to say what you'd both been dancing around for months.

You'd wanted her then. God help you, you want her now.

"This is insane," you breathe.

"Probably." She's so close now that her lips almost brush yours when she speaks. "But you're going to do it anyway, aren't you?"

The question hangs between you like a dare. You can feel the weight of it, the implications of what she's asking. Once you cross this line, there's no going back. Your career, your carefully constructed independence, everything you've worked for - it all becomes subject to her whims.

But maybe that's not entirely a bad thing. Maybe you're tired of being in control all the time. Maybe the idea of surrendering to someone else, to her, is more appealing than you want to admit.

"The Givens account," you say, grasping for one last bit of leverage. "If I do this, that disappears."

She smiles, victorious. "Consider it handled."

"And my position in the company remains secure."

"You'll be more than secure. You'll be untouchable." Her hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin. "You'll be mine."

The possessiveness in her voice should alarm you. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in your stomach. Because there's something incredibly seductive about being wanted this much, about being the one thing that Ning Yizhuo - who has everything - can't quite possess.

Until now.

"Okay," you whisper.

The word is barely audible, but she hears it. Her eyes light up with triumph and something darker, hungrier. For a moment, she just stares at you like she can't quite believe you've finally said yes.

Then she's kissing you.

It's not gentle or tentative like you might expect from someone who's been waiting six years for this moment. It's demanding, aggressive, years of frustrated want poured into the connection between your lips. Her fingers tangle in your hair, holding you in place as she claims your mouth with a desperation that takes your breath away.

You can taste her lipstick, something subtle and expensive that probably costs more than most people spend on groceries. Can feel the way she's trembling slightly despite her outward confidence. This moment means everything to her, you realize. Everything.

When she finally pulls away, you're both breathing hard. Her lipstick is smudged, and there's a wild look in her eyes that makes your pulse race.

"Six years," she says, almost to herself. "Six fucking years I've been waiting for that."

She steps back, and immediately you miss the warmth of her proximity. But the distance gives you a chance to really look at her - at the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, the satisfied smile playing at her lips.

"You know," she continues, smoothing down her blazer, "I used to fantasize about this moment. About having you here, in my office, completely at my mercy." She walks back around to her side of the desk, but instead of sitting down, she leans against it. "The reality is so much better than I imagined."

There's something about the way she's looking at you that makes you feel exposed, like she can see right through all your carefully constructed defenses. It's unsettling and thrilling in equal measure.

"So what happens now?" you ask.

"Now?" She tilts her head, considering. "Now we establish some ground rules."

Oh, here we go. You should have known it wouldn't be that simple with her. Nothing ever is.

"Such as?"

"Such as, you don't see anyone else. Male or female. I don't care how casual you think it is - from now on, you're exclusively mine."

The possessiveness in her voice makes something twist in your chest. It should bother you, this assumption that she can just claim ownership over your personal life. Instead, you find yourself nodding.

"Okay."

"And you make time for me. Real time, not just these little stolen moments between meetings. I want dinners, I want weekends, I want you to be present in my life in a way that matters."

Again, you nod. It's not like you have much of a social life anyway - you've been so focused on your career that dating has taken a backseat to advancement. Maybe it would be nice to have someone demand your attention for once.

"And," she continues, her voice dropping to that dangerous whisper again, "when I call, you answer. When I want you here, you come. When I need you..." She trails off, but the implication is clear.

"Understood."

She pushes off from the desk, moving toward you with that same predatory grace. "Good. I'm so glad we understand each other."

When she reaches your chair, she doesn't stop. Instead, she swings one leg over your thighs, settling into your lap with a confidence that takes your breath away. The movement makes her skirt ride up slightly, and you can see the lace edge of her stockings against pale skin.

"Ning," you start, but she silences you with a finger pressed to your lips.

"Shh. We're done talking for now."

Her other hand slides down your chest, fingers playing with the buttons of your shirt. She's so close that you can count her eyelashes, can see the faint freckles across her nose that makeup can't quite hide.

"Do you know how many times I've thought about this?" she murmurs, working open the top button of your shirt. "How many nights I've laid in bed imagining what it would feel like to finally have you like this?"

Your hands come up to rest on her hips automatically, and she smiles at the contact. Her skin is warm through the fabric of her skirt, and you can feel the subtle flex of muscle as she adjusts her position in your lap.

"Too many," she continues, moving to the second button. "Far too many for someone who's supposed to be a respectable CEO."

The way she says it makes you laugh despite yourself. "And what does a respectable CEO do when she finally gets what she wants?"

Her smile turns wicked. "Whatever the hell she pleases."

The third button comes undone, then the fourth. Her fingers are cool against your chest as she spreads the fabric apart, nails scraping lightly across your skin. The sensation makes you shiver, and she notices immediately.

"Sensitive," she observes with satisfaction. "I like that."

She leans forward, pressing her lips to the column of your throat. The contact is electric, sending sparks racing through your nervous system. Her mouth is warm and soft, and when she opens it to taste your skin, you can't suppress the groan that escapes.

"That's it," she whispers against your neck. "Let me hear you."

Her teeth graze your pulse point, and your hands tighten on her hips involuntarily. She makes a pleased sound at the reaction, her own hips rocking slightly in your lap. The movement creates a friction that makes thinking difficult.

"Ning," you breathe, not sure if you're protesting or encouraging.

"I love the way you say my name," she replies, pulling back to look at you. Her eyes are dark with want, pupils dilated. "Say it again."

"Ning."

She rewards you with another kiss, this one slower but no less intense. Her tongue traces the seam of your lips before delving inside, and you can taste the desperation beneath her confidence. This isn't just about power or revenge - this is about want, pure and simple. Six years of accumulated desire finally being given an outlet.

When she breaks the kiss, she rests her forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard.

"I need you to understand something," she says quietly. "This isn't just about getting you into bed. This isn't some kind of conquest or corporate power play."

She pauses, and for a moment she looks almost vulnerable.

"This is about the fact that I've been in love with you since I was twenty years old, and I never got over it. Not through college, not through business school, not through all the years of building this company and dating other people and trying to convince myself that what I felt for you was just some kind of phase."

"I never knew," you say softly.

"Of course you didn't. I made sure of that." She sits back slightly, her hands still resting on your chest. "After you rejected me, I decided I would never be that vulnerable again. Never put myself out there like that and risk being dismissed as just some spoiled little rich girl with a crush."

"I'm sorry," you tell her, and you mean it. "I never meant to hurt you."

"I know." She traces patterns on your chest with her fingertip, not quite meeting your eyes. "But you did anyway. And now... now I finally have a chance to fix it."

"Is that what this is? Fixing things?"

"I hope so. I really hope so."

The moment stretches between you, fragile and precious. Then she's kissing you again, and this time it's different. Less desperate, more tender. Like she's trying to communicate everything she can't say out loud through the contact of her lips against yours.

Your hands slide up from her hips to her waist, feeling the curve of her body through the silk of her blouse. She's smaller than you remembered, more delicate, but there's strength in the way she holds herself that speaks to the years of building her own empire.

"Touch me," she whispers against your mouth, and the request sends heat racing through your veins.

Your hands move higher, skimming over her ribs to cup her breasts through the thin fabric. She arches into the contact with a soft gasp that makes something primal stir in your chest. Her body is perfect - soft curves and warm skin that fits perfectly in your palms.

"Like that," she breathes, her head falling back as you massage gently. "God, yes, like that."

The blazer is in the way, so you start working at the buttons with slightly unsteady fingers. She helps, shrugging out of the jacket and letting it fall to the floor behind the chair. Underneath, the silk blouse clings to her curves, and you can see the outline of lace beneath the fabric.

"You're beautiful," you tell her.

She smiles, but there's something almost shy about it. "You don't have to say that."

"I'm not saying it because I have to. I'm saying it because it's true."

The blouse has tiny pearl buttons that require patience to undo. She watches your face as you work, biting her lower lip in a way that makes you want to kiss her again. When you finally get the fabric open, revealing the delicate lace bra beneath, she inhales sharply.

"Beautiful," you repeat, and this time when you say it, she believes you.

The bra is pale pink lace, almost virginal except for the way it showcases her breasts. Your fingers trace the edge of the cups, making her shiver, before you lean down to press your lips to the swell of her cleavage.

"Oh," she gasps, her fingers tangling in your hair. "Oh, that's..."

You don't let her finish the thought, too busy exploring the newly revealed skin with your mouth. She tastes like expensive soap and something uniquely her, a flavor you know you'll crave long after this moment ends.

Her breathing becomes more ragged as you work your way across her collarbone, finding the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. When you bite down gently, she actually whimpers, the sound going straight to your cock.

"We should..." she starts, then loses the thread when you suck a mark into her skin. "We should probably..."

"Probably what?" you ask against her throat.

"Go somewhere more private. Someone could walk in here at any moment. I asked not to be disturbed, but some people here are incredibly stubborn, you know."

She's right, of course. The thought of being caught like this - you with your shirt open and her half-undressed in your lap - should be sobering.

Instead, it's incredibly arousing.

"Let them look," you murmur, and she makes a sound that's half protest, half moan.

"You're terrible," she breathes, but she's rocking against you again, creating a friction that makes clear thinking impossible.

"You started this," you remind her, hands sliding down to grip her thighs. "In your office, in the middle of the day, where anyone could walk in."

"That's different. I'm the CEO. I can do whatever I want."

"And what do you want?"

She looks at you for a long moment, her eyes dark and hungry. "I want you to fuck me on my desk like you've been thinking about for the past six years."

The crude words send a jolt of pure lust through you. This is Ning Yizhuo, ice princess of the corporate world, talking dirty in a way that makes your head spin.

"Have I been thinking about that?" you ask, playing along.

"Haven't you?" She climbs off your lap, moving to stand between your legs. "Haven't you wondered what I'd look like spread out for you? What I'd sound like when you made me come?"

Christ. The image she's painting is vivid and immediate and makes your cock throb against the confines of your pants. You can see it so clearly - her pale skin against the dark wood of her desk, her legs wrapped around your waist as you drive into her.

"Maybe," you admit roughly.

She smiles, satisfied by your reaction. "I thought so."

Then she's stepping back, putting distance between you that feels like a loss. But before you can protest, she starts moving toward her desk with that same predatory grace, and you realize she's giving you a show.

Her hands go to the zipper at the side of her skirt, and she draws it down slowly, holding your gaze the entire time. The fabric falls to pool around her feet, revealing long legs encased in sheer black stockings held up by a garter belt that matches her bra.

"Fuck," you breathe, because you're only human and the sight of Ning Yizhuo in lingerie is enough to short-circuit your brain.

She steps out of the skirt, kicking it aside with one designer heel. Now she's standing there in just her blouse, bra, panties, garter belt, stockings, and heels - a vision that belongs in every executive's fantasy.

"Like what you see?" she asks, though your expression probably makes the answer obvious.

"Come here," you growl, but she shakes her head.

"Not yet. I want you to look at me. Really look." She turns slowly, giving you a view of her from every angle. "I want you to see what you turned down all those years ago."

The panties are the same pale pink as her bra, a small triangle of lace that leaves very little to the imagination. Her ass is perfect, tight, firm and round in a way that makes your hands itch to touch. The stockings make her legs look endless, and the heels add just enough height to make her movements impossibly graceful.

When she completes the turn, facing you again, there's triumph in her expression. She knows exactly what she's doing to you, and she's enjoying every second of it.

"Now," she says, perching on the edge of her desk, "come here."

This time you obey, standing on unsteady legs and crossing the space between you. When you reach her, she spreads her legs slightly, making room for you to stand between them. The position puts you at eye level with her breasts, and you take a moment to appreciate the view.

"Touch me," she commands softly, and you don't need to be told twice.

Your hands go to her waist, spanning the narrow space between her ribs and hips. Her skin is warm silk under your palms, and when you slide them up to cup her breasts again, she arches into the contact with a soft moan.

The bra has a front clasp, you discover, and it takes only a moment to flick it open. The lace falls away, revealing perfect breasts topped with dusky pink nipples that are already hard with arousal.

"Perfect," you murmur, and then you're lowering your head to take one peaked nipple into your mouth.

She cries out, her hands flying to grip your shoulders. Her nipple is sensitive, you discover, responding immediately to the stroke of your tongue. When you suck gently, her entire body trembles.

"Yes," she gasps, "oh god, yes, just like that."

You lavish attention on first one breast, then the other, taking your time to learn what makes her moan, what makes her arch against you, what makes her fingers dig into your shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

She's responsive in a way that makes you want to explore every inch of her, to catalog every sound she makes and every spot that makes her tremble. This is Ning Yizhuo, who commands boardrooms and makes million-dollar decisions without breaking a sweat, and you're reducing her to breathy moans and desperate touches.

"Please," she whispers when you spend particularly long teasing one nipple with your teeth. "Please, I need..."

"What do you need?" you ask against her skin.

"More. I need more."

Your hands slide down her sides to her hips, thumbs hooking under the edge of her panties. The lace is already damp, you can feel it, and the knowledge that she's this affected makes your cock throb painfully.

"These need to come off," you tell her.

"Yes," she agrees immediately, lifting her hips so you can slide the panties down her legs. You take your time with it, enjoying the way she shivers as the lace trails over her skin. When you reach her ankles, you leave the panties dangling from one heel, too impatient to remove them completely.

Now she's spread before you in just her stockings, garter belt, and heels, exactly like the fantasy you never admitted to having. Her pussy is bare, you discover, smooth and glistening with arousal. The sight makes your mouth water.

You drop to your knees before her, and the sight of Ning spread before you like this - vulnerable yet commanding, desperate yet still somehow in control - makes your heart race. Her thighs are trembling slightly, whether from anticipation or the cool air of the office, you're not sure. What you are sure of is that you've never wanted anything more than you want to taste her right now.

"Look at you," she breathes. "On your knees for me. Do you know how long I've fantasized about this exact moment?"

You slide your hands up her thighs, feeling the contrast between the silk of her stockings and the warm bare skin above them. Her breath hitches as your thumbs trace small circles on her inner thighs, so close to where she needs you but not quite there yet.

"Tell me," you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her knee.

"Every night," she confesses, her fingers threading through your hair. "Every fucking night since college. I'd imagine you between my legs, making me scream your name." Her grip tightens as you kiss higher up her thigh. "I'd touch myself thinking about your mouth on me, wondering if you'd be gentle or if you'd devour me whole."

The raw honesty in her voice makes your cock strain against your pants. You can see how wet she is, her arousal glistening in the afternoon light streaming through the windows. The scent of her is intoxicating - clean and sweet with an underlying musk that's purely female.

"And which did you prefer?" you ask, your breath ghosting over her sensitive skin. "Gentle or being devoured?"

"Both," she gasps as you nip at the crease where her thigh meets her pussy. "I want everything from you. Everything I've been denied for six fucking years."

You lean back slightly to look up at her, taking in the sight of Ning Yizhuo - CEO. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted as she breathes heavily, and there's a wild look in her eyes that makes something primal stir in your chest.

"Then everything is what you'll get," you promise, and finally, finally, you lean forward and drag your tongue along her slit.

The sound she makes is inhuman - a broken moan that echoes off the walls of her office. Her back arches off the desk, and her thighs try to clamp around your head, but you hold them open with firm hands.

"Oh fuck," she gasps, "oh fuck, your mouth feels so good."

You take your time, learning the taste and texture of her. She's sweet and tangy, with a flavor that's addictive in the best possible way. Your tongue explores every fold, every sensitive spot, cataloguing what makes her writhe and what makes her cry out.

When you find her clit with the tip of your tongue, she actually screams - a high, desperate sound that would probably be audible in the hallway if anyone were around to hear it. Her hips buck against your mouth, seeking more friction, more pressure, more everything.

"There," she pants, "right there, don't stop, please don't fucking stop."

You circle her clit with broad strokes of your tongue, then switch to quick flicks that make her entire body shake. Her taste is stronger here, more concentrated, and you find yourself getting drunk on it. This is Ning Yizhuo falling apart because of you, and the power of it is intoxicating.

"You taste incredible," you murmur against her pussy, the vibrations making her moan. "Better than I ever imagined."

"You imagined this?" The question is breathless, barely coherent.

"More than I should have," you admit before sealing your lips around her clit and sucking gently.

The effect is immediate and devastating. Her back bows completely off the desk, her hands fisting in your hair hard enough to hurt, and she lets out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, just like that, oh my god, I'm going to come, I'm going to come all over your face."

You increase the pressure, alternating between sucking and licking, and you can feel her thighs starting to tremble uncontrollably. Her breathing becomes erratic, punctuated by little whimpers and gasps that go straight to your cock.

But just as she's about to tip over the edge, you pull back.

"No!" she cries out, her eyes flying open to stare down at you with a mixture of desperation and fury. "What the fuck are you doing? I was so close!"

You smile up at her, your lips glistening with her arousal. "Patience, boss. We have all afternoon, remember?"

The look she gives you could melt steel. "You bastard. You absolute bastard. Do you have any idea how long it's been since someone made me come?"

"How long?" you ask, pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs while she tries to catch her breath.

"Too fucking long," she growls. "And you're going to make me wait even longer?"

"I'm going to make it worth the wait," you promise, then lean forward to drag your tongue through her folds again.

This time you avoid her clit entirely, focusing instead on the sensitive entrance to her pussy. Your tongue delves inside her, and she tastes even better here - richer, more intense. You fuck her with your tongue while your hands grip her thighs, holding her open for your exploration.

"You're evil," she pants, her hips rolling against your mouth. "This is torture."

"This is worship," you correct, pulling back to look at her. "This is me taking my time with every perfect inch of you."

You mean it, too. You want to memorize this moment - the way she looks spread out on her executive desk, the sounds she makes when you touch her just right, the way her body responds to every stroke of your tongue. This is Ning Yizhuo completely at your mercy, and you're going to savor every second.

Your hands slide up to cup her ass, lifting her slightly so you can get better access. The new angle lets you go deeper with your tongue, and she responds with a broken moan that makes your cock throb.

"Please," she whispers, and there's something broken in her voice that makes you look up. Her eyes are glazed with lust, but there's something else there too - vulnerability, need, a desperation that goes beyond physical desire.

"Please what?" you ask softly.

"Make me come. Please, I need it so badly. I need you to make me come."

"Okay," you whisper against her skin. "Okay, baby, I've got you."

The endearment slips out without your permission, but she responds to it with a shuddering breath that tells you she needs the tenderness as much as the pleasure.

You return to her clit with renewed purpose, sealing your lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucking while your tongue works in quick, consistent strokes. Her response is immediate - her back arches, her thighs clamp around your head, and she starts to fall apart with beautiful, devastating completeness.

"Yes, yes, yes, oh fuck, I'm coming, I'm coming, don't stop, please don't stop!"

You don't stop. You work her through it, feeling her pussy clench and pulse against your tongue as waves of pleasure crash over her. She's loud - so loud that you're grateful for the thickness of the office walls - and completely uninhibited in a way that makes you want to give her a hundred more orgasms just to hear those sounds again.

When the tremors finally subside, she collapses back onto the desk, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. You press soft kisses to her inner thighs, tasting the salt of her sweat mixed with her arousal.

"Holy shit," she breathes after a long moment. "That was... holy shit."

You smile against her skin, pleased with her reaction. "Good?"

"Good?" She laughs, the sound slightly hysterical. "I think I just saw God. Or at least the corporate equivalent."

You chuckle, sitting back on your heels to look at her. She's a mess in the best possible way - her hair is disheveled, her makeup is smudged, and there's a pink flush covering her chest and neck. She looks thoroughly debauched, and the sight makes your cock throb with need.

"Come here," she says, making grabby hands at you.

You stand up, and she immediately reaches for your belt buckle with fingers that are still slightly shaky from her orgasm.

"My turn," she says with a wicked grin.

But before she can get your belt undone, you catch her hands in yours.

"Wait," you say.

She looks up at you with confusion and a hint of frustration. "Wait for what? I want to taste you. I want to suck your cock until you come down my throat."

The crude words make your cock twitch, but you shake your head. "Later. Right now, I want something else."

"What?" she asks, though there's a knowing glint in her eyes that suggests she already has an idea.

Instead of answering with words, you lean down and capture her lips in a kiss that's all heat and desperation. She can taste herself on your tongue, and the knowledge makes her moan into your mouth.

When you break the kiss, you rest your forehead against hers. "Turn around," you murmur.

Her eyes widen slightly. "Here? On the desk?"

"Here. On the desk. I want to fuck you exactly where you make million-dollar decisions. I want you to think about this every time you sit in that chair."

The possessiveness in your voice makes her shiver, and she nods eagerly. "Yes. God, yes."

She slides off the desk and turns around, bending over the polished wood surface. The position showcases her ass perfectly - round and firm, framed by the black straps of her garter belt. 

"Like this?" she asks, looking back at you over her shoulder.

"Perfect," you breathe, running your hands over the curve of her ass. "Absolutely perfect."

You take a moment to appreciate the view - Her pussy is still glistening from your mouth and her orgasm, and you can see how swollen and sensitive she is.

"You're so beautiful like this," you tell her, pressing a kiss to the small of her back. "So fucking beautiful."

She wiggles her hips impatiently. "Less talking, more fucking. I need you inside me."

You chuckle at her impatience, but your desperation matches hers, a frantic thrumming deep in your bones. This entire afternoon has been a slow, calculated demolition of your control, and now you stand in the rubble, ready to claim your prize.

Your hands, suddenly clumsy, find the buckle of your belt. The metallic click is deafeningly loud in the quiet office. The leather slides free with a soft hiss, and you work the button and zipper of your trousers with a feverish haste that feels foreign to your usually composed self.

Your cock springs free, hot and aching, straining toward her in the cool, conditioned air. It’s painfully hard, a solid length of need pointed directly at the woman who has orchestrated your undoing.

“Condom?” you manage to ask. A part of you, the wild, reckless part she has so expertly unearthed, prays she says no .

“Pill,” she says. “I’m on the pill. And I’m clean. Are you…?”

“Clean,” you confirm. You reach down, your fingers wrapping around your own length, stroking yourself once, slowly. The slick pre-cum that beads at the tip is for her, all for her. “It’s been a while since…” You let the sentence hang, unfinished. There’s no need to explain. 

“Good,” she says, and the firmness in her tone is a command. A verdict. “I want to feel you. All of you. No barriers”.

Her words are the final nail in the coffin of your restraint. No barriers. The thought is intoxicating. The idea of being inside her, skin to skin, feeling every twitch and clench of her body around you, is enough to make your cock throb.

You step closer, closing the small gap that remains between your bodies. You’re standing directly behind her now, the heat from her skin calling to you. You press the head of your cock against her, not at her entrance yet, but against the soft curve of her ass. She gasps, a sharp, involuntary sound.

“Just want you to feel how ready I am for you,” you murmur, your lips close to her ear. “How hard you make me.”

You move from her flesh to her folds, running the thick, crowned head of your cock through her slickness. She is so incredibly wet, a proof of the orgasm you gave her, her body weeping with arousal. You glide through her slick folds with an ease that makes you both groan, a shared sound of imminent satisfaction.

Her scent rises to meet you, a complex, intoxicating perfume of expensive soap, female musk, and the lingering, sweet tang of her climax. You breathe it in, letting it fuel the fire in your veins.

“Please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. She pushes back against you, a subtle, desperate movement that begs for more. “I need you inside me. God, I’ve waited so long.”

You position the head of your cock at her entrance, just the very tip breaking the seal of her body. The resistance is exquisite. She’s so tight, so hot, a perfect, velvet clenching that promises heaven.

You can feel the delicate inner folds of her body giving way to you, the slick heat a welcoming caress. She’s so tight you know you’ll have to go slow, a fact that wages war with the desperate, frantic need to slam into her and claim her completely.

“Relax,” you murmur against the shell of her ear, letting your breath ghost over her skin. One hand comes to rest on the small of her back, a gesture that is both possessive and soothing. “Just relax and take me, Ning. Let me in, baby."

The endearment slips out, unplanned but feeling more right than anything you’ve ever said. Her breath catches in her throat, a tiny, hitching sound, and you feel a subtle shift as some of the tension leaves her body. She is yielding to you. Opening for you.

You take the invitation, pushing forward, slowly, deliberately. You savor every single inch of penetration, every millimeter of your body being swallowed by her heat. She feels impossibly good, a sheath of hot, wet silk gripping you, squeezing you. It takes every ounce of your willpower not to lose your mind, not to thrust into her with all the pent-up frustration of the last six years.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps out, the words punched from her as you stretch her, fill her. Her hands, which had been resting on the desk, are now fisted, her knuckles white. “You’re so big. So much bigger than I ever imagined.”

“You imagined this, too?” you ask. You pause, holding yourself there, just an inch or two inside her, letting her body adjust to the sheer size of you. You want her to feel every bit of you.

“Every night,” she confesses. “Every single night. I’d touch myself and imagine you like this. Filling me up, stretching me, making me yours”.

Her confession is your undoing.

“You are mine,” you growl, the words torn from a place deep inside you, a place of primal, possessive instinct. You thrust forward with that declaration, pushing deeper into her slick heat. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasps immediately. “I’m yours, babe, I’m completely, fucking yours”.

Her submission, so total and immediate, snaps the last thread of your restraint. With one final, powerful thrust, you drive yourself forward, bottoming out inside her, burying yourself to the hilt in her tight, welcoming heat.

She cries out, a sharp, piercing sound that is half pain, half ecstasy. Her body clenches around you, a powerful, involuntary squeeze that nearly pushes you over the edge. 

For a long moment, you don’t move. You can’t. You just stay there, buried deep inside her, your chests pressed together, your heart hammering against her back. You feel the frantic pulse of her own heart, a frantic, hummingbird rhythm that matches your own.

“God, you feel incredible,” you breathe out. The feeling of being inside her is almost too much - so tight, so wet, so hot. You know that if you start moving now, this will be over far too quickly. You want to draw this out, to make this moment last an eternity.

But Ning has other ideas. She has waited six years for this, and patience is a virtue she no longer possesses.

“Move,” she demands. She pushes back against you, her hips rocking in a clear, unmistakable invitation. “Please. I need you to move. I need to feel you.”

You obey. You pull back, slowly, torturously, until just the thick, crowned head of your cock remains inside her, teasing her entrance. She whimpers at the withdrawal, a desperate little sound of protest. Then you thrust forward again, a single, deep, deliberate stroke that makes her see stars.

A matched set of moans fills the opulent office, your deeper groan harmonizing with her higher-pitched cry. You can feel her pussy clenching around your length, milking you, trying to pull you even deeper inside her, if such a thing were even possible.

“More,” she begs. “Harder. Don’t be gentle. I’m not going to break”.

You establish a rhythm, your hips finding a steady, rocking cadence. Slow, deep, punishing strokes that are designed for maximum sensation, for both of you. Each thrust drives you deeper into her core, each withdrawal is a sweet, agonizing torment. The wet, slick sounds of your bodies slapping together fill the quiet room, a filthy, glorious symphony of their own making. It’s obscene. It’s perfect. It is everything you never knew you needed.

Your hands find her hips, gripping the sharp bones as you pull her back onto your cock with each powerful thrust. You are in control, yet you are completely at her mercy.

“You feel so good,” you tell her. “So tight and wet and perfect. It feels like you were made for my cock”.

“I was,” she pants, her words coming in short, breathless bursts. She meets your thrusts with an equal, desperate enthusiasm, her hips bucking against you. “I was made for you. Only you. Only for this.”

The raw, possessive certainty in her voice fuels your own. It ignites a firestorm in your blood. You both know, in that moment, that this is more than just fucking. This is a claiming. This is a branding. There is no going back from this. There is no pretending this is just about scratching an itch or a corporate power play. This is possession. This is surrender. This is two halves of a whole, finally, violently, crashing together.

You lean over her, pressing your chest flush against her sweat-slicked back. Your bodies move together as one. You lower your head, your lips finding her ear.

“Is this what you wanted, Ning?” you murmur, your thrusts never faltering. “Me, fucking you on your desk? In the middle of the afternoon, where anyone could walk in and see us like this?”

“Yes,” she gasps, the word a prayer. She turns her head, craning her neck to try and find your lips with hers. “Yes, I want them to know. I want everyone in this entire building to know that you belong to me. That you’re mine”.

The kiss is awkward from this angle, frantic, a desperate clash of teeth and tongues. But it’s no less passionate for its clumsiness. You can taste her desperation, her want, the years of accumulated longing finally being sated. You taste her lipstick and the faint, salty tang of her sweat. It’s the most intoxicating flavor you’ve ever known.

When you break the kiss, you straighten up slightly, pulling back just enough to change the angle of your thrusts. You push deeper, your cock sliding against a different wall inside her. You feel a ridge, a specific spot that makes her entire body jolt.

You’ve found it. Her G-spot.

She screams, a raw, uncontrolled sound of pure pleasure that echoes off the walls of her office.

“There!” she cries out. “Oh god, right there, whatever you’re doing, don’t stop. Please, please don’t fucking stop!”

You don’t. You aim for that spot with every single thrust, a relentless, targeted assault on her senses. You watch, mesmerized, as she completely falls apart beneath you. Her professionally manicured hands are no longer fisted; they are splayed out across her desk, scrabbling for purchase, fisting the expensive stationery and scattering papers to the floor. She is probably ruining million-dollar contracts, but in this moment, neither of you could possibly care.

All that matters is this. The slick, glorious slide of skin against skin. The symphony of your mingled breaths and desperate moans. The feeling of her, wrapped around you like a second skin, like she was born for this, for you.

You feel the tension in her body begin to build, a new, frantic energy. Her inner muscles begin to flutter around your cock, a prelude to the storm that is about to break.

“I’m close,” she warns you. “So close, I’m right there, please, I need to come. I need you to make me come.”

“Then come for me, Ning,” you growl. One of your hands leaves her hip, sliding around her body, between her legs, to find the slick, hard nub of her clit. You circle it with your thumb, the rough pad of your skin a stark contrast to the sensitive pearl of flesh. “Come all over my cock. Show me how much you want this”.

That final touch, that direct stimulation, is all it takes to push her over the edge.

She comes with a scream that you are certain could shatter the very glass of the windows. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated release, a sound that she has probably never made in her entire, controlled life. Her pussy clamps down on your cock, a series of violent, ecstatic pulses that feels like you’re being milked, drained, worshipped.

The sight of her, the sound of her, the incredible, mind-altering feeling of her coming apart around your cock, is your undoing. It shatters your own control, pushing you right to the precipice.

“Ning,” you warn, the name torn from your lips. Your own thrusts become erratic, frantic, your hips bucking of their own accord.

“Inside me,” she gasps, still riding the aftershocks of her own powerful orgasm. “Come inside me. Please. I want to feel you fill me up. I want all of you”.

That permission, that desperate, pleading invitation, is all you need.

With a final, guttural groan that seems to be ripped from the very depths of your soul, you thrust deep one last time, burying yourself as far as you can possibly go. You hold yourself there as your own orgasm crashes over you, a tidal wave of pure, white-hot pleasure. You spill your seed deep inside her, emptying yourself into her heat with a sense of finality, of completion.

She takes it all, her pussy still pulsing, clenching around your softening cock, milking every last drop from you as if it were the most precious substance on earth.

For a long, silent moment, you both stay frozen in that tableau. You, buried deep inside her, boneless and spent. Her, bent over her desk, trembling with the aftershocks of her climax. The only sounds are your harsh, ragged breaths, mingling in the sex-scented air.

When you finally find the strength to pull out of her, the sound is wet and obscene. You look down, and the sight that greets you nearly makes your knees buckle. Your cum, thick and white, is starting to leak from her well-fucked pussy, pearling on her swollen lips before tracing a slow, lazy path down her inner thigh. The sight is so incredibly proprietary, so filthy and so perfect, that your spent cock gives a reflexive twitch of renewed interest.

“That was…” she starts, her voice trailing off into a long, boneless, satisfied sigh. She can’t seem to find the words.

“Incredible,” you finish for her.

Slowly, carefully, she turns around to face you. And the sight of her steals the breath from your lungs. She is a beautiful, glorious ruin. Her meticulously applied makeup is completely wrecked, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, her lipstick a faint, blurry memory. Her expensive, perfect hair is a tangled mess, sticking to her sweat-sheened face. There is a deep, pink flush covering her cheeks, her neck, her chest. She looks thoroughly, utterly, beautifully debauched. And in the center of it all is a post-orgasmic glow that makes her more stunning than you have ever seen her before.

“Come here,” she says.

You take a step closer, your own legs feeling unsteady. She rises up on her toes, her hands coming to rest on your shoulders, and she kisses you. It’s a different kiss from the others. It’s softer, slower. There’s no desperation in it, no frantic claiming. It is a kiss of quiet satisfaction, of deep, resonant connection. It’s a kiss that tastes of your mingled scents, of salt and sex and satisfaction.

When she finally breaks the kiss, she doesn’t move away. She rests her forehead against yours, her eyes searching your face. Her expression is one you’ve never seen on her before. It is vulnerable, and hopeful, and more than a little scared, all at once.

“This changes things,” she says quietly. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact.

“Yeah,” you agree. “It does”.

“I meant what I said before,” she continues, her gaze unwavering. “About loving you. About all of it. This wasn’t just about sex for me”.

You are starting to realize, with a terrifying, exhilarating clarity, that what you feel for this woman, this incredible, infuriating, intoxicating woman, goes far beyond simple lust or even affection. She has been a ghost in your life for six years, a “what if” that you never allowed yourself to explore. And now, in the space of a single afternoon, she has made herself terrifyingly, beautifully real. She has gotten under your skin in a way that should send you running for the hills.

But you don’t want to run.

“I know,” you tell her, because it’s the only truth you can manage right now. The words “I love you, too” are there, perched on the tip of your tongue, but they are too new, too frightening, to set free just yet.

She seems to understand. She gives a small, accepting nod, her eyes softening with a wisdom that seems beyond her years. She finally steps back, creating a space between you that feels like a physical loss.

“We should probably clean up,” she says, a reluctant practicality creeping back into her voice. “Make ourselves presentable”.

You’re about to agree, to nod and start gathering your scattered clothing. But then your gaze falls again to her thighs, to the milky evidence of your climax still glistening on her pale skin. And suddenly, you are not quite ready for this to be over. You are not ready to return to the real world just yet.

“Not yet,” you say.

She raises a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a flicker of the imperious CEO returning to her features. “No? And what, precisely, did you have in mind?”

You don’t answer her with words. Instead, you drop to your knees before her.

Her eyes widen, her lips parting on a soft, sharp gasp of surprise as she realizes what you’re about to do.

“You can’t be serious,” she breathes.

“Dead serious,” you murmur, your voice muffled as you press a soft, reverent kiss to her hip bone, right where the strap of her garter belt digs slightly into her skin. You trail a line of kisses inward, toward the prize. “I want to taste us together. I want to taste you”.

The idea, by all rights, should be repulsive. It’s primal, animalistic, possessive. But instead of disgust, a fresh, potent wave of arousal crashes through you. Your cock, which had begun to soften, gives a hard, affirmative twitch. There is something so incredibly intimate, so fundamentally possessive, about the thought of tasting your own seed mixed with her arousal, of cleaning her with your own mouth. It is the ultimate act of claiming.

“That’s so… dirty,” she whispers, but there is no condemnation in her voice. Only a raw, breathless heat that tells you she is just as turned on by the idea as you are.

“ You love dirty ,” you point out. You reach her inner thigh and nip at the soft flesh, a gentle, playful bite that makes her jump.

She doesn’t deny it. She can’t. Instead, she spreads her legs wider, an unspoken, eager invitation. She is giving you better access, offering herself up to you completely.

You lean forward, your heart hammering against your ribs. And then, you drag your tongue through her slick folds, gathering the mingled fluids of your releases.

The taste is… overwhelming. It’s intense, salty from her sweat, musky from her arousal, and with the unmistakable, slightly alkaline flavor of your own cum. It’s the most intimate taste imaginable, a flavor that speaks of possession and surrender, of a boundary crossed and obliterated. The taste of us . It makes your head spin, and from the strangled, desperate sound she makes above you, you know she feels the same way.

“Oh, god,” she gasps, her fingers immediately tangling in your hair, gripping the strands tightly. “ That’s so fucking hot. Oh, fuck.”

You take your time. You are meticulous. This is not a rushed cleanup; this is an act of worship. Your tongue delves deep, seeking out and gathering every last drop of your seed from within her. You lick her clean with a thoroughness that borders on obsession.

She is so incredibly sensitive now, her nerves raw and singing from your previous ministrations and her powerful orgasm. Every slow, deliberate stroke of your tongue makes her shiver and gasp. Her hips begin to rock, a slow, unconscious grind against your mouth as she seeks more friction. She is chasing another pleasure, another release, even in the aftermath of the last one.

By the time you are finished, she is breathing heavily again, her knuckles white where she grips your hair. Her thighs are trembling. And your own cock, to your astonishment and delight, is fully, painfully hard once more.

You pull back, licking your lips. You look up at her, and she is staring down at you with a look of pure, unadulterated lust.

“My turn,” she says.

Before you can even begin to process her words, before you can protest or agree, she is moving. She slides from her perch on the desk and drops to her knees in front of you, the movement fluid and shockingly graceful.

The sight of Ning Yizhuo, the powerful, untouchable CEO, on her knees in her own office - still wearing nothing but a pair of ridiculously expensive heels and a black lace garter belt holding up her sheer stockings - is enough to make your brain short-circuit completely. It is the most debauched, most incredible thing you have ever seen.

“I have been wanting to do this for hours,” she murmurs. Her small, cool hand wraps around the base of your thick, straining cock. The contrast of her delicate fingers against your coarse flesh is electrifying. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to sit across that desk from you, trying to look threatening, when all I could think about was having you in my mouth?”

You’re about to respond, to say something, anything, but the words die in your throat. Because she leans forward, her dark, silky hair brushing against your thighs, and takes the thick, crowned head of your cock between her lips.

The sensation is a lightning strike, a pure, jangling bolt of pleasure that shoots straight from the tip of your cock to the base of your spine. Any and all coherent thought you might have possessed evaporates into thin air.

“Fuck,” you breathe out. Your hands, acting of their own accord, find her hair, your fingers tangling in the soft, silken strands.

She hums around you, a low, satisfied sound of approval. The vibration travels down the length of your shaft, a deep, resonant thrumming that makes your toes curl in your shoes.

Then, she takes you deeper. Her lips are impossibly soft, her mouth wet and hot. Her tongue, slick and agile, begins to work its magic, tracing the sensitive vein along the underside of your shaft as she swallows you down, inch by agonizingly slow inch.

You are dimly, vaguely aware that she is incredibly skilled at this. Her technique is flawless, practiced, perfect. And the thought of her learning these skills, of her perfecting this art with other men, makes something possessive and ugly and fiercely jealous rear its head in your chest.

As if she can read your mind, as if she can sense the sudden shift in your mood, she pulls off of you with a wet, popping sound that echoes in the quiet room. She looks up at you, her dark eyes knowing, perceptive. A single, glistening string of saliva connects her full, pink lips to the head of your cock.

“No one else has ever made me feel the way you do,” she says. Her hand, which is still wrapped around your base, begins to stroke you, a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “No one else has ever mattered. This mouth? It was always waiting for you” 

Her words, so honest and direct, soothe the jealous, snarling beast in your chest. You reach down with one hand, your fingers stroking her cheek, a gesture of thanks, of acceptance.

“Good,” you say simply, the single word conveying a world of possessive satisfaction.

A slow, wicked smile spreads across her face. She knows you. She understands your need to possess her as much as she needs to possess you. Then, she takes you back into her mouth with a renewed, ferocious enthusiasm.

This time, she goes deeper. Much deeper. With a practiced ease that makes your knees feel weak, she relaxes her throat and takes you all the way down, swallowing your entire length until her nose is pressed against your pubic bone and her lips are flush against your pelvis.

The sight of your own cock completely disappearing between her perfect, crimson lips is almost too much to handle. It is a visual of total submission, total worship.

“Jesus, Ning,” you gasp out, your hips giving an involuntary buck. “Your mouth feels… fuck, it feels incredible”.

She pulls off you again, just enough so she can speak. That glistening thread of saliva stretches between you once more.

“I used to practice,” she confesses, a husky whisper that is for your ears only. “On toys. While thinking about you. I wanted to be perfect for you. For when I finally got the chance to do this. To have you”.

The mental image she paints - of Ning Yizhuo, the untouchable chaebol princess, alone in her room, practicing fellatio, all for you - is so intensely erotic it makes your cock give a violent, convulsive twitch in her hand.

“You are perfect,” you tell her. “So fucking perfect, babe.”

She takes that as her cue. She takes you back into her mouth, and this time, she holds nothing back. She is a woman on a mission, a woman who has waited six years to claim her prize.

She bobs her head eagerly, her movements quick and sure. She takes you deep on every stroke, her throat muscles clenching around you, while her free hand works the parts of you that she can’t fit in her mouth. The wet, sloppy sounds of her efforts fill the office, an obscene and beautiful chorus that is music to your ears.

You can feel your second orgasm building with an embarrassing, shocking quickness. Your body is still humming from your previous release, your nerves are shot, and her skilled, relentless mouth is simply too much. But just as you’re about to warn her, just as you’re about to pull out, she stops.

She pulls away, leaving you throbbing and painfully close to the edge.

“Not yet,” she says, and her grin is pure, unadulterated wickedness. “I’m not done with you. Not by a long shot”.

She stands up, the movement fluid and graceful. You’re about to protest, to beg her to finish what she started, when she turns around and bends over the desk again, assuming the same position as before.

This time, however, she looks back at you over her shoulder, her dark eyes glittering with a new, challenging light.

“I want you to fuck my ass,” she says, her voice blunt, devoid of any softness. 

Your brain, already overloaded with pleasure and sensation, stutters to a complete halt. “What?” you manage to choke out, certain you must have misheard her.

“You heard me,” she says, voice firm. “I want you to fuck my ass. I want you to claim every single part of me. I want you to leave your mark everywhere. No part of me left untouched by you”.

Your cock, which was already painfully hard, seems to gain a new, impossible thickness. But a sliver of your rational mind takes over.

“Ning,” you say. “We don’t have any lube. And I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t hurt you”.

A slow, secret smile touches her lips. Without taking her eyes off you, she reaches to the side and pulls open one of her desk drawers. Her hand disappears inside for a moment before reemerging, holding a small, sleek, silver bottle. It’s personal lubricant. High-end, by the looks of it.

She sees the look of pure, dumbfounded surprise on your face, and she shrugs, a casual, nonchalant movement of her shoulders.

“I’m a woman with needs,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And a very, very stressful job. Sometimes, a girl needs to… relieve a little tension during the workday”.

The thought of her, sitting here in this very office, in her power suit, touching herself, sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. Your mouth goes dry.

“You masturbate at work?” you ask, the question coming out as a strangled whisper.

“When the mood strikes,” she says, completely unapologetic. She holds your gaze, her eyes glittering with mischief. “Usually while thinking about you, if I’m being completely honest”.

That confession, that final, devastating admission, makes your head spin. But before you can fully process the implications, she is pushing the cool, metal bottle of lubricant into your hand.

“Please,” she says, and the command is gone from her voice now. It is replaced by a soft, raw vulnerability that cuts right through your shock and straight to your heart. “I need this. I need you to take me completely. To own me. Please”.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

“I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” she replies, resolute.

You nod slowly. You twist the cap off the bottle and squeeze a generous, viscous dollop of the clear lubricant onto your fingers. It’s cool against your skin.

You approach her slowly, reverently. You start with just one finger, working the slick lube around her tight, puckered entrance. She breathes in deeply, trying to relax her body for you.

“That’s it,” you murmur. “Just relax for me. Breathe”.

Your first finger slides in with a surprising ease. She gasps at the intrusion, a sharp, startled sound. Her inner muscles clench tightly around you for a moment before slowly, consciously, relaxing. You work your finger in and out slowly, letting her get used to the strange, new sensation of being filled this way, before you add a second finger.

She is incredibly, exquisitely tight. You take your time, stretching her carefully, gently, with a patience you didn’t know you possessed.

“More,” she gasps out after a few long, silent minutes. “I can take more. I want to feel you. All of you”.

You add a third finger, and she moans, a low, guttural sound of pleasure and pain mingled together. The stretch is intense, but you can feel her arousal growing with it. Her slickness has started to mingle with the lube. You reach around with your other hand, your thumb finding her clit and brushing over it lightly. She nearly jumps off the desk, her whole body jolting with pleasure.

“I’m ready,” she says, her voice breathless, urgent. “Please. I’m ready now”.

You withdraw your slick fingers with a soft, wet sound. You squeeze a liberal amount of the lube onto your own cock, coating the entire length until it glistens in the afternoon light. Then, you position yourself at her tight, waiting entrance. You press forward, slowly, carefully.

The thick, crowned head of your cock breaches her tight ring of muscle, and she cries out, a sharp, high-pitched sound that is pure, unadulterated sensation.

“Okay?” you ask immediately, freezing in place, your body rigid with the effort of holding back.

“Yes,” she gasps. “Yes, it’s okay. Keep going. Don’t you dare stop”.

You push forward, incrementally, giving her body time to adjust to each new inch of you. It is the most intense, most incredible feeling you have ever experienced. She is so impossibly tight, the pressure almost painful, but in the best way imaginable. The heat inside her is scorching. When you are finally, finally fully seated inside her, buried to the hilt in her tight, welcoming sheath, you both pause, breathless, just trying to process the overwhelming sensation.

“How does it feel?” you ask.

“Full,” she breathes out, the single word conveying a universe of feeling. ]“So fucking full. I can feel you everywhere. In every part of me”.

You start to move, your first thrusts incredibly slow, almost tentative. You pull back until just the head of your cock remains inside her, and then you push forward again, sinking back into her tight, hot depths.

The sensation is unlike anything you have ever felt. It’s a different kind of friction, a different kind of heat. It is almost overwhelming in its intensity.

“Faster,” she demands after only a few slow, torturous strokes. “I need it faster. Harder”.

You increase your pace, your hips finding a new, harder, faster rhythm. Your hands grip her hips tightly, your fingers digging into her soft flesh as you drive into her again and again. She meets your thrusts with a wild, desperate enthusiasm, pushing back against you, taking every inch of you without hesitation.

“Touch yourself,” you tell her. “Touch your clit for me. Come for me while I fuck your ass”.

She obeys immediately, without a single word of protest. One of her hands slides down between her legs, her fingers finding the sensitive, hard nub of her clit.

The combination is explosive. Your cock, buried deep in her ass, and her own fingers working her clit, sends her into a frenzy of pleasure. She moans continuously, a long, unbroken stream of pleasure-drunk sounds that bounce off the walls of her office.

You can feel her climax building, the tension in her body winding tighter and tighter, like a spring being coiled to its breaking point.

“I’m close,” she warns. “Oh god, I’m so close”.

“Come for me, Ning,” you growl, your own orgasm building with a terrifying rapidity. “Come with my cock buried in your ass. Let me feel you come apart for me”.

The permission, the command, is all she needs. She comes with a scream that you are certain must have been heard three floors down. It is a sound of pure earth-shattering release, a sound torn from the very depths of her soul.

Her entire body convulses around you, a series of violent, ecstatic spasms that grip your cock like a fist. Her back arches impossibly high off the desk, her head thrashing from side to side, her perfectly styled hair now a wild, sweat-soaked mess. A stream of raw, unfiltered curses pours from her lips, mingling with desperate, broken pleas and your name, repeated over and over like a prayer.

“Fuck—oh God—yes—please, don’t stop, fuck!”

You feel every single clench of her tight anal muscles, but the feeling of her coming apart around you is not your undoing. It is not the thing that pushes you over the edge.

It’s your fuel.

Her climax, so total and absolute, incinerates the last vestiges of your control. The part of you that was trying to be careful, the part that was tempering your strength, is burned away, leaving only a raw need.

“That’s it,” you growl against her ear. “Take it. Feel my cock in your tight little ass while you come.”

Your rhythm changes instantly. The slow, deep, almost hypnotic strokes are gone. In their place is a brutal, punishing battery. You stop pulling out, instead keeping yourself buried to the hilt and just pistoning the last few inches of your length into her, short, hard, vicious thrusts that are designed to shatter what little composure she has left.

“Feel that, Ning?” you pant. “Feel me fucking you? You wanted this.”

The polished wood of her desk groans under the force of your assault. Your balls slap against her reddening skin with each powerful slam.

She is a wreck beneath you, boneless and shuddering in the aftermath of her orgasm, but she’s still with you. She pushes back, her movements weak but defiant, trying to meet the force of your thrusts.

“Yes,” she sobs. “Yes, please—harder—fuck me harder.”

“You want it harder?” you say. You grip her hips, your fingers bruising the soft flesh, and haul her back against you as you change your rhythm again, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into her with the full force of your body.

Each thrust feels like a lightning strike. Each impact makes her cry out, a fresh wave of sensation washing over her already hypersensitive nerves.

“I’m going to break you on this desk,” you tell her. “I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name. All you’ll know is my cock in your ass.”

“Fuck,” she moans. “Fuck, babe, you're ruining me!”

“Yes,” you snarl. “And you’re going to take my cum, Ning. You’re going to take every fucking drop of it.”

You can feel your own orgasm clawing its way up your spine, a desperate, unstoppable force. Your vision begins to narrow, the edges of the room blurring into a smear of color. All you can see is her, bent over for you, taking you. All you can feel is the incredible, crushing tightness of her body around yours.

The pressure in your balls builds to an almost unbearable point. 

“Gonna cum, Ning” you roar, the words ripped from you as you drive into her one last time, burying yourself so deep you feel like you’re touching her soul. “Fuck, I'm cumming!”

Your orgasm crashes over you, a devastating, all-consuming wave of pure, white-hot pleasure. You come hard, your hips bucking uncontrollably as you flood her tight, hot channel with your seed. Thick, hot jets of your release pump deep inside her, one after another, an seemingly endless torrent. You empty yourself completely into her, filling her, branding her, claiming her in the most absolute way possible.

For a long moment after the pulsing stops, you don’t move. You collapse on top of her, your bodies slick with a shared sweat, your chest heaving as you try to drag air into your burning lungs. You stay buried inside her, your softening cock still nestled deep in her heat, feeling the faint, residual tremors of her orgasm and the gentle pulse of her muscles around you.

Finally, reluctantly, you pull out of her. The sound is wet and obscene, a thick, slick sound of separation. She whimpers at the loss, a soft, breathy sound of protest.

You’re both trembling, boneless and spent. But you’re not finished. Not yet.

“Don’t move,” you whisper.

She obeys, staying bent over the desk, her body trembling with exhaustion and pleasure.

You step back, your own legs unsteady. You look down at her, at the incredible, debauched sight she makes. And then, you reach forward. You place your hands on her ass, your thumbs finding the cleft.

“I want to see,” you murmur. “I want to see the mess I made of you.”

You press your thumbs into her flesh and pull her cheeks apart, spreading her wide open for your inspection.

Her hole is a beautiful ruin. The delicate, puckered ring of muscle is swollen, pink, and gaping slightly from the force of your fucking. It’s glistening, coated in a mixture of her slickness and the clear lube.

And then, you see it.

As you hold her open, a thick, pearly white bead of your cum wells up from inside her. It pushes its way out of her tight, abused hole before beginning a slow, lazy ooze down her skin, a milky testament to your climax. You watch, mesmerized, as more follows, a slow, thick leakage that pools between her cheeks before trailing down her thigh.

The sight is the most possessive, most depraved, most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

“Look at that, Ning,” you breathe. “Look at my cum. Leaking out of your perfect ass. You took it all for me.”

“That was…” she starts, her voice trailing off into a sigh of pure, boneless satisfaction.

“Incredible,” you finish for her, again.

She turns around slowly, her legs visibly shaky from the intensity of the session. When she looks up at you, her eyes are glistening with tears she won’t let fall - you’re not sure if they’re from emotion or the intense pleasure you just gave her.

“I love you,” she says quietly. And this time, it doesn’t sound like a confession or a weapon. It doesn’t sound like blackmail or a fantasy. It sounds like a simple, undeniable truth.

“I…” you start, but you stop. The words are there. They are screaming in your head. But your throat is tight, and you can’t seem to force them out.

She reaches up, her hand cupping your cheek, her thumb stroking your skin gently. “You don’t have to say it back,” she says. “Not yet. But I needed you to know. I needed you to hear it”.

You lean into her touch, completely overwhelmed by the intensity of everything that has just happened between you.

“We should clean up,” she says after a long, silent moment, though she sounds just as reluctant to move as you are.

“Yeah,” you agree.

But before either of you can take a single step toward your scattered clothing, a soft, hesitant knock sounds on the heavy oak door of the office.

You both freeze, your eyes locking in a shared moment of pure, unadulterated horror.

Ning’s secretary’s voice, muffled but clear, comes through the heavy wood. “Ms. Yizhuo? I’m so sorry to bother you, I know you said not to, but there’s an urgent call from the Seoul office. They say it’s an emergency. That it can’t wait” 

Ning stares at you, her eyes wide with panic. Then her gaze darts around the room, taking in the scene of complete and utter carnage. Your clothes and hers, scattered across the expensive carpet. Important-looking papers strewn across the floor and her desk.

“Just a moment, Lisa,” she calls out, and her voice, to your utter astonishment, is remarkably steady. It is the voice of a CEO in complete control, not a woman who was screaming in ecstasy just minutes ago. “Transfer the call to my private line. I’ll take it in a few minutes”.

“Of course, Ms. Yizhou," the secretary replies.

You both hold your breath, not moving a muscle, until you hear the faint, distant click of her heels walking away from the door.

Then, the tension breaks. Ning collapses against you, a sound bubbling up from her chest that is half laugh, half sob of hysterical relief.

“That was close,” she whispers, her face buried in your chest.

“Too close,” you agree, but you can’t suppress the wide, disbelieving grin that spreads across your face.

She looks up at you, and there is a wicked, unholy mischief glittering in her dark eyes. “Good thing these office walls are soundproof”.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are they really?”

She laughs, a genuine, delighted sound. “God, I hope so. Otherwise, the entire executive floor just got quite the show”.

The thought, which should be mortifying, is instead incredibly, intensely arousing. The idea of everyone in this building knowing that she is yours, that you are the one who can make the unshakable Ning Yizhuo scream with pleasure, it's a fantasy that feeds your ego.

“We really do need to clean up now,” she says, but she makes no move to step out of your arms.

“I know,” you say, but you don’t move either.

She reaches up and kisses you again, softly, sweetly. When she pulls away, she smiles, her expression open and hopeful and completely unguarded.

“Dinner tonight?” she asks. “Somewhere private. Somewhere we can talk without the risk of… interruption”.

“Your place or mine?” you ask, and the ease with which the question comes feels both strange and perfectly natural. Her smile widens.

“Mine,” she says. “I want to cook for you. It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for six years”.

“I’d like that,” you say, and you mean it.

“Good,” she says, finally, reluctantly, stepping away from you to begin the process of gathering her scattered clothing. “Because we have a lot to figure out”.

You watch her as she dresses, mesmerized by the startling efficiency with which she transforms herself from a debauched, wanton sex goddess back into the impeccably composed CEO. It is a startling, impressive transformation. By the time she is finished, the only remaining evidence of the last few hours of madness is her slightly disheveled hair and the deep, satisfied glow in her eyes.

“How do I look?” she asks, smoothing down the front of her skirt.

“Like you just had the best sex of your life,” you tell her honestly.

She grins back at you, a wide, triumphant flash of white teeth. “Perfect. That’s exactly the look I was going for”.

You finish dressing yourself, and by the time you are both presentable again, it is almost as if the last few hours never happened. Almost. Except for the way she keeps stealing secret, hungry glances at you when she thinks you’re not looking. Except for the way your skin still tingles where she touched you. Except for the fact that the entire world seems to have shifted on its axis.

“I should take that call,” she says with a reluctance that you share.

“And I should get back to work,” you agree, though the very last thing on earth you want to do is leave the sanctuary of her office.

She walks you to the door, a silent, shared journey across the room. Just as your hand reaches for the cool metal of the doorknob, she catches your hand, her small fingers lacing with yours.

“No regrets?” she asks, uncertain for the first time.

You look down at her. At this woman. This incredible, impossible woman who has turned your carefully constructed, meticulously ordered world completely upside down in the space of a single afternoon. You think about the complications, the consequences, the sheer, insane risk of it all. And you realize that despite all of that, you don’t regret a single, solitary second.

“No regrets,” you confirm. Her smile is so bright, so radiant, it could power the entire city. “Good. Because this is just the beginning”.

You know she’s right. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, it is going to consume you both completely. And for the first time in six long, lonely years, you are ready to let it. 

You are ready to burn.

But just as you reach for the door handle a second time, she stops you again.

“Actually,” she says, and her voice has taken on that low, commanding tone again. That tone that makes your blood sing and your cock stir. “There’s one more thing”.

You turn back to her, your eyebrows raised in a silent question. The look in her eyes makes your pulse quicken. It is the look of a predator who has tasted blood and has decided that it is not yet finished with its meal

“What’s that?” you ask.

Instead of answering you right away, she moves back to her desk. She doesn’t sit behind it, but perches on the polished wooden edge, crossing her long, elegant legs in a way that deliberately, pointedly, draws your attention back to the sheer black stockings that still hug her thighs.

“Close the door.”

You raise an eyebrow, a flicker of your old, defiant self returning. “Ning, your secretary just said there was an urgent, emergency call from Seoul-”.

“The call can wait,” she interrupts, decisive. “This can’t”

There is something in her voice that makes you obey without another word of protest. You close the heavy oak door, the soft click of the latch sounding like a verdict. You turn back to her, and she is watching you, her gaze so intense, so focused, that it makes the fine hairs on your arms stand on end.

“Come here,” she commands.

You cross the room slowly, your footsteps unnaturally loud on the plush carpet. You are hyperaware of her eyes on you, tracking your every movement. When you finally reach her, standing before her at the desk, she spreads her legs slightly, a silent, clear invitation for you to stand between them.

“I lied,” she says simply

“About what?” 

“About being done with you.” Her hands, quick and sure, go to your belt, her nimble fingers working at the buckle with a practiced, devastating efficiency. “I am nowhere near done with you”.

Your cock, which had finally, blessedly, started to soften, immediately begins to stir, to harden again at her words, at her touch.

“Ning, we just-” you start to protest, your mind reeling.

“We just had the most amazing sex of our lives,” she agrees as she frees you from the confines of your pants for the second time in as many hours. “And now, I find that I want more”.

She wraps her small, cool hand around your semi-hard cock, her fingers stroking you slowly, expertly, coaxing you back to a full, throbbing hardness. The sensation is electric, especially since your nerves are still raw and humming from your previous, powerful orgasms.

“You’re insatiable,” you breathe out.

“Six years,” she reminds you. Her grip on you tightens slightly, a possessive, proprietary squeeze. “I have six years of fantasies to work through with you. We’ve barely scratched the surface”.

The reminder of just how long she has wanted this, how long she has wanted you, makes your head spin. You are already fully, painfully hard again, your body responding to her touch, to her proximity, to her sheer, indomitable will.

“What do you want?” you ask, because you know, with a terrifying certainty, that you will give her anything she asks for in this moment.

“I want you to cum deep in my throat,” she says. “And later, at my place, I want you to cum on my face. I want you to cum all over my body. I want to feel you all over my skin.”

The crude, explicit words, the sheer, unadulterated filth of her request, makes your cock give a violent, convulsive twitch in her hand. The image she paints - of her, on her knees before you, your thick, white seed painting her perfect, beautiful features - is so intensely, shockingly erotic that it is almost too much to process.

“I'm not against the idea,” you manage to choke out.

“Great. Let's get started.” She slides gracefully from her perch on the desk and drops to her knees in front of you for the second time that afternoon. “I want to taste you again. I want to feel you lose control in my mouth. I want to swallow you down”.

She doesn’t wait for your permission. She doesn’t wait for your response. She leans forward, her dark, silken hair falling around her face like a curtain, and takes the thick, crowned head of your cock between her lips.

The sensation is, if possible, even more incredible than the first time. It is made more intense by the knowledge that you are still sensitive, still humming from your previous activities. The heat of her mouth, the slickness of her tongue, is a paradise of sensation.

“Fuck,” you gasp out, your hands, as if they have a mind of their own, tangling in her hair, gripping her head, holding her in place.

She hums around you, a low, pleased vibration. Then, she takes you deeper, her agile tongue working its magic along the sensitive underside of your shaft as she swallows you down, inch by agonizing inch. The sight of your own cock disappearing between her perfect, crimson lips is almost too much to handle. It is a sight you know you will never, ever forget.

This time, there is no hesitation. There is no holding back. She is a woman possessed, a woman driven by six years of pent-up desire. She bobs her head eagerly, her movements quick and sure. She takes you as deep as she can on every single stroke, while her free hand wraps around your balls, cupping you, weighing you, claiming you.

“That’s it,” you encourage her. Your grip in her hair tightens, not painfully, but firmly, possessively. “Take it all, Ning. Take all of me”.

She responds to your command by relaxing her throat muscles completely, taking you even deeper than before. She takes you until her delicate, aristocratic nose is pressed against your pelvis, until her full, soft lips are flush against your skin. You are completely, utterly engulfed in the wet, hot heat of her mouth. The feeling of being so completely consumed by her makes your knees feel weak, your legs tremble.

You can feel your third orgasm of the afternoon building with a terrifying, shocking speed. The sensitivity from your previous climaxes has made every touch, every sensation, a hundred times more intense.

She seems to sense how close you are. She can feel the way your hips have started to buck, the way your muscles have started to tense. She doubles her efforts, her mouth working on you with a new, frantic energy. She sucks harder, her head moving faster, her tongue working in a dizzying, hypnotic rhythm.

“I’m close,” you warn her, and she doesn’t stop. Instead, she looks up at you, her dark, beautiful eyes wide and dark with lust and a fierce, unwavering determination.

And the sight of her, looking up at you with such raw, naked adoration while she swallows your cock, is your final, complete undoing.

Your orgasm crashes over you with a devastating, tidal force. You roar out your release, your head thrown back, your eyes squeezed shut, as you come hard and fast down her willing, eager throat.

She takes it all. She swallows every single drop of your release, her throat muscles working around you, clenching and pulsing as she milks you completely, greedily.

When you are finally, finally spent, your body trembling with the aftershocks of your release, she pulls off of you slowly, deliberately. She licks her full, plump lips with a look of deep, feline satisfaction. She has conquered you. She has consumed you. She has won.

“Delicious,” she purrs. She rises to her feet with a fluid, startling grace.

You’re about to respond, to say something, anything, when she surprises you by stepping forward and kissing you deeply, passionately. And you can taste yourself on her tongue. It is the most intimate, most shockingly dirty, most perfect flavor imaginable. You realize, in that moment, with a terrifying, exhilarating clarity, that you are completely, irrevocably addicted to this woman, and to everything she does to you.

When she finally breaks the kiss, she looks up at you. 

“Now I really am done,” she says, and a slow, wicked grin spreads across her face. “For now”.

The promise, the threat, in those last two words makes your spent, aching cock give a final, reflexive twitch of renewed interest.

This woman, you realize with a sense of dazed wonder, is going to be the death of you. And you find, to your utter astonishment, that you don’t care. Not even a little bit.

“You’re incredible,” you tell her, and you mean the words with every fiber of your being.

“I know,” she says, with a flash of her old, mock arrogance. Then, her expression softens. “But so are you. You were better than I ever dreamed”.

“That call,” you remind her reluctantly, the real world intruding once more.

“Right. The call.” She smooths down her hair, adjusts her clothing, and in the space of a few seconds, she transforms back into the composed, powerful CEO. The transformation is, as always, both startling and incredibly arousing.

“Dinner. Eight o’clock,” she says, all business once more. “I’ll text you my address”.

“I’ll be there,” you promise.

She reaches up and kisses you one last time

“Good,” she whispers against your lips, her breath warm and intoxicating. “Because we still have a lot to learn about each other, babe. If you know what I mean.”

As you finally, finally leave her office, your head spinning from the events of the last few hours, you realize, with a sense of dazed wonder, that your carefully constructed, meticulously ordered life is about to become beautifully, gloriously, chaotically complicated.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, you are looking forward to every single messy, passionate, unpredictable moment of it.

The elevator ride down feels completely different than the one up. It feels like you are descending from Mount Olympus, back into the world of mortals, a world that has been fundamentally, irrevocably changed while you were gone.

Your reflection in the polished steel doors shows a man who looks thoroughly, comprehensively satisfied. A man who looks dazed, and humbled, and completely, utterly conquered. You wonder, with a flicker of amusement, if everyone you pass on your way out of the building will be able to tell what just happened in that top-floor office.

As the numbers on the display count down - 50, 49, 48, 47 - your mind replays the events of the afternoon. You think about dinner tonight. You think about the raw, unguarded promise in Ning’s eyes. You think about the way she tasted, the way she felt, the incredible, uninhibited sounds she made when she came apart in your arms, in your mouth.

You think about six long years of missed opportunities, of unspoken desires, of paths not taken. And you think about the incredible, miraculous good fortune of getting a second chance.

The elevator reaches the ground floor with a soft, gentle ding. As the doors slide open, you step out into your new reality.

[capslocked]

PARIS

male reader x sana minatozaki

30k words

"City's a shithole," you tell Sana, stepping out of a taxi. "Absolutely rotten."

"It is not a shithole."

"It is a shithole, Sana."

"You just got off the plane. Can we reserve judgement on Paris until we've seen the fucking place?"

(This is the one where you get over a fear of flying, of falling - and Sana's breeding kink goes a little further, gets a little more complicated - and neither of you give up much ground. It's an ordeal, that one. You really oughta stop surprising her in hotels.)

-

"Little known fact," Sana says to you near the beginning and looking for once a little less ethereally put-together, a bit more like she wants to go back to sleep. "St. Valentine was actually an incel who died in jail."

She's slumped onto your kitchen counter in a sweater several sizes too large - the one with your college crest, a hole in the armpit - and shorts, her long bare legs dangling above the tile.

"So, y'know."

And you haven't a fucking clue.

She shovels another spoonful of cereal into her mouth, "spending the holiday insufferably alone is something of an homage."

"What?"

"An homage," she crunches, happily.

Oh, you're charmed by her, have been for weeks now, and you chuckle despite yourself, pour her coffee while you're waiting for the toaster to finish. You've decided she's going to eat fruit today whether she wants to or not - it's barely breakfast if it's just a bowl of sugary carbs; and in a pair of fuzzy socks, a stolen crewneck, with last night's makeup still slightly smeared at the corners of her eyes and her hair mussed to shit, Sana makes you feel sorta responsible for her health. Your infatuation must be showing. 

She lifts her chin, blinks lazily.

"I guess that makes us both artists by extension, or something," you say.

"Incels?" Sana snorts.

"No." Your toast pops. "Homage-payers."

You watch her mouth quirk around her spoon. "I kinda like that," she allows.

This morning, for the record, is only different than others in terms of superficial details - today Sana woke up with your hand cupped over her cunt, three fingers sinking slowly into her heat - annoyingly slow, the way she likes it least and best, depending on what she gets out of the teasing: her morning orgasm, in this case - and it was different enough that she moaned high and pretty, back arching as she squirmed on your palm, the sheets, whispering a delirious good morning against your jaw when her wits finally cohered into something more linear, understandable.

It's your new normal, sure: sleeping together - and its odd, comedy-forged counterpart, waking-up together.

It's eating breakfast, it's Sana stealing your clothes, sitting on your counters like breaking convention is some sort of biological imperative.

It's her legs wrapping around your waist while she kisses you soft and open-mouthed, leaving it to you to decide how much morning breath you can tolerate - and maybe that's a routine worth indulging, for a bit. At any rate: it's February 7th, which means there's this sword of Damocles hanging over your head that a whole financial system has been built around monetizing, a day people probably buy chocolates and flowers and write sonnets over - except Sana is jetsetting next week and you'll be spending February 14th in your apartment, possibly taking a shower, definitely sleeping in until noon, not being in love.

She's a once-in-a-generation talent, a gorgeous face, a fantastic fuck - this is just what's in the cards for you.

"You're going to miss me," says Sana, flat-out declaring it, threading her fingers beneath your chin, hooking her ankles loosely in the small of your back.

The cereal bowl clatters as you set it in the sink. "I might," you say, noncommittal, enjoying the way it makes her press further into your body, clinging tighter. "How long did you say this trip was going to be, again?"

"Oh, forever, maybe," Sana breezes, waving her other hand.

"You're gonna change your mind about the whole concept of romance and think about texting me within five, ten minutes of dropping me off at the airport. But then you won't actually do it, because you'll figure that I'm busy, and then you'll spend the rest of my flight kicking yourself for not sending me, like, an emoji, or something, and that it could've been enough to bridge the gap, and instead I'll be off somewhere all dolled-up and glamorous, probably surrounded by hot models, and that's when I'll meet someone new. I mean, there'll probably be no comparison to well, y'know-" She palms your crotch, fingers skating across the fabric. You recoil, almost scowl, and she snickers. "-but that's what happens when you don't text me. We're not in contact for one week and I replace you with a French man named Pierre. Or Jean. Jean-Pierre, honestly. If I were you, I'd play it safe and shoot me a Valentine's text."

"Wow." You push your thumbs under the hem of her shorts. "You got it in one, I think."

She shrugs, faux-modest. "Naturally. Jean-Pierre knows what's up."

You slip your hands up further and her expression shifts as you meet skin under the heavy fabric: all suggestion, no pretense. Sana sighs contentedly, leaning back onto her wrists so that you have to chase her, tilt your head to follow the movement. This is natural. She takes your lip between her teeth and sucks, gently. The angle puts a crick in your neck. You let her get away with it anyway, press further in between her thighs, spread them wide - and then she bites harder, the flesh of your bottom lip giving under her canines.

There's a spark there, it makes you want to pull her hair, kiss her harder, dig your fingers into her hips and leave bruises that'll last through the next couple weeks of international press junkets and glitter-eyed meetings with like-minded, like-pretty strangers. You're starting to suspect she's psychic - because she slides a hand up your shirt, letting her fingers skate over your stomach, the dip of your hips, the places that make you tick.

You clock the twitch in your pants, growing, filling. You've slept with this girl an awful lot. It's a problem.

"Possessive," is Sana's assessment, with all of the derision of a tease.

"Cool it," you warn her, sliding your grip up from her legs to her hips, pinning her solidly to the countertop. "I've got a full enough schedule this morning without you making a mess of things."

"Mmm, you don't." She's petulant, kissing you again and letting the touch linger on your bottom lip. It's a strong argument.

"I do," you try.

"You really don't," she says, sing-song, breathless with expectation, anticipating rough treatment.

Her smile is syrup-sweet, oozing indulgence: the sight of her sprawled beneath you is a pure profligate pleasure. Like she's an apple you stole fresh from the orchard, red and shiny and dripping juice down your forearm, dribbling sticky on the grass, rotted with temptation. You wonder if she's always been this way - begging to be held down, fucked hard, edged beyond the realm of possibility - and recently her appetite for filth seems endless, like she's come into a taste for it. Sana Minatozaki doesn't often say no.

For all intents and purposes, your answer should be a given.

"Well," you drawl, thumbing the soft cotton of her shorts, that spot just above the waistband, where her inner thigh meets the crease of her pelvis and you can make her voice go to velvet. "Did you say he died in prison?" You pull away from her a bit, switching tactics, letting the subject slide from bedroom talk to regular breakfast chatter. "Of what, heartbreak?"

"You'd think," she says, almost curt, irritated at the prospect of edification and sorely lacking a good fuck. It's a pleasant mood to find her in - very manageable, easier if you slip your tongue between her legs, though still relatively straightforward. "It turns out the dude got beaten to death with clubs, then beheaded; hence the martyrdom bit, which I think is fair. Pretty metal death to warrant sainthood."

"Seems a little redundant."

"So does giving a holiday to people who are already, like, super in love or whatever, but." She gathers her hair off her neck - lets it fall, satisfied. "I guess romanticism and pragmatism are just mutually conclusive."

"Exclusive," you correct, lightly.

"What'd I say?"

You exchange looks: it's definitely something you've already joked about before. It's easy, like the rest of your dynamic. Sana smiles, slow-burn, and all you can do is try and one-up her: you shrug, sigh, like there's a lot to consider.

Her fingers work open one of the buttons on the front of your shirt, hover on the one beneath it - her patience is dwindling.

"Fine," you relent, rolling your eyes, feigning reluctance. "But we need to be quick about it. Fifteen minutes, twenty max. Then I absolutely need to leave and go sit silently in a room doing jackshit for eight hours."

Sana kicks you lightly in the shins. "Let me get on top, and we'll have time to cuddle, too."

"No dice," you tell her. The negotiations continue, as they always do. "Face-down-ass-up, princess. You can clean up the kitchen afterwards."

"Ugh. You're gross," she says, as you help her down from the countertop, maneuver her toward your room with one wrist tucked firmly in your palm, already rucking up her sweater to skim your fingertips along her ribs. Sana goes easy, her joints loose, willing to bend. "And annoying. And unaccommodating. You're totally wasting my last few days in town."

"I know. I'm sorry about it," you respond, stepping behind her up the stairs, her fingers gliding gently up the rail.

"Liar." She shoots you a half-smile, laughing with no bite behind it. You think, just a bit, that she'd let you get away with just about anything - that is to say, she'd get off on a great many things: you'd let go of your own guilt, just for a moment. For someone so hot and cold with her control, it'd be easy to slide the pendulum to the other side. Maybe she'd beg for it, and it'd sound real: a small part of you thinks she's close enough already. Sana tosses a smirk over her shoulder and your mouth goes dry. "But i'm sure you will be," she tells you, her gaze somehow already unfocused. You suppose all the daydreaming is beginning to affect her too. "In, like, four and a half minutes, give or take. Probably closer to four."

"Careful, Sana," you intone, pitching low; it's like warning a child not to touch an open stove. "Your ass gets red fast."

Sana wiggles her eyebrows in an endearingly ridiculous way - you can't believe this is the girl getting checks from all these designer brands - and twists your way for a second, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of your neck.

"Promises, promises." She bats those unequivocally long lashes up at you. "You better know I'll hold you to 'em."

-

In any case, she was right: St. Valentine got fucking wrecked. It's the whole morning's lesson. Maybe there's something to be said for dying in a spectacular way, one so fantastically morbid that it has to have happened in another era.

Sana gets on top, sorta, in spite of any negotiations; Sana kisses you stupid; Sana talks nonsense while you eat her out; Sana cums when you get two fingers deep inside her ass and slam her cunt full of another, curling the tip of tongue right across her clit. She goes easily from her knees to bracing herself against the headboard; and you follow her up the mattress when she scoots forward so you can fuck her with her back flush against your chest, head tossed on your shoulder, throat arched so she can choke out sounds you've never heard from anyone, ever. She's not a screamer, but she makes these high, keening noises when she's close - when you're giving her just the right pace, the right rhythm, the right depth - and you lean back on your heels, slap her ass, pinch her hip, "make me cum, baby," and god, her pussy grips down on you greedily, hungrily, swallows every inch and fucks you back until the condom swells full, deep inside her heat.

"You." You say it like it's a half-formed threat, kissing her sweaty, satiny shoulder, nosing the bra strap barely clinging to her skin. "Are such an insufferable cocktease."

"That's me," she quips, out of breath, entirely too pleased. 

It's such a familiar refrain now, her elbow bent back, hand trailing your neck, head tipped - she sinks her fingers into your hair and holds you against her pulse where it jumps sporadically under her skin. You flip her around - somewhat elegantly, somewhat not - nestle her soft, creamy thighs over your hips, warm your cock inside of her as she falls back from the clouds, pressing your hand to the tightness of her waist - she wasn't exaggerating: there's time to spare, to kiss her like a movie ending, and to come up smiling.

It's not just all the risky, illicit sex and reckless abandon already in play: it's also the entire lexicon and etymology of fated ends, of doomed sentiment - each verb conjugated twice and three times and five times over. She's got the filthiest parts of your imagination reined in with that face alone, like you're drowning in divinity; this is a girl so pristine and peerless and utterly without vice, staring up at you from underneath mascara-dusted lashes, waiting for her own devastation - always daring you to indulge her.

"You think you're corrupting me," Sana laughs in your ear, serenely, almost self-aware. "Is that it?"

"Well," you start, and there's a self-reflection somewhere in there - your fingertips on her jaw, her heartbeat in the hollow of her throat. The skin's so impossibly soft. Fragile. "It's a thought."

She lifts a shoulder, smiles lazily. Her mouth has that permanent imprint of sin, somehow simultaneously a crime scene and a place of worship.

"Baby," she drawls, all sugar-sweet. "I'm sure that's a given. I was such a good girl before I met you."

"Yeah," you reply, nipping the hinge of her jaw. "Such a sweetheart. So well-behaved."

"I'll take it."

Sana rolls the condom off of you, sitting cross-legged on your bed as you fold a pillow in half and prop yourself up, watching her do her thing.

She’s got so much control like this - wringing the thick mess out into her palm, then sitting back onto her calves. With two fingers and her thumb, she pinches at it, lets it drip back down. A beat later, she makes another string, decides she's all for swallowing today. That's an art. And it's mesmerizing, the way she concentrates with delicate precision, tipping her chin up and staining her lips, her tongue diligently slipping through the spaces between her knuckles.

"You're really cute," you inform her, and she flushes while licking up the rest - you love it, the little contradictions. "But that is filthy."

“Could’ve been inside me instead,” she muses, casually. She’s just testing it out, rolling the syllables on her tongue.

You raise your eyebrows. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” repeats Sana, quietly. She reaches forward, runs her thumb along your slit, a little lower - just a semi-circle of pressure. Yeah, you’re still achingly hard. She eyes you and her focus shifts; she seems to come to a conclusion, nods her head once; this girl, really, with all her unpredictable tempers. She takes the length of you in her hand, a loose, idle grip, more to be playful than sexy. It works both ways, apparently: your eyes roll up at her, and you suppress a gasp, grabbing hold of the pillow.

It's those dreamy, half-lidded eyes, glazed over and vapid - ah, the total and utter loss of any brain capacity. Something like a prelude to the sweet surrender; Sana does the drooling part for you.

“You wanna go again?” you ask her, and this is another bit: the whole I-say-one-thing-and-do-the-other game, the winding, unwinding tension. 

When she wants something, she talks to you like she'd burn a church down for you, then tuck her arm right into yours like the fire doesn't exist in the first place - Sana blinks prettily up at you, strikes the match behind her back. For her part, she doesn’t lie as often as she could, as often as you would expect her to; in the beginning, at least, you assumed she was a bad liar, a good flirt, that kind of contradiction.

If you didn't know better, you'd fall head over heels.

"Or are you just stroking me off because you like the way it feels in your hands?" you go on. You'd like to find out, actually.

Sana smirks, and slides her palm lower, gets a second hand involved, slow and steady - the friction is aching, fantastic. "Aren't you supposed to be working?” she asks, twisting both. You could cum again, but maybe you shouldn't. "Is this really how we spend all our time?"

“How conscientious of you,” you say, drily, and she laughs before tucking her hair behind her ear, kneeling on the sheets and bringing her lips to the end of you, letting her spit run down the head and catching it with her knuckles; just once, she licks. Then, twice. Okay, well - you could probably afford to stay away a while longer. In theory. Three times, four times - oh, her mouth is hot and silky and there's really no way around it. 

You grab your phone, shoot off an email or two, and slip your fingers into her hair.

-

Sana's someone you know from work, in a real roundabout sort of way. That's the whole sordid story.

You've got the cushy office job, the creative credentials, she's art, the product; and the optics surrounding that means you're supposed to never, ever lay a finger on her; oils mixing like they shouldn't - the finished, the half-baked, the polished to a gleam versus the raw unvarnished clay; but she'd wandered into the employee-only elevator and said good morning with that smart, sarcastic little voice and you'd turned around, thinking of some entitled manager in the process of haranguing you - only it wasn't a suit-and-tie corporate climber, oh, no, no-

"Hey," you said, too stunned for eloquence, too dumbstruck for wit.

Because here's a perfect, pouty-lipped princess, dressed like an angel and grinning like she's ready to rob a bank; like the moon landing and Shakespeare rolled into one, fantasy and classic literature and a pastel linen shirt, with what felt like half the buttons undone.

You blinked, remembered to breathe.

"Hi." She tipped her head and let a curtain of copper-spun hair slide off one shoulder. Took a slow, appraising sip of her iced-coffee. "You're new. Or - new to me, at least."

The doors shut, and suddenly there was no going back.

-

The signs are there. Four different conditioners on the bath rack, her lotion on the bathroom counter, her shaving cream next to the soap. She prefers peppermint to vanilla. And date night takes a turn from red wine to ramen; you'll end up on your couch watching crime documentaries because Sana will hook her fingers into the loops of your jeans, saying, can't we just, like, stay in?

This morning, too: her hand clings around your forearm a little longer when you kiss her goodbye and help her find the shoes she's wearing home, make her promise to return your sweatshirt soon.

But you know that if anyone asked, Sana'd shrug and laugh, say I dunno, it's not really anything at all. 

You're hooking up. You're being idiots - this whole thing, from the very start of it, was so off-the-rails, so questionable. You remind yourself she's never met anyone she didn't like. 

She doesn't think about consequences, and she certainly won't start with you. You figure things will fester, get murky and muddled and frustrating - and the worst part isn't how she's ruining you for anyone else; it's how you're going to miss the idea of her, the impossible promise. She's living the glamour, the ceaselessness, the adventure. It's all planned out. She'll keep living her life this way until she doesn't. It's an occupational hazard.

And she won't pay it any attention once some Jean-Pierre becomes her next hot, enigmatic, incomprehensible, asshole genius plaything - hypothetically speaking.

(Or maybe he'll be the first one to really, really figure her out, and that's the more disconcerting thought.)

So you're just...you don't even know what you are, frankly. Friends who text? Sure, whatever: that makes sense. You can cling to that. It's the most sensible explanation so far.

Sana: i was promised an apology text (´;︵;`)

Sana: the pregnant man emoji seems wildly inappropriate given the circumstances

You, at ten fifteen in the morning on February 8th: i'm in a staff meeting, first of all.

You've been getting nonsensical, arbitrary stuff since, like, October: grocery lists, links to memes, notes on things she remembers in the shower. Occasionally, it's horny stuff - a water droplet emoji, the wink, and the peach; then a photo of her skirt lifted in the mirror and her naked ass in a pair of heels - and occasionally, you oblige it.

You: second, I don't want this to come off as arrogant or anything, but I didn't realize you think about me the minute you wake up

Sana: um, soooo arrogant lol wtf

Sana: but also ur not wrong, im desperate for some relief <333

You: poor, pitiful baby 🙄

You: go find miyeon

Sana: she's ignoring my calls

Sana: just send something nasty please PLEASE 😭

Sana: tell me how hard i make you

You: i'm in a meeting, sana.

Sana: I WILL RIOT.

Sana: jk don't tell me. i'm just looking at pics of us rn and i'm going to die.

Sana: (send a dick pic u coward)

She sends you a heart. And an eggplant. Then the tongue. 

You: I'll see what I can do

She follows up with: thank u thank u god bless <3

-

Oh, it's dangerous, working in the same office, dealing in all that proximity - even with the floors between you.

You're constantly resisting the urge to slide by, to try and catch a glimpse, to find excuses to bump into her in the hallway, listen to her talk, say hi. So maybe you're a sucker for the devil, or maybe it's all just because she's Sana, and she's a vision in a pencil skirt, a beauty with her legs crossed and her chin tipped high; or it's worse: you'll catch her in yoga pants, hair mussed and shiny with sweat as she flits from practice room to practice room, to get water, to take a phone call, to rub chapstick over her mouth - the daydreams write themselves.

But it's not like you know any details of her job other than, 'singer' or 'professional tease' or the occasional tangential reference. She never really talks about work.

You walk through the halls, eyes flitting around every corner; there's a standing appointment, of sorts, and it has been for the past month, maybe longer - you've got your doubts that today will break the streak. You've never actually agreed to meet her; it's sorta an unspoken understanding, and you find her exactly where you thought you might, after you've made a loop around the seventh floor, wandered as slowly as humanly possible - as if stalling could stop you from inevitably descending the same stairwell you do every time. It's an awful, terrible descent and it's gonna get you both fired - or killed, if her manager finds you first. It's a miracle you're still here.

Sana's leaning against the railing, flipping through her phone; when she hears your approaching footsteps she looks up and meets your eyes. Smirks.

"Ms. Minatozaki," you say, like this is a high school and she's one of the tardies you can't stop calling out. 

It's the nth time this has happened, and you have to know she comes looking for you, too.

"So," she drawls, standing and sweeping all her hair up off her neck, clipping it like it's habitual, and the way her hands rest at your waist is a scandal in itself. The watch on her dainty pale wrist glitters in the fluorescent lights, slides down her forearm as she pushes her sleeves past her elbows. You're not really thinking about things like propriety, restraint; Sana's very good at convincing you to shed all pretense of ethics, morals. You're slave to the thousand-kilowatt smile, the short skirts and thigh-high boots and every calculated display of skin. This girl has her agenda written plain on the walls and you've made it known in ten different languages: it's one hell of a view, and it's impossible not to stare.

"You here to escort me somewhere?" asks Sana, in a way that sounds vaguely dirty - which it is. "Need to go looking for pens again?"

She takes a step closer, presses a palm flat to your chest; hums a low, delighted sound.

"Or you could bend me over the railing and stuff me right here." Sana tilts her chin and squints upwards, assessing the metalwork. She drops her gaze, presses her fingertips to the knot of your tie; and then, a show of pity or mercy, drags her eyes back to your face, pretty lashes blinking slow. "Wouldn't be complaining."

"I really wish you could hear yourself sometimes, sweetheart."

"Trust me, it's been on my mind all morning," she confesses, all soft, wicked intimacy. "Distracting me. I doubt you want me keeping it to myself, either."

"No," you admit. "You've got that right."

Her fingers toy with your top button, pop it open. You grab her wrist, stop her, gentle and warning. Her hand goes limp in your grasp, acquiescing easily; this is the part where she likes it, getting pulled back on the right side of polite. "You should kiss me," says Sana.

Like she has to. Like this girl, rich and famous and inexplicably out of your league, a glamorous songbird living high up in her nest, and still wanting for the little taste of heaven she thinks she can steal away from you in dark corners

"Where?" You're playing, and the moment you brush your mouth over hers, the second her breath meets your lips, you've gone and forgotten all your prior reservations about fucking her at work. You let go of her wrist, allow her hand to wander lower, unbuttoning, dipping past the waistband of your pants. She slides her palm beneath the material of your underwear, tugs them just low enough that her slim, small fingers can encircle the base of your cock.

"Anywhere," Sana decides, and kisses the answer into your mouth, sighing into it - enough to pull you under, to submerge and suffocate.

It's funny; she smiles like she's the heroine of your life story, like the storybook star on the cover of an epic, or an infallible leading lady - like someone to love, like someone to admire and aspire to. Or maybe it's a touch sinister: her eyes sparkle and your worldview snaps a little sideways, just to accommodate her; she could be the villain all the same - not your protégée, not the good girl, not an angel or a miracle. There's your poison, and it's in her blood - it's a flashpoint of pure greed, and Sana doesn't need a mirror. She knows every single sin.

You drop your hand from her hair, the pretense, and give in: the railing creaks a quiet noise of protest as she wrenches her ass against the unforgiving steel, and then she's arching into your body, sighing again; it's a sound you've committed to memory, ingrained it, the sweet taste, the sharpness of her exhale when your hand wanders high up the hem of her skirt.

"Anywhere?"

"Sure," breathes Sana, fingers spidering further into your open zipper. 

It's so incredibly risky, it's bad practice, not to mention illogical: the stairwell is a public, communal space, no escape, nowhere to hide - there's only seven floors to the building, seven opportunities for someone to stumble in, and none of these numbers are in your favor.

"I'll be quiet," she mutters, lips ghosting along your jaw. "I promise." She knows that's not what you're concerned with, but you appreciate the thoughtfulness; oh, who's fooling who? "We can just-" Her hips hitch up and press firm against yours. "-see where it goes."

And, well - you have the rest of your career to be responsible, probably. Professional, obedient and boring and ethical and so many other useless terms you could drag up and wave in the face of the fact Sana's fucking gorgeous. She's holding back from giving you the full-on pout, but just barely - you catch the shadow of it on her lips; the thinly concealed ache, the pretty agony. She kisses you like she's not gonna breathe until the second after you're inside her - then that's that, like some sorta ritual. A tradition, an instinct, it's a swan-song for every shred of decorum she's begging to burn up.

You hoist her, balance her on the railing. When your grip tightens, she shuffles forward, draws her legs up a little - that's the key, letting her settle just right: the end of the world could come now and she'd still feel fucking divine, pussy dripping through her underwear straight onto the crotch of your pants - there's a wet spot now, you can feel it on the side of your thigh where you've got a fistful of her skirt scrunched, rolled up above her thighs, all bare creamy skin, something to remember this by: her in the height of perfection, full of good intentions and eager to fall apart.

"Panties," you tell her, palm up, hand held out. 

"You're fucking crazy," she exhales, but she's fiddling with her waistband and shifting on her ass in seconds - they're tangled around her boots - you're a goner from the start, it's like your soul leaves your body with a wet little snick. "Get - get them off," and it sounds so sweet in her voice, whining, ragged - not that it was in any danger but her own breath renders her resolve for composure pointless.

"Your little cunt's dripping," you note, with your hand cupping it, two fingers teasing along her soaked slit; no part of the conversation has ever needed to go in circles with Sana, or anyone else. You just sort of lean into it. "Been wanting me since you got dressed, huh."

"Your fault," she tells you, nose sliding over yours, seeking affection. "Explicitly. Never got those pictures out of my head."

"Um," you say, slipping into another finger, because she's hot and slick and insatiable and the friction will melt her right to goo - you think Sana's orgasms might be getting a little violent, these days. You're more inclined to inspire them. "I didn't actually send you anything provocative."

"See?" She grins at you, breathless. "Here lies my problem."

"Such a hard life." You crook your fingers a little deeper; Sana collapses against you, a flower drooping from too much rainwater. "Such a burden, being you, hm?"

"So I'm the issue in this scenario," she mutters, pushing back into your hands, squeezing her thighs. "Causing problems, all by myself, sluttly-little-me."

"I never said that."

"You called me a fucking cocksleeve, the other night."

"Sana."

"Which is absolutely correct. Like. One hundred percent. But don't act like you don't get off on it."

"Well," you say, innocuous: stroke up inside of her, stretch, reach - crook - and there's a breathy moan in your ear. "So do you."

"Shut up," she says, "this is about your inability to compartmentalize," and her cunt is so slick that it makes a delicious, lewd squelching sound as your fingers dip and curl in further, the walls of her pussy clenched tight, suffocating your skin - every time you roll a condom over your cock and sink inside her you do have to wonder if it's really, genuinely necessary.

"Wanna cum?" you ask, deflecting a bit, and stroke her with intent, relishing the way her little pink mouth drops open to exhale.

"Gotta be better than getting psychoanalyzed by a guy who has my fucking panties in his pocket," she grits out, hips rolling to the tempo of your fingers, now scissoring apart. You're only touching her cunt and still she moves against you like you've been railing her for hours - you think she's so wet you might hear it down the hall, down the street. "Might be a good tradeoff. Maybe." Then, more resolutely: "Fuck. Yes. Please."

It's hard to take her seriously like this, with her pretty features drawn up, all the facets of a statue rendered beautifully human, transient, falling apart in the pleasure. In moments like these, Sana looks most ethereal; when your thumb's fast on her clit and you croon compliments and the sweetest-bittersweet filth in her ear until her whole body becomes liquid-fire, sloppy and hot, desperately keening.

"On my fingers?" you ask, because maybe you're a lot like Sana: an insufferable tease. 

You slip your fingers down to the next knuckle and curl it up against the slick heat, deep, until she's making soft, whimper-like sounds, brow furrowing in focus, straining for release, and Sana can't even look you in the eyes, too far gone already, lost in this. "Or," and here's the dangerous part - "I could get on my knees and eat this pussy until you can't see straight." You're dangerously close to taking the panties from your pocket and sliding the lace under her tongue just so you could see how pretty she looks like that, huffing, groaning, eyes flickering shut at the sensation - not the actual taste of herself, but just the way it's so undignified. 

She looks pretty at any angle, any moment - you wonder if you can fuck it into her so she'll always know it's true: the kind of egomaniacal narcissism Sana might get off on. It seems appropriate.

Sana just hums at this, arching a delicate brow, considering.

"How about you give me your mouth and watch me fuck the hell out of it, hm?"

"Mildly threatening, but okay." You take one hand, smooth over her ribs until it's cupping the slope of her jaw, and draw her gaze upward, until she's staring into your eyes. "You always taste like a godsend - could get addicted to it, probably, baby - would you wanna ruin my throat? Make me drool all over you? Turn it into a little fucking mess, just the way you like?"

The sound she makes then is unearthly, somewhere between a moan and a groan. A reverb.

You know it's out of hand because you've started using the same euphemisms she does - breeding her, ruining her tight little pussy, stretching it out nice and full. Getting a second opinion, then a third and a fourth. It's a little crass for your typical repertoire, but she makes the sweetest, most ruined noises at that. You're an equal opportunist, and her whiny submissiveness is just as good - maybe a little less effortless. More demanding: there's always the feeling she's lording it over you.

"No, really." You're stroking your fingers in solid, even thrusts as you speak: gentle, measured, nowhere near enough. "You're fucking soaked," you remark, the corner of your mouth tilted up. "Like you can't stand not having something inside you, huh?"

"Something big," she grits out.

You laugh a little, amused. She's practically leaking down the heel of your hand.

"The problem is," breathes Sana, swallowing once, twice, eyelashes flicking lower, her cheek pliable in your palm and her nails scraping gently against the hair at the nape of your neck - she's dissolving. She's all yours to own, consume, to make cum. She's drenched and warm and perfect and there's a whine threaded through every expletive. She always likes things better when you're nastier to her; it's probably fucked up. Everything is, and it's Sana - so that should go without saying. "Fuck - whatever - please. Just-"

You laugh again, and the noise twists a little meaner this time in Sana's ear.

"C'mon," you say. "Tell me about this - about my issues. Your ideas. How badly you're gonna, what was it, destroy my life, I think? Just talk while I go down on you. Might help take the sting out of it." You pause. "Or make it all the more worse, really."

Sana whimpers, broken, liking the sound of that, judging by the way her cunt drips, swollen and fluttering and you can feel her pulsing against your fingertips.

"I'll tell you if you start to go in the wrong direction," says Sana, petulant and lovely as ever. "How's that - how's? Oh, my fuck-"

Sana's words drop off. It's well-warranted. You're hungry for her, insatiable; you sink down to the floor, get your mouth on her pretty little aching cunt and that's sorta how this always starts.

She gasps out and tangles her fingers in your hair, fucks her cunt against your tongue and cries out like this isn't a scandal. 

You pray to god no one comes for a smoke, for the breeze to cool them off: because nobody needs to know how thoroughly you ruin the company's golden goose, their pristine girl-next-door, pop-sweet baby-princess. You pray because she's going to cum like the rest of your brain won't remember it tomorrow, like every teary-eyed scream won't stick to your lips like static. 

Your tongue moves, pressing harder to her clit; she rides your face. Grinds down your lips while your gaze remains rapt, transfixed.

You won't blink, won't look away for even a moment. Not when Sana's falling apart above you: a complete fucking mess, a spitfire and a divinity and a filthy-wet-dream in heels, panting so hard that you're gonna need an excuse. That everyone's gonna see you've done it, broken the perfect facade and left her absolutely mangled. It's fucking obscene the sounds she's making. High, aching whines, squelch, wettened suction; her fingers tearing through your scalp; those god damn lip-gloss-flavored moans - they echo on your neck and chest, run down and through your rib-cage. They land in your gut and rest heavy and stale, ruminant, too thick. Sweet and molasses and unbearable, all stuck inside your throat. Fuck, fuck. She cums; there's your paycheck in the line of her body, arched into an acute, cataclysmic peak, an upstretched needle to pierce the surface.

It's a moment in a crystal-clear shot, one you'll try and lock in the bank, the hallows, your mind.

She's beautiful, obviously: in the aftermath, ragged, inelegant - you figure it's the fact that the poor thing's so damned unused to being fucked, has gone on for all her teenage years, then her early adulthood, barely scraping a few fingers, a low buzz of some unremarkable toy; no - she's used to the admiration. The flattery. The rapture and praise.

But you doubt anyone's made a thorough wreck, a beautiful slobbering, sloppy mess - and who would? She's worshiped like she's an icon. Some half-baked notion of reverence, like she's holy. An angel in the wrong hands - oh, the imagery's much too flimsy. Fawning. Unending, untethered; you might be a sucker, but you wonder when you'll meet the next guy in her rotation, and, not wanting to spend much thought on him, wonder instead about Sana and her subterfuge. 

You've wondered on and off why the hell she chose you.

"You don't deserve that," says Sana, after, a little breathless but otherwise unfazed and smug, like it isn't a big fucking deal to talk back to you while your jaw is still covered in her slick.

"Pretty sure I do." You wipe at your mouth, come up closer to her again. "Seemed like it helped."

"I have a whole monologue prepared," says Sana, a touch irritated - ah, well, she might be spoiled after all. "It wasn't easy to put together. The idea of you fucking me is kind of distracting, just for the record."

"Sweet of you, baby."

"Oh, fuck off," says Sana, promptly.

You smile. It's charming and cheeky and Sana blushes, suddenly off her game. "I'm serious," she says, scrambling back to her point. "You deserve nothing for leaving me alone and miserable and not showing up for ages. You're so - I'm mad at you."

"Oh," you say, and raise an eyebrow, mock-horrified. You kiss her bare, sweat-sticky neck, trace a finger from her navel down past her hips. Sana shivers. "I had no idea."

It's just Sana's axiomatic response: all snark and sass and sly one-liners until you've got your finger against her clit, and then all at once she's begging, sobbing, falling to pieces, whining your name like it's a mantra. She doesn't give a damn about your apology now. The state of your relationship has hardly progressed - but it doesn't matter. It's only the sex, the endless hours spent with Sana's thighs bracketing your head, her lipstick imprinted on your throat, the red lines she paints over your shoulder blades. It's only that. Sana's cunt, clenching and raw from orgasm and soaked like you can never fill her up: dripping, drooling.

And, okay. Yeah, maybe you didn't show up when she asked you to, didn't listen. You admit it. She's needy every second, craves praise and your cock in equal measure - but you are guilty. 

(What's that she said earlier - that you didn't deserve it? Right.)

You aren't really in a position to say shit about being ignored either, so.

-

Sana has you pegged to her whims: she doesn't have to do a damn thing, she just breathes and has you around her finger.

Well - actually, she's very proactive. She likes making demands. Well, really: she wants things.

It's February 9th, for anyone keeping track - the shortest month of the year and the one with a few more grey days in the bank than the others, which makes sense since you're deep into the heart of winter by then. On December 28th you and Sana had spent nearly three hours on the phone discussing the latest installment of this netflix miniseries of very questionable quality. There were a lot of different points to be made, apparently: you think both of the leads are, objectively, fairly attractive, but Sana wouldn't admit she had a crush on the lead until you got to the third season.

Anyway, she was upset on her birthday because of it.

"Happy new year, by the way," you told her, somewhere in the middle of the call. Sana had to speak quietly so her parents wouldn't hear, but she sounded kind of moody. "How are you gonna celebrate?"

"My ex," Sana groaned, ignoring the question completely, "made fun of my taste in guys. Like, my type or whatever."

You cocked your head. "And what is your type?"

"Oh, you know," she said, dismissive. "Hot." You laughed, and then she said, "A little less old and a little more muscular," and that shut you up, quick. Sana hesitated.

"Shit," you said.

"Shit," she agreed. "I really, really like you, though." And then:

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And you've been kinda done for ever since.

-

Right, okay. You get sidetracked, easily. It's a running gag. Sana gives you shit for it, but then again she gives you shit for a lot of things.

On February 9th, evening leaking through a skyline cracked open and gushing like an oil spill, and the stars dripping silver - auspicious, potentially, on Sana's side - she turns up at the door of your apartment, tapping snow from her boot-clad feet, mouth tight.

"It's fucking freezing," she snaps at you, as a greeting - the hello goes unsaid. You open the door wider and she sweeps past, takes a glance around like she owns the place. You should have known - in hindsight.

Work was fine but felt lengthy. Sana shot photos for some designer brand you'd never heard of and felt pretty proud of the day's accomplishments. She talks your ear off about it while you lean against the counter and nod attentively, put water on to boil and think about getting a fish, a dog, maybe a plant; you haven't quite figured it out. Sana might have opinions about it all.

You make tea for both of you. It's this rose hibiscus thing that supposedly soothes the mind. It was a gift from a coworker at some point. Or maybe it was going to be a gift to a coworker and you just never got around to sending it; either way, it had a bow and everything. At some point in time, when someone received it, there was a bow involved. You'll work out the details - at the very least, you'll say the explanation was very elaborate and poignant, and it'd get Sana smiling. She'd trace your hand, thumb skimming your knuckles. All of a sudden you'd be sitting across a small table, talking and talking as a stream of conversation ebbed and flowed; you'd think about the stars in the sky, like blood in water. You'd kiss her neck and tell her you're not tired, ask her if she'll stay the night - it would be easy.

"So he's a total prick," finishes Sana, chin in one of her palms, blowing over the lip of the mug, "but at least he's good with a camera. Otherwise, I swear I would've left the label years ago."

"Wow," you say. You weren't paying attention.

"Mhmm," she continues.

You blink at her, slightly disoriented.

"I was talking for like, twenty minutes. You should have noticed."

"Were you," you say mildly, "seriously? Shit. I'm sorry. I guess I tuned out, just - went somewhere else."

"Huh." Sana leans on her arm. There's a lacy white ribbon tied in her warm, amber hair. It suits her, matches the gauze-thin chiffon sleeves of her sweater, the floaty skirt she's wearing, dark gray tights adorning her legs - a cossack blouse, maybe, would describe it. She's so fashionable, all the time, like it comes from the tips of her fingers, unbidden and instinctive. It makes sense; Sana's a muse for the finer things in life, all light and lovely like gold. Like - rose quartz, the blush of dawn. It's an indescribable sort of attractiveness - the kind that is rooted in her mind, in her character.

You're glad she hasn't made you spell this sentimentality out.

"Do you have a secret girlfriend you need to be confessing to?"

"I ran into Momo earlier," you say instead, which - bad timing, maybe. Sana's bright-eyed, brow lifted, curious.

"Where?" she asks.

"That cafe place. The one by the second-hand shop she likes. Near the theater."

"I've never been to a movie with you," she remarks, instead of pointing out that your explanation could apply to like, twenty places around the city alone. "Is it because you'd rather die than be seen with me in public? Like, are you worried I'm ruining your reputation?"

She's playing. Obviously. The script here is flipped: you're the secret fling, the casual affair, the quick fuck that isn't meant to mean anything, no strings attached - but maybe the implication in Sana's question is that she'd consider it otherwise. She'd like to go to the movies, or out to dinner. Somewhere crowded. Not exactly an ideal date, but you could see it on her. You want to take her places. Maybe you already do, anyway.

You roll your eyes. "Right," you say.

"Does she know?" Sana taps her bottom lip. "About us."

"Yeah," you say, too quickly.

Sana makes a face. "How? When?"

"She's your roommate," you explain, kind of at a loss. "And - you talk to her. I figured. How could she not know?"

"Dude," says Sana.

"Is this gonna be one of those moments where you pretend to be way angrier about something than you actually are?"

"Obviously, yes." Sana tilts her mug toward you in accusation. "What'd she say?"

"She asked if we were dating."

"What'd you say?"

"No," you say. "And then she asked if I wanted to be, and then I ran into traffic, like, literally, to escape."

"Do you," begins Sana, in her best innocent voice. "Or don't you?"

She looks delighted. You stare at her flatly. "Ask Momo," you tell her, and she dissolves into that creased-eye smile that sends all your faculties reeling. The gorgeous little tri-tone of laughter and her fingers combing through the silky length of her hair - she's still teasing you. You've figured out the steps, memorized the way this game moves forward. It's an indulgence and it's an obsession - and it's the same thing for you as well, really. 

"Can't," she says, still laughing. "She'll lie on your behalf."

You have no clue what that means - but you guess that's just Sana.

-

So here's an inflection point, right before Valentine's day, because you have terrible timing - right before Sana ships out to Bruges, or Milan, or wherever the fuck it is for Fashion Week: you'll only catch a few days, maybe less, before she jets again for some other assignment. It's part of how her job works, and the situation's all roundabout, because she's probably spending the holiday eating French toast with a model and waiting in an airport, watching the world go by from the plane. So, sort of backwards. You should get the bouquets and heart-shaped boxes and share a plate of pasta, you suppose - but the main thing here is you'll only get a weekend. Then you won't even see her in person until the 28th.

Or not at all. Whatever the outcome - maybe she'll stand you up and have her revenge for you being so goddamn difficult and antagonistic in the first place. Who knows. Not you.

She's studying her reflection in your bathroom mirror, tying off an elaborately loose bun, pulling some curls free, working around the headband that she seems hell-bent on keeping in her hair, in case you should ever forget she's a total living doll. A pair of shorts reveals the creamy expanse of her thighs; she doesn't have a bra under her tank top. Your mind wanders.

"You look fine," you say, yawning, elbow to the sink's countertop.

The sound of the shower running is white noise in the background, droning away, and the door's cracked ajar so steam wafts into the hall. Sana doesn't spare you a glance, focused as she is on arranging herself back to magazine-cover perfection.

And it's not unreasonable: you've seen in her high heels and on runways, with cameras flashing, with a toned physique and carefully sculpted makeup and hair to match - but you think there's an authenticity here, the clothes she keeps in a bin above your dresser that have somehow mixed themselves in with a tube of mascara and a stick of deodorant, a set of bristled hairbrushes - the toiletry bag from her makeup case. If you were a more emotionally intelligent and honest man, perhaps you'd say something to the effect of, you look beautiful, or maybe, I'm going to miss you, you know, so if there were any big revelations that you might be having, if you might have something important you've neglected to bring up-

(Maybe it's not healthy - but you'll admit to some oddness, some habits: Sana sleeps better after she's been fucked senseless, her forehead pressing to yours; the sheets need washing more than once a week. It's a very regular development in her life and the fabric softener she prefers, the lavender and verbena, has started appearing in your cabinet; you're using that type now automatically. 

And that's not nothing. That's probably an invitation for some sort of talk. It's not - well, yeah. Anyway: no one will ever accuse you of being great at communicating.)

You wrap your hands around her waist, pushing the cotton of her shirt up, spreading your palms flat to trace her skin, feeling the tight muscles in her stomach flex and quiver - your touch skates to the valley of her cleavage and back, around her side, shoulders to collarbones and the front of her ribs, then her hipbones. She squirms a little bit; her skin pebbles where you're touching her. She's sensitive - ticklish, maybe. 

"Feels good, that," she admits, half into the sink.

And in the reflection, watching, you see her lean back, lean into you, without thought for herself; the familiarity of your touch. The easy intimacy of it.

"Well," you tease, "yeah, it's a bit of a problem for you lately."

The shower's still running. You kiss the side of her throat.

She smacks a hand down on your wrist - she's playful, though, teasing in her chide. "Get out," she says. "Unless you're getting in with me."

It's 11:34PM. You're already halfway to fucked-out; there was a particularly intense stretch, her thighs clenching and trembling on either side of you as she rode your face, hair falling and hitting her cheeks, her mouth parting open into the hottest sound you've ever heard, her shoulders arching; your palms braced tight against the soft skin of her hips, holding her just above your tongue as she whimpered please, more. She'd came on your face - like, all over - and then fell to your lap and was just so, so eager for a second helping. So you held her there, at the edge of your mattress as she took it so prettily; moaning and pleading until she'd sobbed through another and collapsed in a messy heap of satisfied flesh, slumped against you like the physical stress had stolen whatever architecture her bones had remaining. 

It's not an unusual turn of events - and now, there's the two of you. A routine; a domestic dance, almost. A morning-evening-afternoon affair.

"Nah," you say, pressing a kiss to her hairline, her jaw, the nape of her shoulder. "You could use some space, baby. Wouldn't wanna infringe."

"It'd be worth it," she says - not even flirtatious. Just blunt, honest.

You run your hand through your hair, intimate deep-in-thought.

"Oh, c'mon." Her reflection scoffs at you. "Momo doesn't call us a pair of sluts with a love story because you're the uncomplicated, mature one."

"So you did talk to her." She shoots you a glare through the glass - but no fire to it. She's relaxed in your grip, compliant. "And listen, maybe it's my character arc, honey, let me have it. I think I'm really coming into my own."

Sana flushes just a little at the pet name. There's a roll of her eyes, too. It's intentional, and you adore her for it. "Are you?" she snipes, but you're her favorite frustration and this is all just prelude; there's heat in her tone, an anticipation of wanting to be grabbed, to be slammed down into the pillows and fucked hard until her thighs can't tremble anymore. It's an indulgence in familiarity. You understand - but you don't quite give her what she's looking for.

"I hope so." You lean further, push deeper into her space. Your arms bracket her in. She's a beard-burn shy of looking completely debauched. It's tempting. "One of us has got to get their shit together, and you're obviously not taking any interest," you continue, all clandestine and shrewd and serious. Your free hand presses at her thigh. It doesn't matter which one.

Sana rolls her eyes again. "You bitch," she mumbles, shifts her weight - nudges you a bit with her elbow. She keeps you close, either way. "I'm being serious." 

You'd beg to differ, but the way she reaches her hand back into your hair and looks at your reflection is so loaded: lips plush, jaw smooth, a shadow resting across her shoulders. The honeyed quality of her hair. The rough shape of her collarbones, half-hidden beneath her loose cotton top, gray as gunmetal and baring her smooth, gorgeous shoulders. Sana is, above all, an attention-getter. It's hard not to fixate on the physicality. All parts of her - legs, ass, tits, hair, the swan's neck, the way she's just tall enough that you'd need her standing on tip-toe to kiss her, chin lifted, eyes down - that sweet little pout of a mouth - they're all an aesthetic intent; her waist has been grabbable since you've known her, and you would die to tug the ends of her hair free, ruffle the order and let them fall, a wavy-brown disaster, to her bare shoulders, frame her eyes with her eyelashes. That would make you soft, for sure. Or, anyway - more soft. As though you hadn't spent the past three months staring her down in the mornings, sneaking glances like she'd catch you at it, fixated and lust-ridden: Sana has all the elements to break you down.

You snap her waistband to make her flinch.

"You know what our problem is?" The water's still running - maybe she likes the sound of it, is trying to tune you out. "I always have to watch you for like five minutes before you kiss me," she chides, lifting her hair like she's fishing for compliments. "It's fucked up."

"A serious dilemma," you agree, without hesitation. Your thoughts are: 5'4", 120 pounds soaking wet, a perfect proclivity for being manhandled and made to feel cherished and worshipped and slutty as she needs. It's what you know of her, more or less. There are more things not on record. Things of consequence, weight. It would require context. "Truly."

"I mean, your mouth is never where it should be."

"Everyone's a critic."

Sana leans into you. Tips her head back. "Pay attention," she whispers, "be good," and lets her lips begin to part.

"Yeah?" your reflection replies, unkind.

She rolls her eyes again. Again again. There are many moments for this: the attitude, the incredulous stare, her naked body pressed to the marble walls of a bathroom she's becoming dangerously fond of - she sighs, like her heart's in it and it aches her. It's dramatic. "I'll teach you."

She spins away from the mirror and cups her hand around your mouth: another gentle touch, in contrast.

You think, all over again, of her thighs. Of the weight in her shoulders. The fine points of her wrists. She loosens the ribbon from her hair and places it on the counter. You don't know why that's so poetic. It feels like you've won something.

"Do I need to go get another condom?" you ask, dry, when your head goes south and your gaze gets low, right there - the cut of her clavicle, the way she'd probably like being handled rougher, hiked up on the bathroom counter, forced to submit like she's letting you do it.

Sana doesn't smile, but her lips twitch.

"Maybe," she says.

(You have an inkling, or two, or more.)

"Maybe you should take your clothes off before we talk logistics, huh?" she teases, and she does smile now. You laugh, despite your better judgment. "Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like that."

"I swear," she mumbles - it's accusatory, the way she leans her weight against you. It's her signature move. "I think your new thing is just a dirty girl complex."

You stare down at her. "Oh, okay."

Her lips crease: disgusted. "Just a thought," she says. Her eyes are hooding, and it's what she does when she's letting herself slide. Her hands come down slow, so slow to your neck. You could bite her if you wanted to. There's plenty to mark, plenty of skin to bruise: she's at your mercy, and she loves it like that. She licks her lips and waits. "You're out of them, by the way. Like - the condoms. I grabbed the last one from your nightstand and - you know." She's shaking her head - something solemn about it. "No more. I'm telling you for your own benefit. So, um - yeah, that's your warning."

"My warning?" you repeat.

You take her jaw, watch her cheeks bloom pink - it's nice. Pretty. Very charming. Well, that's Sana - well, at least it fits.

"What I'm trying to say," she begins, slowly, uncharacteristically bashful, "is you could, like, do whatever you wanted, probably."

"Dirty girl," you repeat, quiet.

She blinks at you. A furrow forms, impervious, in her pretty brow.

"This isn't - I don't - listen, no one says that- they only do that shit in the movies."

You grin.

"But you're like, a guy in real life."

She swats at you.

"I can't believe I have to clarify the fact that-"

"You want me to fuck you raw," you interrupt, gently - and when Sana looks at you there's something guarded, and soft, and caught, and it's almost like-

Well, what's the word?

"I just mean I trust you," she mumbles.

You think: well, you could've led with that.

"Oh," you say, instead. "Oh - sweetheart," and then she blushes harder, but it's not because of you. She has a sudden and surprising sense of embarrassment, and you just blink at each other for a couple seconds - maybe you weren't expecting that from her, the sentimentality - and she doesn't want to apologize. "Listen-" you begin, and then cut yourself off. What is there to say? What did you just spend the better part of an evening trying to avoid mulling over?

(A fleeting, untoward notion. Some sort of unsolicited idea, illicitly tangible. As in: maybe you're both going a little insane.)

"I have a couple questions," you add, like an afterthought.

"I can't with you." Sana ducks her head, pulls on the bottom of her top. "Sorry, just," she starts, but lets the rest slip. "You don't need to make a thing of it."

"You seem - conflicted, is all." You catch her by the hip, guide her a little closer. There's a slow-simmering feeling stirring in your gut - something incessant, demanding of attention. "A little regretful. Look at me."

"I wasn't asking." She looks. It's a direct hit: she has a mean glare, one with the same capacity to bore through you, tear you limb by limb. She has the capacity for cruelty, is what you're getting at. "If you're that curious about the specifics, it was an expression of trust. Take it or leave it."

"Now you seem upset."

She arches an eyebrow: the normal one, the regular sardonic-you're-so-hot-I-hate-it eyebrow, not the sexy-sultry-dirty eyebrow.

"Five minutes," she huffs, without explanation. "Five whole minutes and I'm still not being kissed, like, why-"

Your laugh comes from somewhere in your chest; deep, surprised.

"There's no winning with you," she grumbles, but when she looks up you can already see it - it's in her eyes, she's not actually that upset. There's no stormy undertow, just the fondness lurking like a tidal wave underneath everything else. You feel the current a bit before it swallows her: there are hands tugging, winding, drawing the whole mess closer and closer. It's affection, an entire sea's worth of it, flooding and indiscernible. You can see all the stars that shimmer. It's just: her hips are so fucking grabbable, you know that already, that it's to the point of being inescapable, an absolute truth - and she wants to get off, she always wants to, but there's some greater, darker purpose to how her breath ghosts on your neck. How she blushes like it's the first time.

"I want," she breathes. It comes with intent.

(Yeah, a lot of fucking intent.)

"I know, baby," you tell her, low - and press a kiss to the juncture of her jaw, one hand lifting her top, palming her breast, the other sliding into her underwear. "You always want more," you murmur. Sana nods like a doll - you've reduced her, again, into a bundle of fussy limbs and breath and gasps, begging you to get inside her pussy. "I've got you," you coo, a bit darkly: and, well, Sana isn't wrong - it is a kind of dirty girl syndrome. At least for her. 

For you, it's more like a daily reacquaintance with your sins.

Your mouths meet, clumsy and off-kilter; Sana's tongue is heavy, languid in the wet heat of your mouth, and the kiss tastes like everything else: her hair like flowers, her makeup, the faded sweat, her cherry lip balm, the flat, glassy quality of the cum dried on her thighs, her underwear around your fist. There's a lingering scent to her sex that reminds you of how badly you wanna fuck her; your finger ghosts at her cunt and it's wet again, dripping-pink and sensitive, ready, open, a bruised thing.

"You," she breathes into your mouth, and her teeth skim your lip, "are so fucking hard." She's skated her palm down into your sweats, taken a rough hold of your cock, as though to prove something: and she's so right. She doesn't break the kiss. Her thumb smears a bit of your pre-cum over the slit, spreads it up and down your length. You're already aching-hot and throbbing for her. "Baby," she murmurs, sounding devious, feeling it, too. There's more to say, more of that floodgate left to open up:

"You're going to cum so much in me, aren't you?"

(It's rhetorical.)

You hoist her onto the counter, shove her shorts down, pull your cock out of your pants: it's just muscle memory, the way the rhythm works itself out - and if Sana was trying to push you, she's definitely succeeding.

"You should be careful what you wish for," you offer, half-nonsense, half the judicious side of an agreement. The devil on the shoulder's not exactly in the business of sticking to your promises: "I should probably pull out, you know," you go on, mindlessly - but she's got her arms around your neck, is rolling her hips impatient and insistent like the conversation isn't even important enough for her to properly listen to.

"Gonna cum on all over me instead?" she asks, too quiet. "Is that the plan?"

And it's the least combative you've heard her be in a hot minute. You slicken your fingers with her cum and rub your digits along the flushed, throbbing surface of her clit: the only way you know to deal with her filthy mouth.

"Right on my tummy, or all over my chest," she goes on, heedless, dragging her fingertips over her shirt like you need a demonstration. She's just spewing bullshit for the thrill of it. The grin accompanying that is sly, cheeky, like her whole self; she rubs her nose against yours. 

You gather her panties and let them ball up in your palm.

"Maybe a mess all over my ass?"

"Oh, definitely," you sigh, finally, and work her apart as the kisses fall out of line.

She looks up at you from beneath long, delicate lashes, fluttering like she knows the effect it's having on you: it's un-fucking-fair, the way she uses it, wields it like the weapon it is. A sigh slips from her, ragged, fucked: she's bracing herself, chasing the tip of your cock, leaning into the nudge. "Maybe you can push me onto my knees, shove your dick down my throat and gag me with it until I swallow every drop, yeah?"

"Sana," is your reply. "Of course." It's the conscientious, mature, adult thing to do.

She's batting her eyelashes. You should do something about it, maybe: you line your cock up against her entrance, holding steady, and slap your hand on the smooth expanse of her right thigh. "Spread," you snap at her, and then grin back. 

Her face scrunches: genuine exasperation, tight cunt, real feeling.

She huffs, opens her thighs wider, gives herself up to you - and that's another victory. Her fingers reach up and dance against the scruff on your jaw like it's a fond curiosity. You watch her search your face for affirmation like it'll fix everything. There's not much to do but to slip your arms around the waist, let her wrists cross over your shoulders like she needs the anchor to survive.

"So pull out then, mister-good-ideas-at-work," she taunts, nosing at your throat, the underside of your jaw, up to your ear: "Show me, if it's so easy."

You can barely breathe, it's so tense; the way she teases the shape of it, her cunt slick and open against you. She'll stretch like she was tailored for the fit, easy and familiar, taking, taking, taking - she's always such an angel, but she's halfway in hell already, legs spread out, slick pussy lips bumping against the blunt head of your cock, so wide, so vulnerable.

"Sana," you hear yourself say, voice like sandpaper, throat drying. Her smile twists her features to something more-knowing, all full-lipped and curving at the corners - she's a little more practiced in sinning, knows the game better. It's an act and it isn't, all at once.

"C'mon, I need it," she drawls, but the soft little plea comes back: "please."

Your hand drops from her mouth, smoothing over her chin, down the swell of her breasts, her ribs. You slip your cock inside her and can see the exact moment her face blanches - it's so sweet, so sharp: her eyes widen and her jaw goes slack, lips falling open as her brow furrows. She's so wet around you, taking you, swallowing up every inch like it's no work at all, her perfect pussy clenching just as it hits the base: like it's muscle memory, like she's been molding herself for it, opening for you. The very thought makes you want to fuck her even deeper: you tighten your hand at her hip, drag yourself out of the slick squeeze of her cunt.

"Oh," Sana breathes out, eyes half-lidded. "Holy- oh, you're-"

Your cock sinks deeper. The word gets lost in her moan; a crease forms on the bridge of her nose, between her brows, and she presses her fingers to your nape, clutching at the skin like she's unsure of the support. One of her palms strokes across your cheek: a wonder, a mercy, a favor, all of it. You'll ruin her, just like she wants, just like you promised. You're sure of it.

You have to fight the urge to ask if she's okay, because you know what kind of face she'd make: exasperated, disappointed, incredulous. Instead you snap your hips and drive yourself inside of her again.

All her thoughts and her confidence - the casual faux-command, the playful, arrogant tilt in the turn of her words - unspools, dissolves, crumples in her eyes, collapsing to dust around you: she can't even choke out her filthy demands, let alone the sugar-soaked slights and slander that came first. The innuendos, the bullshit, all those deliciously-subtle negotiations. She blinks, and the second you slide a couple inches back in and in and in, her eyes flicker shut and you both exhale into the same breath: an oh-my-fuck-Sana, and the answering whimper-moan that falls so effortlessly out of her mouth. Your palm burns against her hip bone, sinking deep, trying to press her tight against your cock, skin-to-skin and full-to-the-brim.

"How," Sana gasps out, sounding delirious, out-of-it, her brain rattled by nothing more than the full, perfect fit of your cock inside her. Her fingers lock behind your head, pulling you even closer. She gasps against your mouth, "-how does it- fuck, oh my god, fuck-"

You see what she's getting at.

There's nothing separating you, and it feels - well, her pussy is unbelievable. The realization is hitting you harder with each glide you sink inside her; just like everything else with Sana - charged, thrilling, slightly inappropriate and hotter for it.

And you'd tell her if you had the words - how fucking good she feels, the grip around your shaft as you hilt inside her, the exact feel, taste, texture of Sana's perfect, pretty, slick-squeezing cunt. Oh, you're slaking a kind thirst here they write stories about, the kind you die for: it'll never be sated, you'll always be seeking, and the deeper you go the further you drown.

"Yeah," is all you can say. "Fuck." The only explanation.

Her voice goes tighter with each stroke, her legs wrapping around your waist like rope. You're touching everything of Sana that can be touched: you kiss her hair, suck marks into her collarbone, cup her face and force her eyelashes open; you fill her up so deep you can feel her throat tremble when your name just brushes the roof of her mouth.

Oh, it's rough, messy, somehow incandescent; you're pounding her right there on the counter, against the sink. The showerhead's hissing just loud enough for you to miss the string of expletives you know she'd be spitting, the half-bitten curses. She keeps her ankles hooked like she's afraid you'll fall, afraid that you'd slip out of her, leave her empty, unoccupied, unfulfilled, wanting. 

"Fuck, baby," you hear, feel against you: her lips are near your ear. She shivers. "If I knew," a pause as Sana swallows, her hair clinging damply to her forehead. "If I knew- felt this good- you're going to- your fucking cock, I swear, ohmygod, I swear-"

You press your mouth right at her temple, harshening the rhythm and loving the way her fingernails dig hard, bright crescents into the skin of your back; there'll be marks there tomorrow, the perfect imprints of her grasping, coming apart, holding on. 

"God, Sana," you mutter, almost desperate. It's such a fucking disaster. She's wet on your skin, soaking everywhere. It's so fucking hot.

You want her cumming on your cock; you want her on her back, knees up, shaking; you want her a sweat-shining mess, breathless and glassy-eyed. You'd worship her body if you didn't have your hands clenching her ass so you could push her (one, two, three, four) times (five) against the tile, (six) against your skin.

It's more imperative than religion, really.

Three months later and you suppose there's been a lot of perfect, sopping-wet, begging-and-creaming, broken-off, rough-thrusting, sinful fucking, and sometimes it's in her apartment or in the backseat of her car or in your fucking kitchen, her braced up against the island countertop with her legs spread and you railing her in her pajamas. Sometimes it's when Sana whimpers in this awful way when she's kissing you, pressing a soft, barely audible "ruin me," into your mouth - it's then when she gets really, truly fucking filthy: you're actually going to fucking cum inside her, sobbing and stupid, if she doesn't fucking knock it off. If this doesn't just kill you both - and that's how it'll go: her legs locked so tight around your waist, hands white-knuckled around your shoulders, face-to-face and with the base of her cunt kissing your cock so sweetly.

Sana makes a weak, overwhelmed noise, like the same thought's gotten the best of her, too.

"My pussy," she says in this high, thin whisper. "It needs you. Like I fucking - oh, fuck - like I think I was made for your cock." Her words have gotten little manic, voice edging at hysterical: "It's a perfect fit. Just feels fucking-" A whine pitches in her throat and she grinds her clit against your lower stomach, her abs quivering like she's had three cups of coffee. 

You thrust once - no, you really, truly fuck her: you snap in and in and in - you hold her fast to the sink basin and bury your cock all the way to her deepest point, to where Sana clenches and her muscles ripple around you.

She's always so sensitive. Like in a smearing-lipstick, fucked-through-half-a-box-of-tissues, you-absolute-angel kind of way. 

But there's no tease, no falsified modesty to it - none of the push-and-pull from either of you; your expressions are blissed-out, stuck in awe, in reverence. Jaws dropped and punching out each hard, deep fuck into her, gasping for air. "Oh my god," she's saying, head lolling like there's no rigidity left to her spine, nails digging into the hard muscle of your back. She's saying other shit - and you're talking, too, talking a bit: it's the kind of delirium that strips language to the bone. "Holy fuck- I know- Yeah. Fuck, I know."

The nodding is excessive - but in your shared defense, so is the sensation of fucking each other raw. Who the fuck coulda guessed?

She's hot and tight and god-blessedly gorgeous - and you tell her that. From the first time you watched her stretch a condom over your cock, roll it down with her palm, and felt her pussy sink onto you inch by inch and the pressure was immediate and aching - "It feels so fucking good," she'd been saying - to the fifth, to the fiftieth. To her draining you dry, her moans winding you up and around her finger - even that first time in a filthy, nasty, cramped bathroom stall, drunk as all fuck, and then the next morning. "More, more, more," and now, too, all: "It's everything, please, fuck, keep going," all the other times where your tongues have turned to satin, curling into the place of your own destruction, where the warmth is licking out all sense. 

In the worst of moments, in the best - she's clung to you, body arched up, hips up, heels dug into you so hard you might be bruised under her.

All her moans are punched-out, high-pitched, shuddering with her exhales.

It's everything: "Don't stop." 

And that's really how the last shred of coherency slips past, disappears down the drain: her voice twists as you graze the spot inside her you want her to cry at, and you sink into a pleasure so intense, a release so in-tune, it's like it'd only be complete after you both sank to hell.

"Such a good girl," you kiss into her skin, sinking your fingers into the round fullness of her butt, spreading her apart so she knows, even better, exactly where her cunt ends and your cock begins. "The prettiest fucking girl; your fucking pussy is so tight; hot and soaking wet for me." Your voice sounds worse with each dirty little nothing: you've both been babbling for a while. Maybe ten seconds. Maybe since the beginning. "I think I could fuck you forever."

"Cocksleeve," she agrees, and tips her chin to the ceiling, blinking hard at nothing, trying not to lose it, but maybe also, in the same sense: "Literally could just - be my cunt. For the rest of time. Cocksleeve."

"Gorgeous," is what comes next out of your mouth; and, in some warped parallel to the truth, "All mine."

For her, too, really: she likes being tossed around, told how much you need to breed her, how slutty she is - but then you watch how her brain fries with the softer, sweeter stuff. Oh, you're making love to the thoughts she keeps trapped under a box in the back of her head, and all the things she'll only dare admit to under dim lamplight; when she thinks she can disguise how they might come across as anything at all besides absolutely fucking tragic. 

You could bottle her tears for how sentimental this shit is - well, you could do that anyway - the whole messy situation. You say her name once and she whimpers out your own. That's the state of affairs. Just one look at her face is all you need. It's an instant trigger, it's how the electricity rushes and buzzes through the wires.

"You're stunning," you say, totally earnest.

And the heat goes straight to her guts.

It's the transparency of it all, or the bordering bratty-tilt to it, or something, you're not a therapist - it's just what sends Sana toppling, fluttering like a heartbeat as her hips stutter into your own, legs spasming, pussy clenching - and right on the heel of that, with a strangled: "So fucking good to me, I swear, please-"

The moan barely passes the boundary of her lips as it breaks like dawn over her body, sending her spine arcing, chest heaving. It's a kettle-whistle pitch and you think your neighbors are sick of the screams, the late-night-to-early-morning, pounding rhythm against the thin walls, the laughter, the headboard beating like a drum. And they would have to be blind, to not look at her and see a sin they want to taste, too - she's divine like this, moans broken-off and falling into each other, a slur, a blur, her tits bouncing under the flimsy tank, rising higher with each stroke - the fat, firm weight of them; and this is when you know she's going to cum on your cock, the way her muscles go loose, pliant, willing, relaxed - it's all an afterglow in the waiting, she's wriggling into her death, in anticipation, arching up to meet you.

When you pull your hand out from under her ass to grab a fistful of her shirt, right at the center and pulling up to keep her back arched off the counter, her breasts spill from the loosened material and up, and up - they bounce higher, tighter; you're pounding her sopping-wet pussy harder than you have any right to.

There is no heaven to compare. 

You'll tell her, if you'll survive the sight of it: Sana is an absolute fucking wreck. Her jaw is slack, her lipstick has long smeared to obscurity and she is a vision in the sexiest, sluttiest sense. She is the kind of fucked that's worth staying dead for. Worth taking last breaths to witness, dying to witness. 

And, the moment her lips graze yours: your insides crackle and smolder.

Her hand hits the counter, knocking whatever's next to you onto the tile - the clatter would've been distracting, but you're balls-deep and you think it'd break her if you hit it any rougher-

"Ruin me," Sana pants into your mouth, barely audible. "Fucking ruin me, please, ruin me-"

"Sana," you manage through the hot clench of her around you, the near-painful crush of her arms tight at your waist.

"Need your cum," is what she sounds like. "Like fuck, do you feel that?" She's breathing into your ear. "God, fuck, your cock is right against my tummy, right here," she mewls, one slender hand slipping down to tap a knuckle right below her belly-button, "can feel it pressing up against me," and your mind's gone off, racing down every back-alley, all the old dirt-road streets: "You'd cum right up my little womb. You could. If you wanted, you could breed me up - pump me full, fuck me full. Give me- just - give me everything," and she has no idea - no idea what she's saying, what she's doing, how hard it is to think around a girl with such a perfect, pretty, slick-squeezing cunt-

"Sana," is all you can manage, warning and plea in one. "Careful." It's stupid: you have half a foot on her, outweighing her by more than the other direction, and yet Sana makes you weak. You're like clay for her to mold, bending beneath her fingertips and falling straight through, like the word please: a request. You don't know how she has you all figured out. It's no fun this way.

"Or else what?" Sana smirks, winning. "Gonna get me pregnant?"

You swear you see stars, that it's going to end embarrassingly fast for you, and the thought of you hilting right into Sana's tight cunt, knocking up against her insides, breeding her like your stupid fucking cock knows it wants, that's so, so fucking filthy - no, no, fuck no: that's not what this is, this is supposed to be innocuous, or some approximation of it - you're gonna put her on her knees, cum on her face, fuck a load across her tits, in the bowl of her cupped palms and watch her lap it up and lick clean her long fingers, maybe push the whole, aching head of your cock between the lips of her plush, pink, sweet-as-can-be mouth. Send the load directly down her throat, tugging those gorgeous tresses while her brown, liquid eyes peer up at you. A mess: a sopping, fucked-out, splayed-out, mess.

"Filthy fucking mouth," you deflect, because you can't keep on track with how pretty Sana's perfect cunt's clutching you like a fucking fist, her tiny frame somehow matching you, thrust for thrust.

"What about it," and Sana isn't even flinching.

"Gonna cum in it," you snap, a growl, and it's supposed to be a threat, but then it hits - right at the crease between her torso and legs, your favorite place to pound into her; you're fucking her like a toy, treating her like the easiest little hole you've ever had your hands on, and you'd never pull out, you'd never give this up and Sana knows it, too - you have to make sure to take the base of your cock and work your cum deeper into the bowels of her perfect, hot cunt.

"Yeah?" she hums resplendently.

Somehow, fucked-out and blissful, soaking your cock as you split her open, there's a note of tease in her voice - and an echo in the swell of her womb, clenching, just as willing; Sana's a genius, so she must have found all this shit out already - but it's the type of thing you have to admit, privately and to yourself, through gritted teeth, not within hearing-distance of a girl whose smile could undo every thread in the fabric of time: it's kind of really, ridiculously hot.

"Can you promise?"

"Yeah," you choke.

"Go on," breathes Sana, a dare and a request in one. "Love hearing you say it."

"On your knees," you try to swallow, "gonna pump your cute little throat full," you groan, a man unmade, "gonna have to fuck you like this again, baby. I'm going to make you-"

Make her what: a mother? A whore? A wife, a baby, something she'll be afraid to call out loud, but will say anyway-

"Yours," and that's Sana, fucking the thought out of your head, "so you could use me up, so you'd make me take it, give me everything - cum, cum in me, I need it- please," her voice climbing, crescendoing, "Cum in me," a broken record, all instinct. Sana and her tight, creamy little pussy, you pumping full, you flooding her insides and spilling out, the messier the better - it's how she gets off, her voice wavering until you can feel the shivering, the shaking, the quivering; that perfect moment of collapse, where you're there with her, just the same.

There's a certain kind of pure, self-destructive stupidity in trying to rationalize it, you know, but that's the fucked-up part.

"Oh," she breathes, deep and deliriously hot, and it's an aftershock of its own. 

There's no reasoning with how badly you're pounding into her, fucking your cum as deep as it'll go, letting her soft curves rut against your body, to meet her rhythm in turn, to fill her up to the brim and then just a bit over.

"Oh, I can feel it," and Sana sounds like you've done the unthinkable: as if you'd broken a prayer, a hymn, the key to heaven held beneath the wetness, the heat, the fluttering pulse, the tightness, the sex, this body of yours. Like she could die. Like she should die. "That's - oh, oh - your cum's filling up my pussy," and it doesn't register that she shouldn't say it, and you should be telling her to shut the fuck up, but it just doesn't cross your mind at all: "Oh, God. You're - it's so hot inside of me, can - feel it," and it's all true.

There's nothing like it, her silken, creamy, slushy warmth surrounding your softening cock, the way you fit so easily against her.

"I told you," is the first thing out of her gorgeous, swollen mouth. Her lips brush your jaw, your neck. Sana's breath tickles, light on your skin. "No shot you were pulling out."

"Shut up," is the best you've got - it makes her laugh, eyes creasing, throaty and sweet; oh, there's that quintessential Minatozaki charm. 

-

(That's it: she has your number; you watch her smile, watch the way her legs shake when you slip out of her, watch her warm brown eyes flit upwards. You can't let her leave. And she knows.

Sana's fingers graze the curves of your cheeks as she holds your lip between hers, tongue tasting, teasing. A long beat before she releases you, and her smile spreads over the line of your face, slow and steady, like a sunrise. She's impossibly gentle, all silk and sweetness. Unthinkingly soft as her palm smooths your hair out of your eyes - her skin on your skin. Sana's eyes are dreamy like this. The radiant gleam in her irises clashes with the moonlight on her lashes.

She's glitter, gold.)

-

The pharmacy. The one by your apartment that's open a little after 1 am on a Saturday.

And this should be your cue: walk on by, look forward, straight ahead. 

Walk, like you have somewhere to be. Toss some distractions into the basket, drain cleaner, detergent, a fifth, new, foreign bottle of conditioner; maybe some light beer, too, to fit the stereotype, to balance things out.

You tell yourself you have no place here, amidst boxes of birth control pills, gels and patches and syringes and capsules of every single kind. Don't dawdle - don't linger.

Sana's milling the aisles in pursuit of candy, or a bag of those heinous fucking Takis, probably. A bottle of gatorade, realistically; she likes the blue one, says it tastes like putting your tongue to a nine-volt. What an eloquent princess, you think, and find it hard to hide the smile, the simpering stupidity, the tenderness.

She's someone you text about shitty things, who complains to you about her coffee stuck in the vending machine, Mina's ongoing billionaire-affair and Nayeon's chattering over some boy she likes from way back when. Someone whose high ponytail can be found above a pair of comically large glasses, a paperback novel pressed between the bend in her arm and her ribs (bitch, of course there is, she'd said when you'd asked, there's smut in everything these days); whose laugh, tinkling and lilting and silver-bright, has no right to sound as rich or as deep or as richly deep as it does. 

Someone who looked in your eyes and found it - that gaping hollowness, a vacancy in the marrow - and who laughed at that, too. She makes it worse. You might actually love her.

"You're like, really nervous," she tells you, not asking.

"Well," and that's when the wall between your mouth and your brain finally collapses: it all rushes through; no air left in the room. "Maybe I'm a fucking idiot."

"I've actually always known this." Sana looks at you, half a smirk. It's almost impossible to imagine the last time you were anything else. "But, like, aren't all men, really?"

"Yeah, yeah. A genius observation." You run a hand through your hair; her smile blooms wider.

"If you insist," and Sana tosses her head, exaggerated, before dumping a shit ton of Twizzlers into the cart. "They're for Tzuyu," she explains. "She's been fucked by her publicist more times this week than she's had hot meals."

"Y'know I actually caught wind of that," you say, moving one step forward in line. "It was neck and neck until she skipped a lunch. Although I don't think those count as like, substantial nutrition. It doesn't negate the other thing."

"Fuck, you're probably right. Gummy bears next time, then."

"Right. Better, slightly."

"That's the spirit," and she peels away, leaving you with her smoky sarcasm - a hand on your bicep as she saunters off to the parking lot. "Also: get some of the good Tylenol from behind the counter. You fucked my brains out and I think I'm coming down with a concussion."

"Jesus christ," you groan. "Again with the outdoor-voice, Sana."

She flashes you her megawatt-grin, flips you off, and the whole transaction at the register is over before you've made sense of it. It's an opportunity for some perspective, a chance to decide you've got it wrong. You should walk home, Sana should ask for a ride, or an Uber - neither of you should need a night-time pharmacy. You could change it if you tried. It's almost absurdly simple, but the way she takes your hand on the walk home is so soft. She's so close: her profile is elegant, poised in the streetlamp's sick, sulfur glow. 

You turn the key. There's her laughter again, echoing like windchimes through the city.

And, fuck. It's going to be harder to forget this than you think.

-

"The internet says it's best to use within twenty-four hours," is all Sana says about it. The tablet's small and green. She hands the plastic bottle to you to check it. Her hair's fallen over her shoulders like ribbons, soft as her eyes. "And the way Momo described it," she explains, almost playfully, "if I wait to take this tomorrow, I think we'd get an excuse to fool around some more."

The look she gives you then is somehow uncharged, despite the suggestion, and she has that habit, when she's laughing or when she's moaning, of chewing on the inside of her lip. She's sitting on top of your breakfast table and looking like starlight. She uncrosses her legs, tips her head.

"What do you think?" and it's everything, a complex trap in four syllables. She's caught you well and squarely. "Do we have a reason?"

"Hm," you say. Sana crosses her legs the other way.

"It's bona fide," she says, teasing you a little, running a finger along the tabletop, her eyes flicking up. She's impossible. It's terrible. "You can creampie me over and over. Can fill up every inch of my pussy - fill my guts right up, and breed me good."

"Huh." It's all you have left to deflect with, when she's laid it all out like that. "That's not what bona fide means, by the way."

Sana lifts a hand, cocks her head. "Means you can do whatever you want." She clicks her tongue, scandalized. There's not much point in refusing, and not even a chance.

"Carte blanche might be what you're after," you offer.

Her laugh is a little breathless, annoyed. "Yeah," and it's like she's flushing pink. "That's what I said. Are you gonna ask me if I know what creampie means too, smartass?"

"Princess," you say, grinning a little, setting the plastic down beside her. You're pretty sure it's rhetorical anyway. "If you read even another sentence from one of Momo's incognito tabs, you'd end up drooling on my sheets." You keep her gaze, eyes locked - well, at least one of you's taking this seriously, you think, as the corners of your lips curve, unbidden - fuck, she's always making you smile.

"Does this mean you're into me, or something?" You tilt your head, pretend to consider. Sana makes a show of scowling. "Or do you just have a thing for being a cumslut," you gesture vaguely, "like, generically?"

Sana leans in and kisses the underside of your chin.

Quick, easy; she snaps back into place like you'd somehow never notice. "A little of both," she says, as breezy as possible. "I'm surprised you're ruling out me taking pity on you." Her eyes have all the mirth you'd expect, and the warmth - the fondness. She looks up at you, and her smile's not as bright or sharp as it used to be. She just seems happy. "Wishful thinking, but whatever."

-

And maybe Sana's on to something: wishful thinking - but, then again, maybe you're getting close to the part where you've both got it all so, so wrong. You'll have to figure things out from there. Either way, you're at a place where you're genuinely taking medical advice from Hirai Momo.

So, it is what it is.

-

You don't exactly talk about it. Which is to say neither of you ever bring up how this whole arrangement came to be.

Because it's not romance, it's not sweet, it's not soft or sentimental - it's not even halfway serious: the way everything unfolds haphazardly and with no real, defined idea of what you're getting yourself into, other than a precautionary 'hey, we're not gonna know each other' rule that got broken almost instantly is all that you can divulge, for now. There's all these complexities, layered and tangled and difficult. It's all-consuming. It's an emotional quagmire. It's the kind of thing that'll take years to unpack, the kind that'll never really have an actual explanation; a mistake, probably, you think, one worth repeating, definitely.

"Look. You're leaking out of me," she murmurs from against your pillows, thighs parting - you glance at her cunt, exposed by her twisted panties, and sorta get stuck there. Sana laughs. "Wow," she says, watching you with that wide-open smile of hers, dark hair splayed across the pillows. "Your obsession's worse than I thought."

She's leaving town in the afternoon, so it's been this lazy, lingering fuck all morning, just to pass the time.

You're working from home in the most metaphorical way possible - taking advantage of the daylight streaming in the windows, playing with her hair, fucking her on and off until you get tired of having a mess of a stranger in your apartment. Right. That's the explanation you'll give, when anyone asks. It's a miracle you've slept at all - but then again, Sana gets blissfully and completely tuckered out, turns into putty in your arms, and this is the most dangerous thing of all, the sultry, doe-eyed beauty of her slack mouth in the dark. 

You fell asleep together the first time you shared a bed and now never seem to wake up on your own anymore.

She's lax on your mattress, and the blanket's riding low on her thighs, revealing the slopes of her perfect ass. Her little cunt's gaping. Leaking cum. There is no denying it. You think the devil would look a lot like this.

You place your reading glasses delicately on the nightstand, pretend you haven't heard her - or the squelch of her fucked out cunt as she slides a finger down, down, down-

"Oh. Am I distracting you?"

"You have a breeding kink," you say, once she's on a second bottle of water, when her skin's less flushed. You're rubbing between her shoulder blades - she's glowing in your sheets like she belongs there, all white satin and innocence, even with the sweat matted at the ends of her hair.

"Probably," sighs Sana, eyelashes fluttering. "Do I?"

"Definitely," you say, amused.

"Maybe," hums Sana, sounding winded still. You dig your fingers into the nape of her neck, and the next sound out of her mouth is not entirely uncontrolled. You have a point; you're both thinking it. You're just not going to make it. "What's your excuse?"

"Excuse?"

You're not asking her to clarify the question, you're simply buying time to scramble for an answer. Because- "I have no excuse." You shrug. "Just - biology." She rolls her eyes at the apparent insufficiency. "Something about filling up this perfect little body and ruining your whole" - you make a gesture toward her - "pristine-ness."

"Ah, there we go." Sana sits up, the sun casting golden streaks over the angles of her back as she goes. 

She stretches like it's an accident, reaches for the hair-tie on the nightstand, and it doesn't matter if you see her do it. "Well." She combs back her damp curls, piling it in an errant bun with practiced ease. It looks good. It's hot, actually. Your cock's still sensitive - but, well, so is Sana's everything. "We're fucked in the head. We get it out of our systems."

"Speak for yourself," you say. She raises a pointed, unmistakably Sana-ish brow. "I'm well-adjusted," you insist. "No baggage."

You watch her go through a moment of disbelief, trying to find some leeway before she snorts. She's climbing on top of you, apparently. Theoretically, you've been keeping an eye on the clock - counting down the minutes before she has to be checking bags and folding up a boarding pass into her purse - first class, because the company believes luxury begets beauty. You'd argue she was both regardless, but-

"That," she says, very matter-of-fact, and settles down so the curve of her ass is over your thigh. It's light pressure. Barely. "Is bullshit."

"I thought that's what you wanted, Ms. Corporate-wunderkind. A therapist type."

"Shut the fuck up." She smacks your chest, too hard to be playful, but a beat later and her hand's snaked back behind her, palm curved over your cock with a promise that makes the rest of the world seem sort of dull.

You shift beneath her, involuntary. Let your hands trail to the warm hollow of her hips, brushing your thumbs over the pink blush marks that blossom on her skin when you touch her for too long.

"Wanting, wanting," she muses, with a strangely alluring sense of casualness, "you've got one track mind - ah - don't even try to hide it." You're more interested in her fingers dragging over your tip, the graceful knuckles that go rigid as she finds your cockhead grazing over the pad of her palm. "For all you know I'll fuck another guy," she says, in a matter-of-fact, it doesn't matter anyway type tone. "Or, god, a dozen."

"Please." Your incredulity and chagrin slip out in equal measure. "Have pity."

Sana cocks her head, intrigued, and takes ahold of the base of your dick.

"No," she decides, "can't say that I can."

There's the stretch, the press. She sinks onto you with no resistance; she's all velvety and wet and you know you were the one who'd gotten her that way. You hiss - so does she. Then it's just quiet again, except for Sana shifting above you, her long legs tangling with yours, the heels of her palms pinning your thighs down to the mattress behind her. She gives a languid little swivel.

"Do you remember," you hear Sana saying, very dreamily, and that's what makes you think perhaps it isn't a serious inquiry and that your input isn't required. She goes, "there was that last day of scheduled rehearsals, that we had before the long winter break. And we got through the numbers in four hours, maybe? Tons of time to kill, and there was nowhere for me to be."

"You came over to my place," you mumble, a vague, wordless reminder of your role.

"Right." Another shift; you're still sensitive as fuck but Sana's weight feels good in your lap and the view of her tits is objectively excellent. "And I took a shower."

"Sure."

She squeezes and rises in tandem, sighing blissfully.

You sit up slightly, support yourself on one elbow and watch yourself disappear, reappear in the wet slit of Sana's pussy. "For a really long time."

"Like an hour," agrees Sana, almost humming, and snaps her hips forward. The jolt forces a groan out of you. She tilts her head up as she does it again, eyelashes fanned, and the reverberation of her movements shakes loose that damned piece of hair clinging to the arch of her temple. You watch a thin stripe of cum leaking out of her, too; that'd been inside her an hour ago. Maybe less. She's fucking you like it doesn't bother her, like she'll never grow tired.

She pulls at the long lock of her hair, seems to examine it contemplatively. She's so perfectly content in her self-aware, blasé, cat-like smugness, purring and untouchable and arching back. Then she says, "That was because I was fantasizing about getting filled with so much cum that I just started running down your shampoo bottle - that's, like, the ultimate breeding fantasy for me, honestly."

"What about that one time," you say, as though unhinged, as though half-conscious, as though every word has the consistency of molasses and there's a bright pulse of blood flooding your brain and rushing out your cock, "when we snuck out to the parking lot, and I made you sit on the hood of my car-"

"Shh, not the same," dismisses Sana, leaning into you, and you hold her there, lock your fingers into the swell of her ass to steady the desperate throbbing inside her pussy. Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth, but her head lolls to the side, the gauzy curtain of her hair swaying at her waist.

"But," she concedes, an exhale, "that was good, yeah."

"You came really fast - like, so fast," you insist, thrusting up to the sound of her small groan. Her body, all lush skin and ample, unresisting curves, is flushed and gleaming. There's so much of her to take in: the inky fan of her lashes, the ridge of her ribs, the way her breasts hang heavy as she moves. This kind of debauched view feels exclusive, as if reserved just for you. "Remember that?"

"Did I?" She blinks owlishly.

"I'm remembering it for you." Your palm is heavy on her ass; it's what keeps you grounded, lets you get leverage. "What were you thinking about then?"

She bares her teeth in an indecent grin, tugs on the corner of her lip, as if reveling in the memory.

You watch her mouth open, close again.

It clicks: "Right," she answers, finally, and rides you all the harder. "Errant thought, but." She climbs up onto her feet, knees swung wide, her tiny soles balanced perilously atop the duvet - it's all slippery friction and she's so light you could flip her right over. It's all at your discretion. You lean up further. Your arm braces her back, low and hot. "Was imagining how you'd feel in my ass," Sana continues, carelessly, matter-of-fact, as if discussing dinner plans or a movie rental, and you don't expect a laugh from your lungs, but it comes out harshly, all surprise and hot delight, like a confession.

"This was a few years ago," Sana says.

She lifts off, teases your cockhead with the shallowest grip. Watches all the lines in your face start to wobble, and then sinks back down, all the way, burying your cock in her pussy again. Her lips move, you bottom out, you know she's going to ruin your next orgasm like that.

"Someone online posted some bullshit comment about me being - quote-unquote - easy," she tells you, turning her head to the side, to the window. You know the expression on her face: her mouth curved, eyes dark and so, so full of that amused contempt. "Just this thing that you see on the internet all the time. Everyone just doing the same thing - said I probably love it in the ass and - yeah. Can't recall. Fucked off right away."

"Really stuck with you, huh?" Your hips snap, and you swallow hard. "Brought that - image. Up. Didn't it."

"Guess it kind of did."

"Uh-huh."

She licks her lips. "I'd heard worse," she says, and hums, low.

Your grip on her back, her waist, her hip - they're steel-tight. "Felt like someone had put it in my head," Sana remarks, dreamily, then raises an eyebrow. "So y'know. Had a thought and let it take me there. Only made sense. Let myself. Daydream a little, take a long shower," and her smile goes lopsided, her eyes drift, "breathe hard against the bathroom tile, take two of my own fingers up there-"

And she drops, sinks, the lewd, sloshing sound of it resonant; your hands pull her to you by the roots of her hair and she gasps, heaves a small, faltering breath. She's so fucking wet.

"Baby," you groan, completely flat. "I'm gonna cum in you."

"Yeah." Sana looks like she's miles away. She could be. "I know."

She brushes the hair out of your face, holds her nose to your cheek, starts riding you fast, faster - and you do.

-

This is where the story actually starts - which, in retrospect, is kind of ironic, because everything was technically pre-written, already preordained:

You're in an airport, arriving late and harried, your hair a mess, Sana's luggage slipping from your shoulders. It's snowing biblically outside, the pavement frosted and dangerously slick with ice. The precipitation heavy and thick and white enough to obscure vision. You keep checking your phone, checking your texts, trying to stay grounded even though the forecasters specifically said the skies would clear by sundown.

Flying conditions: sub-optimal - but only barely. 

You think serendipity could be something of an old friend to the two of you - if only the pantheon of weather-adjacent gods didn't seem to like her just a little more.

She's calm and unruffled and preposterously cool, with one hand slipped into her coat pocket, her face tipped towards the window so she can survey the falling snow. She looks the part of the chic world-traveller, clad in leather gloves and a tweed peacoat, the collar popped high and stern.

In contrast, you feel like the embodiment of frazzled, clutching anxiously at the handle of her suitcase and turning frantically to ask her which direction to head in; you're not her manager, you didn't plan her flight, didn't schedule any car services for the ride to her hotel. In a few odd hours she'll be on a different continent, standing in a different hemisphere, and you don't really know what to do with your hands.

"When am I gonna see you again?" she asks, pointedly sidestepping all forms of goodbye, bypassing any polite small-talk about the state of the storm. 

She's done up in semi-dramatic makeup, a pair of gold earrings swinging when she tilts her head, fixes the edge of her fringe with her fingers: you watch her catch herself, relax - like a true work of art, you suppose, nothing to imply a separation.

There's the duality, you guess. You're looking at a profundity in motion.

And there will be a thousand cameras in her face when she touches down, vying for attention, swivelling and clicking, seeking shots that are just perfect enough - the internet is rabid and frothing at the mouth for a glimpse, some semblance of truth to satiate the rumor-mongers and their constant dissections of the arch of her spine, in the sway of her walk. She's got knee-high socks on and the fashion mags will be desperate to tear her apart at the seams, claim a sliver of all that profundity - they'll never know it's less of an aesthetic decision and more just a stopgap for the thumbprints blooming yellow-bruised in the curves of her calves.

Sana's watching you watch her; expectantly, eyes shining, big enough to fall into.

"Soon," you say, like you have a choice, and hope it sounds like reassurance, not resignation. "Hopefully soon." 

She lifts her carry-on to one shoulder, smiles.

The lens you have is quieter, subtler - that's all.

-

(You can feel Sana turn to look from the terminal, paused, hovering, her jaw catching on her silhouette; and she waits until you're gone before she strides confidently to the desk, brandishing documents and asking sweetly, charmingly, for the check-in. Her walk slows, stutter-stops. Her posture straightens.

She brushes back her hair and keeps going.)

-

"You better not be romanticizing your melancholic solitude," Momo says later, with a tray of food in her hands.

It's the next day - same time, probably - you'd gotten back from the airport, hailed a cab and stewed in something like self-reflection before deciding you'd bury yourself in your work. You've been letting Sana distract you too much recently - not that you particularly mind it - but if she's not here to drag you into a conference room and drop to her knees, you might as well start making some progress elsewhere.

You roll your pen around your fingers. "What exactly do you think I'm gonna get up to? Staying up until midnight writing shitty poetry and getting blackout drunk?" Momo snorts. "She'll be gone for two weeks, Momo, not ten years. I think I'm gonna manage okay."

"Don't go punching through glass windows just yet, buddy. It's been twenty-four hours, that's nowhere near enough time for your brain to bathe itself in all the wrong chemicals yet." She plops a bowl of instant udon down in front of you. You realize suddenly you haven't eaten in - well, quite some time. 

She wrinkles her nose. "God. So morose."

When you glance up, Momo's regarding you with one fist balled tight to her hip. You stare back at her. Her shirt is doing absolutely nothing to contain the top-half of her chest and your coworkers keep passing and rubbernecking. You get it. Her lanyard just goes right through the center of her cleavage; you sorta squint.

Some things never change.

"Um," she says, mock-scandalized. "Can you not?"

You lean back in your seat. "That was totally professional. I looked right at you."

"Yeah, like I'm a specimen." Momo pulls out the chair next to yours and takes a seat.

"I mean, you kind of are," you deadpan.

Momo chortles, pointing her chopsticks at you. "That was almost flattering, thank you." She slurps up the first noodle. "If you're nice to me, I won't tell Sana you're flirting with girls at the office while she's away. I think she'd come all the way back and wring our necks."

"And wouldn't we deserve it," you add. Your computer screen is frozen, blue-tinted with failure. Great. Momo sits down and the sky's falling within seconds. You assure her for the umpteenth time that she's not really your type anyway.

"Excuse you," Momo says, indignant, because that's a joke. 

See - Momo's everybody's type, if you had to peg the definitive example of universal attractiveness. She's everyone's favorite eye-candy whether they swing right, left, upside down or none-of-the-above; it's the ass, ostensibly. The big eyes, the gorgeous cheekbones too - her jet-black hair's cut short, practically the opposite of Sana, sleek and androgynous and hanging off her shoulders in the prettiest sort of way.

If they made dolls they'd be collectibles, wildly sought after as a pair, mint-in-box-worthy - the perfect, polished icons of feminine beauty: brains, bravery, strength. But also definitely the ass.

You blink. "Is there something you're here to harass me for, or is my total lack of interest in banging you just something you're interested in re-establishing?"

"I dunno," Momo says around a mouthful of noodles, "it's distracting. It feels weird when Sana isn't here. Things don't feel very funny. Or cute, y'know? I feel like a standup act missing the lead comic relief."

"Are you saying I'm not hilarious and entertaining?"

"I think you're funny, but." She munches happily on some spring onions. "Not intentionally, not usually."

"So why are you getting soup all over my desk?"

"You're pouty for one, all sad-like," Momo says, swallowing. "And you're supposed to be coming up with this advertising pitch and the only thing written in that word doc was 'hey guys'."

"First draft's the hardest," you recite automatically. "I'll figure it out."

"But not anytime soon," Momo drawls.

You slump your shoulders. "But not anytime soon, no."

"If you miss her, just call her," Momo urges, with all the delicacy of an elephant on stilts. "I'm sure she's bored and horny. Like, wicked horny."

Momo is both direct and filthy - there's another difference. Sana's a layer cake: whip it into shape, top it off in pink icing, drizzle white syrup on top; she looks good and acts good and you can swallow her whole, every inch of her tasting sugary, syrupy sweet. Momo doesn't hide that she's the filthiest mess in a five-mile radius; the complete opposite of Sana - well, sorta.

"I heard you dropped a load inside her, earlier." She laughs out loud, true to form. "What the fuck are you thinking? I mean, serious talk: that shit will also rewrite your brain-chemistry. And the farther Sana is from us, the more your neurons are going to start feeling like they're fucking dying, so don't give me your stupid bullshit and tell me you're 'fine' when you're like, a total wreck."

"Can you fucking keep it down?" You rub a hand over your face. "Also wasn't it you who called us 'all-or-nothing?'"

"That was like a month ago. The whole being-casual-and-making-it-work shtick seemed neat and I wanted in. Also it's February 14th, you jackass. I think you two skipped past normal the second you could get into each other's pants." Momo slurps the broth. "Totally unhealthy."

"Also not fucking true." You exhale. "What am I gonna do?"

She gives you an are you stupid? look. "Text her," she enunciates slowly, like you're hearing her wrong. "Call her, I dunno. Romance is all about grand gestures and unreliable narration. Or at least she reads enough trashy Nancy-Meyers-movies-adapted-into-books-style romance to try and extrapolate something. Go out, and find some flowers." The next bite of her noodles is overly enthusiastic. "Make the girl feel special or something."

"Right, she's gonna love that."

"That's what all the books say."

You purse your lips. "So basically all the books have lied, but Sana loves them anyway because they make her cum with how badly they're written, and now you want me to act like they're an instruction manual on fucking courtship. Am I missing any other steps? Like, does this take into account the fact that I'm also really not that romantically inclined-"

"I think you have to do something nice, put some effort in," Momo interrupts, sagely. "Y'know, the gesture's important. A little creative thought. Something better than you've got going on in that empty husk of an advertising pitch. She doesn't actually care about flowers, but it means you think of her."

You slide further into your seat. Momo grins at the glare you give her, too-friendly. The girl is the only person on the premises who can call you out on your bullshit with any actual weight and expect to get away with it. She doesn't technically even work with your department - has more or less established herself as some combination of A-lister, sex icon, social darling - all rolled into the body of a curvaceous woman barely dressed. And everyone's just sorta charmed by it.

If you were a slightly-less-rational person you'd probably try to date her, too.

"Did you know that St. Valentine was actually beaten to death with clubs before getting decapitated?"

It's an aside question, because the only thing worse than arguing a point with Momo is when she happens to be right.

"Where are you pulling this shit from?" Momo wonders, deadpan, wiping her chin. "Why would you tell me that?"

"Thought it might be relevant." You swirl a plastic spoon in the bowl. "Do you have anything else for me, O great and venerated sage of modern womankind?"

Momo snickers at the sarcasm. "Sure," she says. "Tell me your current thoughts on Paris."

You drag a breath through your teeth. "City's a shithole if you aren't rich, famous and absolutely beautiful. In which case, the city exists solely to bask and dote upon your presence. What was the question?"

"Stop checking the travel sites."

"I'm not."

"Are to."

"Don't."

"Do," Momo replies, primly, and waves her hand dismissively. You are very, very mature. This is your professional space. "Keep it simple." She adds, casually: "Or something."

-

Far, far away and farther still, a girl ducks into a hired car, takes her heels off and turns up the air conditioning, wiggling her toes in relief. 

She ends up slipping out of her clothes, taking a hot shower, changing into sweatpants. A private meal is offered to her; she turns down a glass of champagne, instead requesting iced coffee with an obscene amount of espresso shots - pours a ridiculous amount of milk in until the contents are a creamy beige, not even close to being a light-roast.

Later, much later, after a scented candle is extinguished and a notebook is closed shut, the night sky still dark and unchanging, the time zones shift, and then a single, glowing notification flashes across the screen - 4.42 am, her phone says. She's drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming in monochromatic pixels.

It's a mundane, totally insignificant message: nothing fancy, nothing new. A quick update - something along the lines of where are you, what are you doing, are you safe and happy, thinking of you. But it's punctuated with an exclamation point and followed by a pair of hearts - which is something new - like you're thirteen and she's just given you her home-room assignment list on a slip of paper and made you promise to exchange homework with her in the morning.

"How cute," she breathes, softly, and feels warm.

-

Here are the three rules about falling. Another anecdote; another wish-wash of creative editorializing, again: you really hate that you're quoting Momo on literally any of this, but unfortunately Momo has a lot of practical advice in the form of shitty armchair-psychology.

You know because you have a literal book full of the worst pithy maxims, delivered by her in varying states of drunkenness and hysteria and grudges borne of much heavier drama, all edited to her personal taste. It's a different thread, but also all part of the story: she and Sana are best friends. Take it or leave it.

Anyway: the rules,

1.) Grand gestures. Unreliable Narrations. Know that the idea is romantic, but the process is totally horrifying.

There aren't really any guidelines or requirements, not an exact science, anyway: there are softer, slower and easier ways to love than an impulse transcontinental flight; it comes in different forms, with much fewer headaches, far, far less red tape.

Try a knee nudge in a cab, a smoke-flavored kiss on the back porch, a text me when you get home, murmured in between yawns, the click of heels coming into the house after work - maybe, outside her apartment, making out against a wall of bricks like it's all you'll get, breathless and laughing under streetlights; if Sana were any less captivating (a loaded word if there ever was one) there'd be no good reason to think or to dwell on the semantics.

2.) Bending at the knees makes you less likely to get a concussion when you lose your balance. It's still risky, still a shot in the dark: in physics, there's a certain amount of grace under pressure - Sana's adored not by men, not by people, but by the universe itself. 

It feels like: she's too loved, too known. The number of followers she has is, frankly, abhorrent to your sensibilities.

3.) An object at rest remains at rest: it is up to someone else to try and change its trajectory.

For all practical intents, purpose and reasonable application: forget them.

The only lesson that counts is 4.) Fuck logic, and that goes in the book.

-

February 14th.

Presently, we're flying at an altitude of twenty-eight-thousand feet as we begin our descent into Charles de Gaulle Airport. I'd like to ask you to please fasten your seatbelts, place all tray-tables and upright seats in their fully-vertical positions and power off all personal electronic devices. The local temperature at the landing strip is eleven-degrees celsius or about fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit. The forecast for the rest of the afternoon predicts clear blue skies, and we would like to thank you for flying Air France. Please have your passports and immigration documents handy for quick and efficient processing.

Then the same message in French, you're guessing. Welcome then, to the City of Light.

-

Your cell service pings back to life as you navigate through customs. Her texts and voice-mails are short, clipped, inane: news bulletins of random things she's heard of, things that catch her attention, new designs, newly-founded associations, this gallery and that gallery, this statue, that museum - all without her own commentary or editorializing.

The deluge of information almost makes her seem impersonal, disconnected from her own thoughts, like you're getting everything secondhand. Like it's accidental.

9:00 AM - Sana: oh btw just saw the 80's hairdressing revival special in studio e. 7000 times worse than the 70's one. nothing. nada. not a single ounce of cool. not like, at ALL.

Sana: never in my life will I EVER, in the history of fashion, agree with it.

Sana: photo attached

The photo is honest-to-god terrible. You have no idea what she's referencing.

11:30 AM - Sana: idk how it happened or why, but there's this tennis match thing i guess i'm supposed to be at

Sana: im honestly too zoned-out to tell whether i actually like this game lol

Sana: how tf does everyone know the rules. what is for-de-all? is that just a made-up thing people scream when a serve bounces into the net???

Sana: we'll see how it ends

Sana: ok the pro in the white suit is kinda hot and like, sosososo talented

Sana: he hits hard and his returns are perfect

Sana: how have i gone so long without knowing how deep i could get into the sports of men in fitted shorts??

There are countless more: small-talk, casual banter, lighthearted teasing, all going at her own speed of 5000 centimeters per second. You skim through, not sure how to parse the implications: she seems at best half-focused, unengaged, probably tired - maybe high on local-jet-lag, more interested in telling you she misses you and that her hotel room bed feels massive than telling you about her afternoons wandering art museums in a designer dress; oh, the magazines are frothing over her.

For reasons you don't feel entirely ready or qualified to address, you're reading between the lines to all sorts of things.

3:00 PM - Sana: could i call you? it'd just be like 5 minutes, i'm not busy or anything but idk if youre busy. not sure if you'll reply to this right away.

Sana: sorry don't mean to disturb you (´;︵;`)

Sana: well tbh i actually kinda do mean to interrupt.

She sends an obnoxiously bright, cloyingly pink 'V-Day' Gif in place of the last text and then doesn't answer. And suddenly, in a way you hadn't considered before - you think you're losing your goddamn mind, trying to construct an actual picture from fragments, assembling all the puzzle-pieces back into a single, discernible whole. She hasn't so much as signed off her text, let alone give you anything concrete to follow up on; this whole chain reads like the equivalent of sending her a lunch break meme, asking what her day looks like.

Inconveniently: it's the 14th of February, and Sana is the kind of person you'd get chocolates for - would tear open a Valentine's Day card and sign the message and seal it off with a stamp. It'd be tacky, and overly sappy and gaudily, horribly romantic - like a suitor from the Renaissance. You've always suspected she was something like an antique, in this very modern kind of way. It's how she looks best, all draped in antique jewels, chiffon and damask, dripping pearl and lace and silver threads, all in expensive, cosmopolitan aesthetic that makes sense within itself: something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

The insanity is that it's making perfect sense right now. You have been ruined in ways unimaginable, and you have not, as Momo kindly warned you, even known.

You are not, in fact, alright - or casual about the situation.

You need flowers, urgently: this is a gift-giving crisis.

-

It's funny - this winter fling, as ill-fated as they come, a few months in: time seems to pass fast. Too fast, to the point where it starts to slip away in longer and longer increments, faster and faster, further and further intervals - like shadows stretching inexorably towards dusk.

There's no flowers, no cards, no nothing - and that is sort of the nature of it, the romance of the everyday.

You're in the metro so you can't even use your data, can't send her a quick selfie of your charming visage, with the background blurring like you're getting real poetic about it. No moon, no stars, no gaslight illuminating the dark. Just plain-ass subway tracks, a near-soviet expression of concrete, and some stupid ads for full-body waxes. The trains clear the station at 8:57 PM local time. That's Paris's time, Paris's city, her backdrop. The frame of this portrait.

So, in other words: you are not poetic, at all. You've probably got nothing in your hair except dust, dirt, and a bit of airfare grime. You've still got yesterday's cologne and nothing worth sending her except an afterthought.

No photos, no video, no cards, no ring; no pearls or lace, no gold and silk - and this is total luck, by the way; serendipity must still like her more - you look across the platform and watch the lights of another train arrive: the girl stepping off is stunning. 

And even further in terms of non-comparisons: she's the type who laughs too hard at your jokes and wipes away the smeared tears on her cheeks afterwards, who will drop a dirty joke at every moment, who lets you see her mouth open in a perfect, dripping-wet gape, who will sink into the mattress after a good, rough fuck, the headboard creaking; a girl who will tell you your coffee is too bitter and when you ask, sweet enough? - she'll still say no; not yet; no; don't; harder, don't you dare stop - that type of girl, is the one inching off the metro, glancing down at the watch on her slender wrist.

The trains start again and the girl is left standing on her own. In another five seconds, someone will probably say, mademoiselle? - which, also: there's a class on language you have not passed; you'll pay that back later - and in response, she'll sigh deeply, stretch her arms out. Tilt her head upwards for some fresh air.

You blink once, twice: and no - that really is her, on the other end. Sana Minatozaki - somehow inexplicably, for no reason you're privy to - has materialized as though she just decided on a whim to visit her home planet again.

You call out across the chasm, like a man possessed, and it is incredibly loud, incredibly embarrassing, incredibly out of character. You hardly notice.

Your voice catches on the draft of the tunnels; it must've echoed. She spins around to see who's calling her.

When she spots you, her face glows.

-

"Holy fuck," she rasps, trying to catch her breath, putting her forehead to your shoulder. "Jesus christ. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"We were in the same city," you respond, hoarse and almost panting, palms flat against her skin. Your muscles have that third-rail electricity running through the tendons and straight on through, too; Sana feels like pure tension, just burning off. There's something vaguely buzz-high about you. "Couldn't resist. I was gonna call eventually-"

She hits your shoulder like she's mad, but her face has more or less melted in pleasure, her mouth parted into a wide smile, all sharp edges and incisors. Her hair's almost a disaster: you can see the barrette slipping out, the edges of it, the glittery accents; you think about getting your hand all knotted up in the up-do and pulling - just to watch her spill off the end of the spool, tightly wound, twining around you like ribbon, sinking in and refusing to leave.

The doorman tried to ask for your coats before you fell on each other - in the middle of the lobby, if that's possible - and it's not like he even really saw anything, you were sure: just saw her smile when you pressed the tip of your fingers up under her chin, just your thumb grazing her lip before you bent your mouth to hers and didn't come up for air.

The doors of the elevator up shut close, and suddenly there's nowhere left for you to go: no further to climb, to hide, to disappear.

"You," she begins, biting off the end of the sentence in exasperation, settling instead for letting the word trail away. Her lips ghost across the hollow of your throat, the curve of your jaw, the little dip between the column and your ear, pressing hard and insistent - marking her territory.

"Do you just, y'know, pop up in fucking New York once in a while, too, for like a spot of breakfast and then, yeah, I'm good." Her voice sounds tired, worn. It's kinda cute. "No plans to stay, nothing booked, just passing through, huh?" She taps your shoulder, pulling away to run her fingers through your hair. "Idiot," she breathes, in that saccharine way of hers, smiling; you are helpless; you are done for, fully done-for: she can take as many digs at you as she wants. "Also what the fuck, you didn't answer my texts," her face crumples a little when you grab her, haul her against you - holding on, tight. It's an intoxicating rush, seeing Sana falter like that. 

She's as stunning off-kilter as she is put together: more real than any human being should be allowed.

"Well," you say, not apologetic at all. "It's a holiday."

"You're making it really hard to be angry right now," she replies, lifting herself in her pumps and slotting her lips over yours. This time, the kiss lingers. It is the point of departure, a threshold of arrival: who knows whether or not she can feel you melting beneath the heat of her fingertips. You want her to take as many soft, easy-going kisses as possible - a stack, a row, a wall. If she keeps leaning into you like that, you'll do just about anything. "Not just to make a boner joke, either," Sana whispers, fingers gripping onto your shoulders for balance. "I wanna go slow for once. Real gentle."

"Say that again?" You hum, unable to leave well enough alone.

"Something slow?" She lilts.

"A boner joke."

"God," she groans. "Would it kill you, you massive fucking prick, to have a modicum of compassion and not act like you're five?"

And look - there's not enough elevator for the whole story, let alone the novel it would be to properly explain everything there is to know about Sana; how the sky goes dusky-hued when the streetlights come on; how she always fiddles with her hands in her pockets when she's bored, the impatient flex of fingers, pulling at the loose threads. How you'd kiss her knuckles to calm her - how she was annoyed that she let you in the first place.

The story of the two of you would take, well - it'd take a few months.

"Actually," you counter, "it would. Probably kill me dead. Obituary, a single photo of a smirking ass in a dress suit. Very sad."

"Christ. I've put up with way too many assholes today," she huffs, shaking her head, "for you to be the way that you are."

"Oh, trust me. It's not my favorite either." You lean back, can't quite help it: she's not at all ruffled - only curious, only teasing. You pull her hips tighter towards you. She kisses you, sighs a little: her neck smells like orange-blossoms. You had no idea that could be as sensual as it is. "You'll just have to deal," you murmur.

"Like always," she complains.

"It is pretty rough."

Sana meets your grin. Her hand cups your face - it feels oddly tender.

"How," she says, slowly, the words very carefully enunciated - "the hell did you think this would turn out?"

You open your mouth: this is what you are capable of.

-

Sana never actually gets around to telling you the things she meant to say: the confession of a valentine, all sappy and serious, almost candid, with gravitas - a five-paragraph essay, four pages long.

It's a messy affair - you've got a fistful of hair and the other's shoved down the front of her skirt. She's been wanting to be here all day, it seems - you've seen the text-book spread of supermodels and old-money socialites and she's wanted a moment's escape from them all, has been pining for someone, anyone (most certainly you); waiting in her pretty dress and her high heels, a set of pearl earrings, the starlet curls of her hair - the clutch she left on the floor by the door because you shoved your hand underneath the fabric, said: I'll eat you out right fucking here.

So there's a common thread, if nothing else: you and Sana are verifiably incapable of having anything resembling a serious conversation. There isn't a single point of departure: the entire thing starts out casual and remains, firmly, casual.

You are deeply unserious people; this is just how it is. So clear from your head the ideas of saviours, soulmates.

You stumble together into the sitting room of her hotel suite - the luxury is appalling, almost, the floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto a gorgeous balcony and overlooking the Seine - "It's fashion week,"  is her excuse, "all the good penthouses have been booked since last November," she apologizes, which you can't really wrap your mind around anyway. You nod like that's reasonable, the right answer, pull at her lip with your teeth, and she melts right into the open palm of your other hand - oh, she'll fit well here. It's where she belongs: soft, sweet, yielding to you.

"Don't need your pity," she pants, breaking the contact to speak, to drag her tongue up your collar and up to the hinge of your jaw, grinding her hips down so that you hiss and close your fist tighter in her hair, give her that sudden tug, that sweet little rush: that thing she doesn't need, wants anyway.

Her expression flicks something in you - the eyes, the mouth; the trademark Sana-sneer. And suddenly you need to pin her to the wall, the floor, hold her still for the taste. You look up to get your bearings and find the world gone monochrome: night, cold, grey, grey-on-grey, black, dark - and that's fitting somehow. Sana tilts her head away to observe you back - you have a feeling she's observing how fucked-up you are over her already, and for some reason, you can't give her the satisfaction, not quite yet: can't admit the defeat of how you can't ever take your eyes off her, the thick swell of her legs and the smooth curves of her calves. Can't lay out what you'll do to her.

Though that's about when the storybook romance vanishes, and in its place - a more familiar arrangement; the reality you'd built with her over the past half year, the awful, easy rhythm you're going to settle back into with little ceremony: all playful affection, no sentiment. Zero pressure to pretend - or to pretend anything differently.

(Which brings you to this.)

"Sana," you drawl, grabbing her chin, making her twist in the direction of your touch. "Is that your dildo stuck to the coffee table?"

Because in the middle of all this, that's what she left lying out in plain sight: a some-odd inch silicon cock, unabashedly translucent, obscenely clear; with a ridiculously realistic head, veined shaft, balls - she had gotten her vibrator out of one suitcase and forgot the rest. It's literally sitting right next to the complimentary drinks; so obviously out-of-place, it's impossible that someone could mistake it for anything.

"Oh god," is the only reply, mortified. "Please, dont. I didn't think I'd be-"

"Should I be offended?" You are doing a truly appalling job at sounding seductive. You are, in fact, kind of choking down a laugh.

Sana takes a hand through her half-disassembled hair. Tosses the bobby-pin holding up her bangs: there. Full dishevelment - the effect is startling. You can almost trace the silhouette of a girl so very badly kept together; frayed ends, straying strands, half-gossamer and half-permanent dye.

"It's a toy," Sana explains, like you hadn't pieced together that much. She shrugs off a strap of her dress, the other. "It's just plastic and stuff." She looks at it. You can see the wheels turning, trying to figure out if it's worth salvaging. Then: "Here, c'mon - don't think. Don't," she tries, unconvincingly: "think too much about this."

You raise an eyebrow.

"I was planning to fuck myself senseless, maybe because somebody wasn't answering their texts," she adds, glibly. It is absolutely stunning, watching Sana Minatozaki shamefaced, pouting - trying and failing, failing miserably - to look even a little apologetic. "Just lemme - if you're into it, y'know, we could. Use. It. Or something."

"Or something." 

It's too late: you're cracking up.

"This is really what you use on your off hours? On yourself?" You pick it up: it's heavier than you expect, mostly because the thing is made of clear jelly, probably some kind of latex-powdery-water concoction - just the sheer thought is bizarre, foreign to you. The base suction cups to...any surface, you suppose, to provide stability. It's not altogether very practical, now that you're getting a closer look. "Is this," and you hush conspiratorially, "Is this Jean-Pierre?"

Sana smacks the side of your arm, flushing. "Shut the fuck up," she responds, laughing. A beat later, her lips tilt. "His name's Woody."

"That sounds like a conversation starter."

"I shouldn't have to explain the reference."

"You're sure it's a he?"

"It's got testicles don't it?"

"Oh yeah," you say, weighing the toy in your hand. "Look at that."

"Would you just, like," Sana coughs delicately, looks around the room for something interesting. "-put it somewhere."

"Phrasing," you can't help but point out. "Jesus you moved the mirror in here, too."

And you'd caught the moment originally, when the blush had filled her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, all the way on to her ears. She had known. "Maybe you really did corrupt me," she counters, turning her head pointedly away. "Wiped away the good girl veneer and turned me into a degenerate pervert."

"Which is basically how you started," you remind her - and you catch her in your arms. She relaxes almost instantly; you sink a palm down the small of her back to rest in the dip of her spine. You've learned a little: Sana prefers closeness, intimacy, touch. No questions, no fanfare, no gimmicks, just the simple offer of body warmth. She'll curl into your chest and stay quiet, almost content; an ineffable smile leaking up the back of her throat as your nose tickles the side of her neck, mouth open and warm and pressed into her skin.

Her eyes crease. She feels more real, a little less ethereally divine.

"How could you?" she asks, faux-affronted. You can feel how she breaks character, the laughter reverberating against your fingertips. "I'm, like, so fucking demure."

It takes everything to resist kissing her until she moans: which is the danger. You do anyway, but at least the damage has already been done.

She locks her wrists loosely behind your neck. Kisses you slow. Heavy. Giggling - you've been demoted to giggles in the end, it seems, a slip from seductress back to child-like delight. "Seriously," Sana sighs, rolling her shoulders out and circling her hips slowly. Your heart drops. Your entire face turns hot; you're really fucking gone for this girl. "Wanna watch me ride it?"

-

The thing is, a bed-time story would have paper-hearts, and candles, and maybe a field of birds; an open space, a plush meadow, a wide, beautiful, clean canvas for this little romance to run wild across, uncontained.

Sana instead, reaches for a bottle of personal-lubricant, glances back with a smile; your breath catches - you think it's a momentary trip, a chemical reaction.

You realize it's the lighting instead, the frame of this moment. The simple concept of art, how the hues of the dark deepen, saturate into something a shade off - purples and blues; something to capture and press into paper, inked forever.

She holds the bottle above the end of the toy, pours generously. As you can already tell - no lack of initiative, imagination: she takes both her legs to the edge of the table, stretches them outward - makes a pretty little show of herself, arches her back off the glossy wood - and sets the tip just against the inner junction of her thighs. Sana pushes, tilts: gasps aloud, sharply inhaling, watching you watch her with heavy-lidded eyes. Her shoulders relax and the rest of her muscles follow the tension - easing in a slow, languid circle, hips grinding down. She sighs at the cool feel of it, before pulling it back to rest the edge just in-between her lips, a teasing movement, right where you would reach - two fingers inside, hook up and outwards and open, stretch her wide to fill.

The girl looks like sin, looks like decadence; near-saintly: holy and sacrosanct. You think they've beatified less.

Sana reaches with her free hand for the front of your shirt.

"You," she whispers, and your hands flex involuntarily.

"Yeah," you reply, soft, even-keeled. "Me."

(Romance me, she'd said, only half-sarcastic. Sweep me off my feet and ruin me. Then I'll show you just how obsessed I am with you.)

-

There's always the itch, the impulse: to undo and dismantle everything around her, take everything to pieces; reduce her to tears until all she knows is your hands and your voice. To stop treating her like a masterwork and treat her more like something you're carving out of a block of stone. Maybe she'd lose that divine edge; she'd fall from that angelic grace into something mortal, and it wouldn't be anyone's fault. Not really.

Well - until now; because this is all you.

"Oh, Sana," you murmur, watching her tear up like it's killing her. "God, look at you."

You’ve got your fingers running through her honey-blonde tresses, got her wet lips slipping down the length of your cock, got the cutest little whimpers coming from her chest when you push a little too far, force yourself a little too deep - got the prettiest girl on her knees, working your cock to the back of her throat and letting her hips grind a few more inches of silicon inside her. The visual isn’t even in competition, in comparison - her huge amber eyes all innocent and glassy, those flawlessly plush red lips - you really shouldn't do it; if she hates something it's being mussed up, but here she is, anyway, because if there's anything she hates more, it's not getting a full serving of exactly what she wants - and she's swallowing your dick down her tight little throat without asking anything in return.

"You love this, don't you, baby," and when she bobs up - sinks back down - your next breath drags through your teeth.

The mirror's behind her; you don't need the nod for confirmation. 

You can see it clear as day: her pussy creaming, glistening as she takes it even deeper, leaving a white, glistening trail from the base to the tip of the silicon shaft - how far she's gone; how far she'll still go.

"You love having my cock down your throat," you keep talking, and you curl your fingers gently in her hair, not enough to guide or press, but Sana - bless her - takes it like an indication and does the work for you; she nods anyway.

The waterline of her big doe-eyes is swimming, nearly spilling over - and if this doesn't prove it, then nothing will, certainly not anything she could say herself.

But, really - you can't get over her face, and she must know that. 

Prada, Fendi, Chanel, Dior - they've got similar ideas, sure; straight to the gutter, only if they could see how you're replicating their vision - her eyes: too huge, too shimmery, too imploring; her hair spills from your fists in loose, glossy coils; that magazine-cover-ready look all flushed, mascara-thick lashes wet from the strain, jaw a little slack to accommodate the size of you - you're not too much easier to take than the dildo stretching her cunt wide right now, either. 

Oh, she's filled up on both accounts.

"Mmnhph," is how Sana hums around you, tongue working obscenely over the head. Her mouth feels velvety-tight on the upstroke.

It doesn't take much to forget her mouth's playing second-fiddle to the work her cunt's doing, and her free hand's curling tight around your thigh, a steadying mechanism - which, isn't that the very root of the matter: the first time you'd cum in her tight little pussy, hadn't it been just like that, where all the pieces slotted right back into place, a certain order to the chaos? The desperate cling of her pretty-fingernailed hand. 

Eyes wet and blinking: trust, don't let me down.

And you'll indulge her like tomorrow's the end of the world. Work her through it; watch her fine eyebrows pinch tight together; note how her high-strung breathing sounds muffled in her nose. How she lets you slide to the edge of the chair to fuck her face, lifting your hips and knocking into the slightest gag-reflex possible. She gets progressively filthier, tongue lathing the underside of you, sucking the head with the tight seam of her lips whenever you pull back to give her a second to breathe. 

"Jesus." Your fingers loosen in her hair, combing her wild bangs from her flushed face. It's suddenly delicate. Gentle. Doting. Sana's pretty little forehead deserves a kiss for how fast, how deep, she's taking your cock in the softest part of her throat.

"There we go - just relax, sweetheart," you tell her, the very same girl who is making herself cum in the full-length mirror: pussy stretched and pulsing wet around the toy. "Catch your breath."

She doesn't even flinch when you touch your thumb to her cheekbone, carefully pulling her face back, feeling the wet press of her tongue at the crown. But her lips pull into a pout like she's sad you're stopping her. "No more?"

You inhale, deeply, and try not to laugh out loud. Her cheeks have flushed this adorable rose color. "Baby," your voice trails off with a click, and it's entirely your fault for teasing her; you might not get out of this room for the rest of the night, after all. So much for red wine and valentine's on the Seine - the perfect, the picturesque-

"I can't help it," Sana cuts in. She doesn't even hesitate. If anyone can redefine perfection, well. She's wearing that look: her mouth an utterly sinful pucker and her tongue skimming pink up the wet mess her throat's made of you. Her big, heavy-lashed eyes gazing at at you, and her pupils - well, that's no doubt what happens when something hits too hard, and it's the last thing you should notice, really, in this moment.

Her tongue is flat, stuck out. Very pink. She slaps your cock against it. Jesus christ, you think.

But: who can blame you, when the gorgeous, nude, marble-perfect woman on her knees is riding her toy with no qualms whatsoever, gazing straight into your soul?

"The faces you're making are really fucking hot and it's valentines day and you, like, taste and smell so fucking good-"

"Okay." You're twitching in her hands, and it's making her give you the most awful bedroom eyes in the world. "Okay, baby, slow down-"

She doesn't, but she can't do much worse; Sana presses her plush, swollen bottom lip to the crown of your cock, makes a show of licking the precum beading from your slit - licks her lips like it's a present, like she'd flown halfway around the world just for that, and it's an ambrosia she'd rather savor than spill.

"Sana," and your laughter falls out in a gasp, because, fuck - she's got a tight grip on your thigh and the most selfish desire for your orgasm you've ever seen; her other hand is already set, too, the one rubbing away at her own dripping pussy, wrist working just underneath her, catching her clit. "You're going to make me cum like that."

"Okay," she tells you, all round-eyes and wet-mouth; she's so fucking insatiable. "Then cum."

You're not sure how a goddess who worships your cock ends up like this: propped up the hotel-furniture, sinking down a thick, gleaming dildo and the slightest hitch in her breath a fucking non-sequitur. "Fucking hell," you gasp. "Princess-"

And, well - it's not like you really protest; her mouth's already at the tip of you and she's working it there, in and out, with a teasing wetness.

She sighs, heavy, but also blissful; sinks lower in one, rolling agonizing movement; meets your eyes when you go heavy-lidded and biting your lip - like it's a competition for who can end up the worse wreck. She swallows, slowly, so slowly. Lets her nails lightly dig into the sensitive skin behind your balls, drags them back up with her tongue and her throat constricting.

It's her expert mouth, that's the thing. You close your eyes because you think you might cum right then; right down the back of her pretty, porcelain throat. You can hear her humming like she's enjoying it more than you - can hear the clicking sound in her throat when she bobs her head, fucks herself deeper. Can hear the slick, filthy slaps of her pussy taking the cock fastened to the coffee table under her. And, you think, opening your eyes just a crack: when your girl's making a mess of the expensive hardwood with the cream spilling from her needy cunt - that's worth giving into. That's an image so good and perfect and god-damned filthy that you'd bet, when you cum, all the devil will want is a deal for a replica, for a pact to possess every woman out there who fits the mold: this one's yours.

You're fucking her mouth so hard, she's drooling.

"Jesus- ah, fuck. I'm going to fucking cum, Sana," and, not that she listens, “down your fucking throat, honey- I'm, oh," - not that she cares, really - you've just managed to grit your teeth - to arch your back up like that could pull you out from the sensation: it doesn't.

She does moan around you, then. Pulls the vibration deep and uses her tongue, works the pink, slender muscle right down to where you're half-gagging her, making her eyes water.

It's easy to knot your fingers back in the locks of her hair, pull tight. 

Easier still, her face is framed with your thighs and the effect's immediate - it feels as hot and wet and tight as a vice and your voice shakes along with the rest of your neurons, firing, collapsing, keening - and, of course: when your hand fisted in her hair tries to pull her hot mouth off your cock, well.

There's a few more inches of sloppy-wet friction and slippery-tight drag you hadn't really budgeted for.

You're cumming all over her face, not that you had much of a choice - it's just one wave and another, your thighs tensing and the breath going out of you in stilted, long, stuttering moans - Sana looks up, when your brain has unscrambled enough to register her name and the light of the world and the absolutely perverted expression she's got: there's a shot of cum that streaks across her closed eyelid and another string making a sticky-white mess out of her button-nose and, god-

You don't mean to cum in her hair, but-

"Fuck," your teeth clatter around a biting-gasp, "Sana, oh fuck," but - as expected, she does have your cock gripped tight at the base, her lashes clumped with the mess, her cheeks sticky-messy. 

Sana's looking up with the innocent sort of mischief only she could ever get away with, you figure, cum-covered and beautiful: the good girl with her good girl mouth, all the evil inside of her.

She lets your cock fall out of her hand, down, with an obscene, wet thud, right where she can press it against her face - press it against those sharp cheekbones - and those doe-eyes, and those lips: the ones she draws across the dripping tip, pulls at them with a sultry sort of sigh. Sinking the curve of her nose down the belly side of your cock as you paint her, gasping for air; and it gets worse - when her tongue catches between your balls, when her lips are pouting right around the soft skin there and her soft moans make you pump the white-hot ropes of cum until it's a mess in her hairline, in the silky locks that fall to the crests of her ears and down to where they rest over her tits, hiding the flush of her hard, puffy nipples, her tiny little pink clit-

"Messy," Sana croons, without much of an inflection; one eyelid flutters open and a milky-stream runs down the curve of her cheek; the other seems hopelessly stuck.

Oh, she's usually such a wet blanket about getting anything in her hair (which is more often just an excuse to ride you brainless on the shower bench, but it doesn't come without her grumbling on the way), and even then she's lifting up off her heels and resting her chin on your thigh to make sure you can watch when she spreads the mess along her slender throat and back behind her ear, almost shy, drawing strands of cum into her mouth with her long-lashed eyes locked onto yours.

"It really hasn't been that long," and she says it with some exasperation, with a bubbly little bout of laughter that has the same weight as her pecking kisses along the muscles of your abs, cleaning her cum-hand against the patchy wetness across the flat plane. "Geez - you must've been so pent up -" and she stops for breath, for another suckle to your shaft; your cock twitches in her grip, the sensation too much, but it makes Sana give the most self-satisfied smile. It'd be unbearably irritating if she wasn't your entire universe - she is, so you try not to move as she steadies herself on your thighs; presses her messy face into the side of your throat and mewls. "All mine," Sana decides, sounding quite content about it. "Do you need a few minutes?"

She asks this like she isn't pumping you still, using her delicate fist to keep you upright for her while she speaks into the line of your jaw.

"Um," you say, before anything else. Before thinking about her clinging, wet heat around you. Before anything else: "yeah."

She purses her lips. Presses her free hand to your chest with a needy arch of her body. Pants for you, lashes falling shut - and, there's the problem, she's so much more fuckable like that. She's painted red from her cheeks all the way down her tits and you're just realizing how much drool fell off her chin, how much of a mess is between her tits, how much she revels in it - getting her face-fucked until neither of you can survive the fallout.

"How about," she huffs against you, all breath and the curve of a whine, "I clean this up," her hand's still tight at the base, where your nerves are singing with all sorts of new sensory input - "and god, your heart," she whispers, and her chin hooks over your thigh. She's looking up at you, ruined, flushed and dewy. "-is beating so fast for me -" she says, almost wistful.

That's the point, probably. It's the entire problem: she has a few ideas of how beautiful she is, the kind of destruction she wreaks.

Her breath catches in her chest when her hips shift back and that thick, fake cock pops out of her cunt; it sounds fucking filthy, and the softest of keening moans escapes her - it has the weight of your existence and she probably knows it; her amber gaze fluttering shut as she doesn't move for a second.

You don't either, can't really; Sana sliding up your body as graceful as ever, even naked and used-looking, leaves you barely functional and running on over-stim. "I mean," she starts, like the two words just tumbled out of her cunt with the rest of the mess and that's a great explanation; Sana's moving around in your lap anyway, dropping that nice, hard dildo on the seat beside you, still dripping. "I can't let you cum in my pussy," she says, all gentle matter-of-fact, while her mouth opens across the arch of your jaw and she gets cum down her wrist. "Well," she amends, "-not yet anyway, not right now," and she does look guilty, for some reason.

It makes your smile twist wry and unattractive, probably. "I'm good at controlling myself," you manage.

"Liar," says Sana, which is a reasonable reply. You'd laugh, but her cunt's wet and hot against you, already sinking, settling, just an inch deep into her cunt. It's easy to take in hand - you grip her hips, thumb her little pink clit.

Sana's response is to rut against it, rubbing all over where the swollen head of your cock rests between her thighs. Her smile goes a little blissed out, dreamy.

"There's another place," she's saying, while her hair spills down your arm, between you, sticking in the space between her tits, "that would be a perfect home for this thick, gorgeous cock."

"I think you should let Woody and I sort that out," and, shit, that doesn't make her stop moving, dragging her soaked slit over your shaft. "Maybe he'll be your valentine after all, huh, babe?"

Sana narrows her eyes, tilting her head forward in her best attempt at threatening. It's cute, almost, if your dick wasn't trapped between the wet heat of her body and your belly. You pick her up so, so easily. And that's hot, you think: your strength, her whole lithe-waisted petite-tits everything.

"Hey," her lips part against yours, a protest there - until you move her by the hips, pushing up and watching her spread for it.

And if that doesn't go straight to your ego.

Sana huffs, playing aloof, petulant - a character you draw out when she's really hoping and praying you'll fold her up and show her what the good parts of worship mean. "You think you can share?" she's asking you, voice already growing rough. She's trying to fuck back, take her hips again, but you still her with your palms, fingers sinking tighter and her ass spilling out between your knuckles.

"Get your knees back on the table for me, pretty girl," and you lift her as she squirms; set her down, until her body is arched forward, tits pressed punishingly to the hardwood. 

You think you're maybe spending next-century's savings on a wet-dream made real; maybe being too rough, too mean about your hand twisting through that mess of golden-strawberry curls at the base of her spine and making her spine curve deep as she breathes out a heavy, messy curse.

"Give me what I deserve, then," and she can't reach under her body and tug at your cock, but she gets the words out. The order. "I'm aching, it's sore and empty and, it's so fucking tight," and that's not a demand but a whine. She wants you, that's the real point. "You know, I want," and she doesn't finish that, but: 

She's blinking at her reflection in the glass, watching it. You really fucked up that pretty painting, and she's appraising the art, tilting her chin just a bit to appreciate the effort: how she's made to be wrecked. 

You grab Woody, attach it to the table without thinking; the weight's warm, solid; he's hard-used and wet enough from her body that it's not an issue; there's enough lube leftover to slide your palm once or twice over and drag it wet across Sana's ass, around your length, even over Sana's pink cunt, wet and swollen and bunched with the toy she'd used, stretched deep as you'd seen. She whimpers out the softest sound, then, and you think: what a miracle, and maybe she does too because her hips arch into it like she's begging for praise, for your touch, anything; there's a few seconds of pressure, just enough time for you both to realize what's happened.

"This'll get messy, you know," you tell her, which isn't fair. "It won't feel the same in there," because your baby needs her explanations.

"Want to feel you both in my guts," is what she offers instead, and- yeah, it's so not fair for her to say stuff like that either.

You touch the silicone head to her puffy folds, ease him up and down - just how you would for her, only taking care to feel where she's pinkest. Where's the pressure on your fingers? There, probably, but there, too. Where does she gasp the softest when she's full and tensing in anticipation? Oh.

Her cunt is so slicked she sinks on it, opening fast and beautiful and dirty.

The sound Sana makes is unreal; no way to measure her reaction otherwise. You don't know whether it's good or bad; all you see is the way her reflection dips into nothing, into pain, but: her head jerks up in time to watch and she moans like she's begging - loud and pretty and shocked, eyes fluttering. Her hair falls like curtains around her face, a wildfire behind her. She's stunning; of course you think it.

"See that," she says, through clenched teeth, "the pretty way it pushes out of me-"

"Makes room for me," because yeah, fuck, okay. You know it too.

She's perfect for this: a body like she's the centerfold in a dirty magazine and then a disposition that says yes, you do want me like that. Or, she's asking for a pounding. That's the least you can do - straddle the surface with her, line your cockhead up, push just barely to the resistance - force Sana's hips down until Woody's bottomed and her legs shake for the first time.

"You good, baby?"

"You can," and-

Oh, man. "Let me do it," you tell her, sliding your hand up her back to grab her hair, winding it between the thick of your knuckles. "I'll take care of you, I promise-"

That's another shot in your veins: her lips bitten red, her expression ruined; the way her face falls for you like she's meeting you in that elevator for the very first time, the straw of her iced coffee between her lips, her nose wrinkling for the cliché.

She blinks at you again, nods and keens and oh-

Your cock works in that next fraction of an inch, just the head spreading Sana open.

"Holy-" but she chokes it back, so you'll keep doing this, making her think, fuck- "oh my-fuck-okay," is what she gives you, breathing in pants; what her expression tells you, the lines cutting over her brows and between her nose.

"Sana," is as far as you get, and Sana's grinding, gasping. She'll sob. She'll get loud. You can see from your angle; just feel how much it burns, the way Woody's working inside her, splitting her to the core.

You watch the line of her back work, tense, clench - where it's just that simple and base and human. 

And the mirror's got the full story: it all comes up with the same obscene details - Sana's mouth a deep open pink, her eyes rolling closed as she swallows thickly - as she's wetting the air down and relaxing her whole body for it: her toes curling. She sinks another inch onto the toy, you figure, and she makes this fucked-up mewling noise, half-cry, half-begging. Your cum is tacky all over her front, drying sweaty; her makeup's runny. She's a disaster and so pornographically stunning.

You sink deeper, and she bucks, takes her time riding. "Feels- fucking incredible, doll, I'm going to start fucking you, ok?" and you groan; you are. You pull back, seeing where her cunt is creamed out and ruined, where there's the ghostly wet lube smeared on your cock, all sticky like her.

Sana nods, looking back - she finds your face, doesn't falter; she'll see her tits spilling against the table; the dark shade of her nipples. Her cunt's sliding over the toy in a rush; she's shimmying her whole body, impatient. You let go of her hair and touch between her shoulder blades to the base of her spine, marvel in the stretch of it, the pretty flush you're fucking into over and over.

"It feels-" Sana's talking, her forehead bowed against the table, her mouth hanging loose, "feels-good. Good. Amazing. Feels-" and she can't breathe, you know, but fuck, neither can you- "so. Full. Full."

You nod; know. She knows.

She's saying it for herself, in a slur, the words on the edge of a gasp: "I'm-holy-"

Your fingers pinch her ass, just gentle; enough to spread her, catch a view of her stretched asshole. Her teeth knock together - she's trembling for this. She'll cum.

"Trying to kill me," you tease, but fuck- it's good; so fucking good. 

You've been brushing your cock to the back of this girl's throat and it's still the hottest thing you think you'll ever see; her personal toy buried to the hilt beneath you, just the tight little opening of her pussy fucked-out and slicked-up, raw and red and utterly ruined-

"Shh, sweetheart," you manage, burying yourself in as far as possible, leaning over. You move the hair falling into Sana's face and trace her features with the tip of your index finger, smudging a fingerprint of eyeliner. You're kissing her hair, her skin, tasting salt, sweat, cum: "Such a slut, taking that big fat toy all in you, opening you up-" and the last you get out isn't her name, it's a murmur- "look what a whore you're being," and her cunt is fucking throbbing-

You lean back, catch a sight of it; her thighs trembling and pinkish and oh, fuck, no. She's got one of her hands worked back and on her clit, stroking it feverishly-

"Baby-"

"I need you," is what she cries out; not an explanation. "So," and it's something mangled- "God, please. Come on."

She tells you twice; she can't help herself. Sana's ass is unbelievably tight. So pretty; so the little fucked-out cocksleeve you always needed. All her eyeliner's fucked to hell and her hair's still a knotted disaster; you've got all your inches inside her, she's pressing the heel of her hand to her clit and drawing patterns over her face with her fingers like she can't remember-

"My pussy, jesus-fucking-christ." Her mouth is falling slack again. "God. God. Harder, it feels too good, don't stop-"

"Such a good fucking girl," and there's this picture-perfect moment-

She cums. You're all up in her guts, spilling to the tight space, that she's fucked beyond the stretch and that's got to burn, paradoxically making her go all crazy with this feeling. Your cock's making space - you'd hate not fucking her until she's overfull and all those slick muscles are clenched and bruised-

"Does my princess need something?" you ask her, while your palm teases the flare of her hips. It's teasing; she won't stop; she'll cum again. You're pounding her ass and that toy's still there, buried to her cervix, her pussy's a mess and it's almost an itchy pleasure, too much stimulation, too sensitive; she's slick, sodden.

Sana is nodding furiously. One hand's doing it again, and the other's got the thumb trapped in her mouth; she's trying for silence; it won't last. Her throat's loud and filthy and you've always probably known, since the very beginning, that Sana loves taking you in whatever gorgeous, wet, tight hole she can.

"Please," she manages. Her hand's moving quicker- "Let me. Let me." And she's grinding against you, taking in every inch you have for her, arching her back; her clit is raw and throbbing and she's a fucking genius. A natural at begging. She deserves the win. She's being good. She's letting you fill her with cum.

You're not even fucking her into particularly fast, particularly deep, just grinding, using the tight ring of muscle, the heavy, bruising press.

"Tell me," and she can't focus- "Tell me when you're going to cum, princess. Can't wait to feel you-".

Oh. And, then-

You want it to last.

Her feet are tapping, toes curling into the hardwood, and it's over: she's tightening her grip against the table and making sure to keep the vibrations direct, her cheek pressed to the wood, drool drenching the corner of her lips. You've seen enough dirty shit, done enough kinky stuff. This - this might actually have you dumbfounded: watching her convulse; watching her bring her hand away, just touching. Her cunt's all milky and soft.

"Stay still, sweetheart," you're saying; as if she can move. You're holding her steady by her hips. You're massaging lightly; taking all the rest you can. "That's it, come here, you're so-" and your cock's easing its way out- "fucking."

She gasps when you slip all the way free; your cum slides back down. Sana's languid and fluid, skin sweating, hair everywhere. She's not crying, but it's the closest she's been in ages; the closest, most pure you can get a girl: your cum spilling out and all over you, and you're telling her it's alright, telling her she's gorgeous; saying it's okay she's already stretched herself so thin, exhaustion pooling, seeping out of her mouth, the line of her thighs and-

"Thank you." It's that genuine, melodic cadence, the honesty - it's that the first time she's looking down and she's blinking tears- "Want you to- right here," and she's moving forward, slowly.

You're cupping Sana's thighs before you can even think; lifting, bending them to her chest, her lips bitten, kiss-swollen. Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth: Sana knows where this is going.

You can taste her. You can taste your own sins - the vanity, the hubris, the glutton, the greed - taste how wet, how flushed. She's putting that expert mouth to good use and keeping quiet again: a pant, a whine, an ahhhh, a whimpered half-curse. Her chest is flushed the prettiest, sweetest, lightest shade of red.

It's too intimate. You could lie in it, keep her warm like this until the very earth rotted. All the rough, dirty things you could do to her; it's almost sacrilegious that this is what brings the closest feeling of bliss, peace.

You don't realize how still everything is, all stilled, until Sana's small, quivering legs hook your shoulders; until the end of her toe brushes the shell of your ear, presses. Her spine arches into your mouth and the scent of her cunt - the taste. You could stay here, in your hands, and take, and - and give it right back: take, take, and take.

You eat her cunt until her voice is wrecked raw, your tongue dragging across her ass, over your lower lip, smearing her slickness, tasting her from your fingertips. She doesn't beg and she doesn't tell you what to do, she just spreads her pussy and rides her clit against your lips, moaning unashamedly as she rocks herself on your face, coming on your tongue in two, three hard, heavy pulses.

"Good fucking-"

"-God," you finish for her, and it's all the most sacred kind of silent. Your face buried back in between her thighs, just breathing. Just loving her, and holding her steady, because aftercare's a bigger part of the game than either of you let on, and you know she's ready and safe in your arms by now.

Sana pants and heaves, eyes shut. Bites her lips red as she smiles. 

The lines of her face relax as if you're soothing her, tucking her in: good job, I've got you. When she isn't such a tender wreck, it'll happen all over again.

-

"You know," you say conversationally to Sana, who's lying in the fetal position at the foot of the bed, "you look cute right now."

It's another day, same time-zone, different house, same game. You've never stopped in your pursuit of what exactly a muse looks like: perfect, empty, caught in the bright white exposure of her hotel room lamp; all hard black-and-white, tonal range; in the scratch of the pen and the haze of the film developing, on the translucent material of the photo you'll print. There's the image, there's her breathing-

(There's all the ones you don't even know you'll find: her belly growing large, skin smoothing with child, a birth, a growth, a transformation; the dreams.)

-she's told you as much, but you can never know for certain if she really, truly- 

"I'm dying," she grumbles. "You fucked me to death."

"You're bad for my ego." You plop down next to her and rub a hand between her shoulder blades. The curve of her back makes your fingers ache and your throat close up. "How do you feel, really."

Sana takes a moment before she replies.

"Hurt," she finally murmurs, quietly. You hum back a soothing noise. "But good. The best. Everything I've always wanted." She pauses. "Also: dead."

"You said that already." You're rolling your eyes, fondly.

She doesn't reply, just pushes herself up, legs crossing, one hip propped up. She's in a hotel bathrobe and she's supposed to be at a runway in an hour. "Hey."

"Yeah?" you're already tilting your head. She's sitting in the middle of the bed now, legs crossed under her; this is definitely a hotel robe, you've never been around her this long. "What's up?"

Sana just tucks her hair back, bares her shoulders and moves the fabric down the curve of her side.

"I told you," she starts, and her teeth snag on her bottom lip, "I think you're good," and she's suddenly shy: this little fuck-off of yours, of yours. "For me."

"You-" you start, and there's a way that things are and you have the gut instinct, the conviction of it, but-

(Then again, a girl with hair the color of a caramel confection and eyes you could be lost in for eons told you the other day without having to say it, eyes widening in the haze and light and gloss, that she could love you forever.)

"Yes," she answers, because it's your question, that slow smile making her features draw inward, the wrinkle of her nose: yes, it's your decision. That she's telling you the truth. "Exactly."

-

Actually, to frame this right, you probably ought to have started with her, at the girl with idyllic, copper-spun hair and a thousand-watt smile. It reads main-character energy from fifty feet away: you should've pulled the curtain back and simply said, meet Minatozaki Sana.

Your significant other, sorta - few people on earth know that, for a lot of reasons, and depending on the day, you can't be entirely sure if she wants it that way or if she'd rather scream it from the rooftops; Sana is - well, it's tricky. She's beautiful in a way you never got to conceptualize before, that nobody probably does. She's magnetic. It's effortless. It's gravity, and it's only natural that you'd always want to pull yourself back to her, to orbit her; she'd ask and you'd die, right? 

She assumes you'll ask to marry her, someday - you're starting to suspect she's probably right.

And there's a pattern of nuance to how you know her, all the definitions of her - you bring her fresh-cut flowers, you call her princess, you fuck her until she begs, you hold her while she rinses her hair in the shower. You run your mouth, you eat her cunt until she can't walk straight. It's a big role, a broad palette to capture.

Sana, in the morning for example: 

Can't drink her coffee black; steals sugar packets from cafes and slips them into her pocket; sleeps so still and so quietly that sometimes it almost scares you, worrying that she’s slipped off into a coma. She likes being doted on, likes getting compliments, likes melting under someone’s full attention as if she's waited for that from you her whole life. She says it directly: listen, okay, don't laugh at me, I get needy.

Or, beneath starlight:

Flitting across hotel balconies, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you into open bars.

She'll buy you a drink and loves when you buy her another, her glass never half-empty. She climbs on top of you and presses her mouth to your ear, sings the song in her head for the next five minutes, hips jolting when she sways a bit too far - a light bulb over a diner counter. Tips the waiter extravagantly, rolls her eyes when you lecture her for spending your money. Smiles at you anyway and takes your hand in hers on the way out the door.

Sana Minatozaki, on herself:

A nightmare. I don’t even know. Seriously. An absolute mess. Completely nuts. (You said you were a 'total fucking catch.') Oh, yeah. I guess that's true too.

-

(Or maybe, Sana, on you:

Well, when you ask on the flight out, she says something sweetly innocuous. When you press her again, she blushes. When she might be feeling especially adoring, she'll look at you and say, with utmost certainty and uncharacteristic lack of sarcasm, 'I mean, it's you. What more can I say?')

[capslocked]

PRAXIS

male reader x irene

23k words

"A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair," you remark, and Irene smiles up at that.

The sound of city traffic underneath your open window makes for an uncertain backdrop - though the browns of her eyes glimmer caramel in the dying light. Something sweet, the beginnings of an addiction if you’ll let her.

"A girl could walk in," Irene says, "but, she never does."

It was not a good idea, of course, to keep doing this where the whole world could see, where your shadows and silhouettes make lurid shapes against the blinds, but your office is small and the lighting is soft and Irene keeps pushing up onto her tiptoes, pressing you flat against your desk, trying to kiss you, and you won't be able to stop her - or want to, not when she's already leaning into you with her arms loose around your hips, her eyelashes heavy, her mouth a pink line of want against her smile.

It’s inevitable, maybe.

Here's what they might catch in the exact moment, in a not-so-distant memory:

Your heartbeat, quiet and slow and distant, like there's too much blood for it in your veins, your skin electric-pulsing underneath Irene's, the feel of her leg hitched up your waist, your hand wound tightly in her ponytail. The tiny sigh of a smile at the corner of Irene's lips, like you're tickling her somehow - you'll stop if she really wants you to, but - she doesn't. She never does.

Why wouldn't we want to be mistaken for something? is what you’re supposed to hear; she's too haughty, too proud. Someone could catch you. She’ll never come out and admit, just what would anyone do, if they did?

So yeah. It’s complicated.

You give a little, Irene pulls back. You do your damndest not to push. You hate how goddamn easy it is to convince yourself of anything, everything - whatever the lie. Irene isn’t ignoring you. She doesn't ignore the texts you send her. You don’t need to make plans more than two hours in advance. Mixed signals are such a misunderstood phenomenon: she can just be shy, sometimes. Maybe she doesn’t want to intrude. She was nervous, but she felt really fucking good on top of you - maybe next time, the guilt will be a bit less for both of you.

It’s just sex, she says once to you after; there’s no strings attached. How could it get ever more perfect than that?

-

(And she’s right. You know she’s right, or at least you very well should.

See, you’ve been talking for hours about how you shouldn’t be talking for hours on end. Kissing her after a conversation you’d had around the fact you’d both be better off as friends.

So how's that gonna sound, anyway? Here, go on, try saying it:

Bae Irene? Yeah, met her on the subway - that's the story, the reason you know her; you got on a train one day and she was the prettiest person there. You were both headed to the same place. You’re just not sure when that's gonna change.

And well, the way you see it: you’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

-

To be candid, you can't really pin down how any of this started. The logistical details, sure. However the suggestion, the sex, the seclusion - these things, not so much.

Somedays, if you squint, it plays out rather predictably. You’ll be going about your business, a particularly average day everything considered, or - well, mostly. Today, there are just the two minor caveats:

First off, your key grinds in the lock when you jam it in. That part is pretty normal, but to your surprise, the door is already very much open.

So, that's odd, you think. That's very odd. You slide inside, cautious, and as you call out an even more cautious "hello?" you realize all the lights are on - so either you've been robbed or are currently in the state of being robbed by someone with suboptimal visual acuity. A disability-washed-burglar. Not to minimize crime, of course, but that'd be interesting, you think, or representative perhaps? Maybe.

Alternatively,

Irene's let herself into your apartment again. It’s quite plausible.

She's not great at the whole 'asking permission' thing, though she swears every time it'll never happen again. You peek around your foyer: there’s her coat, her heels, her shirt, a handbag - all strewn about the hall like she’d been raptured and left a delicate trail of destruction, which does sound a lot like the Bae Irene you've known forever.

(Okay, six, seven months isn’t forever - but you get the gist; the general principle still applies.)

Now another, horrifying option is that both theories are true, simultaneously. A home invader has in fact gotten to Irene. In the middle of robbing the place. How terrible, how awful, how genuinely macabre, what a genuinely-

"Yeah, hey," you hear, followed by a heavy, sloshing thunk. "Welcome home or something."

Sure enough, as you enter the kitchen you spy your truly awful vision being confirmed. One of them, anyway. There is your incredibly hot (this is in reference to Irene), extremely fashionable (same boat as before, honestly), dangerously intelligent (yes) and notorious rulebreaker of an (it really bears emphasis on how hot and fashionable and stylish said rulebreaking often is) acquaintance as per her standard. Irene. A roguish and impossibly captivating conglomerate of trouble with a mild attitude and perfect posture; as a collection, she's a collection you want, a package you intend to keep, an accessory you'd die for. That, and a kettle on the stove apparently, so she can make you tea while you languish on the floor, and you could live like that forever, or so the dream goes.

Also right, the second caveat: there's the robbery. She's stolen a button-up out of your closet.

And look - she's actually so much prettier than she has any business being. Hair up in a messy bun, lips painted light. Nail polish starting to fade. She's still in her nylons and a tight little pencil skirt and you can't really complain. You'd need to be legally dead.

"Hi," Irene says, and the burner sputters to life. "Where'd you go?"

"The bank. And then I had to return books," you say, shucking off your jacket. "You know, I wasn't aware anyone else was living here."

"Excuse you," Irene replies. She turns, leans her forearms on the counter; the shirt buttons are misaligned, but she makes it look like a stylistic consideration - how the sleeves are pushed past her elbows and the neckline has already slipped down one of her dainty shoulders.

She has your clothes. She has an irritatingly winsome half-smirk. The clock above the stove says it’s barely even 9 PM.

"Do you get your mail forwarded here, too?" You shuck off your jacket. "To further clarify, why not call first? Maybe text? Hell, smoke signals could do."

"Because it's a hell of a lot easier to ask you for forgiveness," Irene tells you, knowing, "asking for permission gets me nowhere," and then grabs a mug from the cupboards. She seems to know where everything is already. "I don't know why you get so bothered about it, honestly, what should I do? Call you and say, wow, babe, I am planning on letting myself into your apartment, sorry, yeah, I was thinking we could - ah fuck - you know what, I am irreparably, incomprehensibly horny."

"Nice vocab."

"Thanks," Irene says, beaming, and even tips up her chin to show it.

You notice that you actually match right now, since it is, technically, your shirt. Sure, your collar’s a little stiff - and she’s barely able to keep the fabric from folding and spilling over her lithe frame, but that hardly matters. It's so ungodly hot. She could wear anything - or, probably, nothing, if you're being honest.

And you are, mostly.

So you pad into the space right behind her to tell her some truths, the things you think - but she spins on her heel before you get the chance to grab her, which is a pity; you'd love to do that, maybe just push her flat to the wall. You know, if she'd let you. She would. Probably. You'd ask, definitely, but you’re thinking you wouldn't even have to.

Irene crosses her arms. The collar keeps slipping. You see her collarbone, smooth. She is flawless, no fucking wonder. You are almost terrified of her at times.

"How do you know I’d have said no?" you ask, and it sounds a little sweet - then there’s you noticing an old bruise along her throat, where her shoulder dips down; that was probably your doing, probably from this week, last Saturday maybe? Her skin seems softer somehow, looks like her makeup was fresh at the beginning of the day and the end of the night, that kind of evening smudging. She's smiling with her nose crinkling up. 

She doesn’t react when you press in closer. 

"Really." You’re waiting for her. Probably waiting for her to kiss you, to reach up on her toes and latch her wrists behind your neck, to reach her mouth to yours - though, she doesn't. Her breathing picks up, so it's almost like she doesn't have to, she's smiling at you so sharply. It’s a rare win for restraint as far as your apartment is concerned.

"So then where lies the issue?" she asks, and then she simply waits on this smoldering sort of glance.

You can’t help the laugh that follows. "I mean it's the principle of the thing."

Irene hums at that. She glances to the side. Toward the windows, back to you, and then all over your face.

"Then, allow me a principle," she finally says, staring straight at your mouth, real subtle-like. "Yes, I'm going to keep coming here. Probably a lot. I mean, unless you have an actual issue you'd be hardly one to talk: Mr. Keeps Do Not Disturb Active At All Fucking Times. I bet you're the last person to go through their voicemails, too."

"Guilty, but look - I hit critical mass, like, a thousand unheard messages ago. It’s untenable and unreasonable. You should be offering me pity."

"You are ungovernable." Irene sinks back a bit against the countertop, slow, smooth and sinuous. "You're basically a hermit." She smiles at her own assessment, the grin growing with its truth. Her eyes sparkle in the low-light and her teeth bite at the bottom of her lip. The tea kettle starts to rattle.

"I think we’re supposed to be discussing the breaking and entering here," you correct, dryly, and step a bit closer, "also just for the record, hermits are implied loners. And yet."

"And yet," Irene echoes, letting her voice trail away.

There's an uptick in the corner of her mouth, and she glances at you, quick, momentarily mirthless. You wait for the punchline, the verbal parry, the expertly timed jab-

"What?" asks Irene, and her face instead is all soft edges, light pink lips, and clear, uncomplicated eyes. She grabs for the end of her sleeve and folds it one more time down the slender length of her forearm. The watch on her wrist catches the light. "It's a decent theory."

This almost feels normal, you think, like a routine, something domestic - Irene leaving her things all over your apartment, Irene occupying your bathroom cabinets and the space on your shower rack that used to belong to a singular bar of soap. This is a tale of a typical hookup arrangement gone absolutely off the rails: sex for a night here, a dinner together there, a break from the monotony. You shouldn’t even know Irene that well, you think, or nowhere near as well as you do - and somehow that didn't stop you from giving her a spare key to your apartment - or it didn't stop her from wanting the damn thing.

You try not to read too far into that last one, since you're probably the only idiot that hasn't noticed how smitten Irene has been from day fucking one. It’s your fault, it’s hers; there’s a case to be made for either.

"You can see how a girl might walk in and jump to the wrong conclusions," you remark.

Irene laughs at that, "Oh yeah?" and her eyebrows raise, her lips pursing in an immediate half-smile - this hot little line that’ll get kissed right off her mouth if she’s not careful. She doesn’t even pretend to react otherwise: that same brand of pleased, almost flirtatious - a bit unyielding. Pragmatic, maybe. Not fully on board, still keeping a distance, just an inch outside of what it could be. She never stops fucking with you. She's never anything but beautiful.

It's very unfair, if anyone’s keeping track.

"You mean like an affair?" She laughs out loud. The mark at her temple dots the expression like an exclamation point. "Like me, as your mistress. That’s fucking crazy." 

"Satisfy my ego. Pretend that wasn't, in any conceivable world, the worst possible phrasing, but yeah. More or less," you say, "one which would, mind you, seem very poorly planned on both our parts, all things considered."

There's a pause where she scrutinizes your face; you stare evenly back. It's kind of a bluff. You are sort of a self-centered prick, on occasion, but you are not lying to this woman; you have no reason to. Maybe it's a gamble: to hope she understands you better than she ought to, or to wish she'd accept you in spite of that. To want her, in your home, at your leisure, a friend or something more. 

Trying to materialize words for the immaterial is largely the dilemma.

"An affair, huh" Irene repeats slowly, tasting the word carefully, like she's trying it on for size - and she cants her hips towards yours. Her fingers had wrapped around the bottom of your tie at some point. "My goodness, that’s like, so, so romantic of us."

"Also jesus, please, ‘mistress’ is horribly gauche," you say, and Irene tugs a little too hard and you step forward. The smug look on her face suggests, not entirely unpretentiously: how else, then, shall we call it?

"But look at me. I am in your kitchen, I’m wearing your clothes," she reminds you, with another tiny pull, which draws you so much nearer. You can feel your neck prickle. "That makes us quite close, wouldn't you agree, darling?"

"Dial it back," you tell her, because Irene's the only person in the world that can put so much stress on a single fucking word and get away with it. 

But she's watching you, watching you still, intently. She looks good, smells somehow even better, You inhale her. There's this cloud of shampoo, fragrance, whatever she's decided to wear - citrus today, light. God, she's so fucking gorgeous.

"I'm still trying to scold you," you end up adding, because it won’t go without saying.

"And I'm waiting for you to." 

It's not the right answer, though your annoyance dissipates almost as quickly as it rises: Irene could probably charm her way out of anything if she really tried, maybe, and still make the entire world like her even better - so instead of responding, you just sigh, and sink further into her. She wraps your tie once around her knuckles, and tugs again, harder and pointedly, but it's not so hard that it hurts; you know she could manage that if she wanted. Irene just grins up at you, rosy in the face and pretty: no pain, just fun.

"Are you mad?" She tilts her head in and places her exhale right over yours. You could count her lashes if they’d stop fluttering. "Are you going to tell me you'll send me packing now? Just order me right the hell out of here and change the locks, do you mean it?"

"I would, definitely," you say, without so much as a beat missed. "If I weren't so busy being inconvenienced by the fact you're so goddamn pretty."

"Mhmm." Irene fits her lips to yours, murmuring, "exactly."

Her body presses and pushes up against you, and you're thinking again about Door A, Door B. Thinking about your future, her future: it doesn't mean anything. Who needs to dream, when Bae Irene's already such a walking daydream? Hypothetically - a wicked little fantasy if nothing else. She still can't fucking resist pulling away after just a second, just a touch too soon, and laughing right against your lips - even though, when you open your eyes again, her eyes are softly closed and she’s leaning in for more.

The reality is: the two of you, inextricably, are bound in each other's pull. A binary star of (1) extremely talented, (2) equally charming colleagues that only accidentally get lost inside the same room: (3) office, (4) storage closet, (5) bedroom, (6) living room, (7) kitchen, (8) the little-used laundry nook. Your list keeps growing. It is exhausting, but maybe not the worst: not, actually, so bad-

Your hands flatten against the cool material of her skirt.

"I could," you mutter, trying so hard, "you know, stop this. Maybe."

"I actually happen to believe you," Irene's saying. Her teeth graze your chin. "But maybe you can try," she offers, not so helpfully, "just this once?"

The hem of her shirt slips up the long stretch of her leg. It doesn’t move far before the bend of her knee has her pinned, skirt pressed flat to her thighs. You aren’t exactly a gentleman, so you pull it to her waist as you press even closer. The nylon feels wonderful against her legs.

So you let it boil down to the instinctual, the obvious. To physicality: her hip against your own, her soft sigh as the kiss grows in strength. You wrap an arm around her middle; her hands cradle the sides of your jaw - the tip of her tongue brushing yours - then her fingers find their home on the nape of your neck. When you touch the inside of her thigh, across the smooth fabric, ghosting over the center - where the tension is tightest - her lips part a little. She shivers. You try not to smile about it.

"Slow?" you ask her, and the amusement feels unfair to her, even if it is your best attempt to appear thoughtful. She sinks her nails into your skin and her eyelids open slightly. They gleam. "Told me to try," you point out.

You touch her, feel the heat as she says, a little strained, "I did." She swallows. "I'm allowed to change my mind later, though."

"Fine," you relent, "then so am I."

She considers this briefly. Her lashes lower and raise. She nods.

And the teasing has to go somewhere. "Well," you murmur, and kiss the hinge of her jaw. "Mistress it is. Guess there isn't much left to work with, huh." And in any other context, these are the things that earn you another patented-glare, a toss of a pillow over the bedspread, a hard swat on the chest, an indignant 'well fuck you, I can't believe we're having sex!', an abject departure, a million things all at once - at its most dramatic and emotional: a maelstrom of verbal riposte.

Here, though-

She hikes her leg even higher around your hip. Her fingernails clench even sharper. Your tie falls down a button, to the crook between her neck and shoulder, and her hair comes free of its messy ponytail. The line of it skims over her breast, just so.

Irene sighs louder, and does that thing, a deepening in the middle of the noise that lets you know exactly how badly she wants you - this, you're getting familiar with, or the start of it at least, that fine-tuned way Irene wants someone when she doesn't even hesitate to show it. It was odd, and at first almost embarrassing to see. That might've even been part of the charm, you think: Irene could want to devour you. You were you - slightly interesting, and in her eyes, probably the most intriguing fuck - but whatever her reasons, it all clicked for Irene. She had a system to evaluate and adjust and execute. There wasn't room for wasted effort.

"Hey," she hums, low in her throat.

"Yeah," you say, lifting her right up onto the counter. 

And see - there are these gestures, reminders, not always in good faith, where you make her feel small: Irene's wrists are suddenly so narrow, one right at the surface of the counter, fingertips cool at your collar, and her nail polish chipping a little at the edges. Your palm is larger, enveloping the high, broad arch of her hip, the sharp line of bone to muscle to sinew. She feels fragile, is what it is, a fine-boned little bird, a thin silhouette under her loose, borrowed shirt - it's almost poetic, a regular old fuckbuddy - a physical habit, and you know her, know how many inches, and you can find your favorite parts of her in the dark, but-

"Want your mouth," Irene's saying now. Her lips glistening, eyes liquid; you want to tell her that that's an indisputable victory, just objectively, even before the clothes fall.

"Tell me where to put it," you offer back, and watch the corner of her lips twitch up.

She runs her hand through the back of your hair, mussing it, the lazy drag of her nails, her heel right to your lower back. The light from the stove is doing her wonders, gold catching off the paleness of her skin. "Make yourself useful, I think, like on your knees."

You raise an eyebrow at her.

"Don't give me that look" - and Irene shrugs her shoulders back - the shirt falling more, the flat plane of her stomach - this jut of bone, the pretty contour of her ribcage, the stark outline of her body just under a few too many buttons.

"It just comes off a bit greedy," you say, letting the words twist, playing with the hem of her skirt between your fingers.

"Maybe because you reward that kind of behavior," Irene retorts immediately.

"You’re spoiled," you laugh. "That’s all. Just spoiled. Life must be great for you, do nothing and let someone else do everything."

It's another one of those, 'you fucking like it', and Irene smirks like the shape of her mouth here is foreplay enough alone. She might be onto something. Like the easy back-and-forth - how she's sharp as razor wire underneath you - a double-edged sword if the weapon knew the sheath.

You lean in. She places her palm flush to your heart, like she can measure exactly how long you’re drawing this out with its steady thud. You know she’ll repay it in turn: she thinks it's hot to jerk around with your emotions before she fucks you, like playing roulette with her orgasm, yours - a slow crawl, a nice burn. Her fingers curl.

"And here you said I was ungovernable."

Irene huffs, slightly. "You are still fucking talking."

"If I shut up, will you scream for me, sweetheart?"

You run a hand up her waist. There's this whiny intake of air. Then Irene says, soft and slow: "earn it."

(Maybe you shouldn’t keep enabling her. Therein lies the problem. Okay, so maybe you like this particular problem.)

But she's tugging your tie out of the way before the words leave her lips. The distance you have between is scant, which seems to be fine, with the way she leans in as the last syllable drops off her tongue, kissing the corner of your mouth, impatient.

It takes approximately zero convincing to drop to your knees; that much has not changed. You glance up at her. Your hands curve to her waist, sliding up. It's funny - how your fingertips just brush under the billowy fabric, how the taut skin over her ribcage fills the length of your palms, and then a touch further. Perfect proportions, as Irene usually is; you're on your knees and that's by design.

Your thumb rolls over the outline of her nipple and it peaks, draws into a quick, rosy point beneath the flimsy cotton, like an open invitation.

Irene smiles lazily, gorgeous - and sinks back again against the countertop. Her feet land on your shoulders. The nylon in the bend of her ankle slides soft at your throat, gentle. "Waiting." She sighs a little. "Still, waiting."

You press a kiss over the nylon, the fabric underneath, teeth barred and tongue pushing. "You said slow," and the rest of you might as well catch on fire, just for borrowing a moment’s composure. You can see yourself bringing her down to the floor, the kitchen tiles, spreading her legs and fucking her into the linoleum, scratching them up, making her cum as many times as she asked. But there's this heavy drag down your back, the nerves blooming. "So let me. I won't get distracted," you murmur - or don't, really - into the softness between her hip and waist, along her navel, the tight planes of her tummy. "I promise, I'll get there, baby."

She hesitates. The breath she holds back is a telltale pause.

And the first thing that really sinks into Irene's skin, besides yourself, is this: every last shred of hesitation she was waiting on, the self-control? Now gone. You've done nothing but serve its loss. She seems to sense her power; and in one blink, the act is apex. In a beat her nerves are recovered, and the nerves are fuel. A natural killer, an organic toxin, that same smile curving her lips, a pointed glint to her eyes.

"Baby, your mouth," Irene insists, her knees falling to the sides, "open. And yes," and a pause, or maybe an addendum, a double meaning in the downtime, "to be perfectly frank: free for me to use. To come and go as I please."

"Haven't left my fucking mind for a minute, sweetheart," you offer up right back, not bothering with restraint.

Irene clicks her tongue. "But yet, you don't ever do exactly as you're told-"

She hiccups, or something close to it - because you grab her ass, bring her hips closer, until you can sink your nails into the firm give of flesh.

Irene looks down at you, eyes just wide, and - ah.

She sighs. Sighs because she knows - you can find god in everything; that’s the goal, that’s the creed - and maybe Irene wasn’t your original way, maybe you were always meant for a different sort of holy figure, but the words you choose are doctrine in the end; that first prayer you got down on your knees and said to her was no less truthful for its betrayal. There are rules to it: this is faith, the religion. This is her. You belong to Irene, and she belongs to you.

"Um. Did you just tear my stockings?" she asks, like a sudden realization, her mouth still dropping.

You nod, because, well, yeah, and pull her panties to the side. "Permission, forgiveness, et cetera."

In lieu of a reprimand or a rebuke, she lets a shockingly pretty little moan when her pussy gets stretched by a finger, two - and they're wet, slippery, easier than the lace had ever expected, and she's already so plush, red and rosy. Irene has always gotten wet quickly, with your fingers, your cock, your mouth on her - and her head falls back in one languorous stretch. The tightness around your finger is dizzying. You'll never grow tired of watching her: a sudden shift, the spine so pretty when arched, the pulse of blood under her thighs, the fluttering of her cunt as it comes to the very precipice of letting you in.

"Do you understand me, baby?" she's asking you, and her breath seems to pick up and the muscle flutters again.

You waggle your eyebrows and lean in, and whisper against her skin, "better than anything."

Your mouth attaches to her clit and never lets go. You fuck her, all sweet, on two fingers. Down to the last knuckle. You curl your fingertips, and she's gasping. The scent of her drives you fucking crazy; this is what paradise has always tasted like, and heaven's the press of her thighs - your name spilling from Irene's mouth. She gets wetter, and wetter - you lap as it floods out of her, down her thighs. You lick it, taste the salt and her bitterness and her arousal, how her pussy grows slick in an instant, swollen under your touch, wanting, aching. Her heels press over your shoulders and dig in, tight.

When you look up over the tight spasms in her diaphragm, you realize she's got the shirt unbuttoned, finally. Fabric spilling down to the granite, skin and bra and sheen; you wrap your arms around the perfect curves of her thighs, the nylon shifting soft on your hands and bringing her closer, hitching up to your shoulders. This is only part one of what you owe Irene - the easy part, actually: you can see her clench in the same breath that she's straining - the need and want to fill her up a sin, the wet smack as her folds are pried apart by the flick of your tongue, the sounds of your hands, the desperation. She'll want, and you'll get, until she can barely handle it. Until the tremors overwhelm her, until it is too much and it never will be, ever enough - until she's left so gorgeous like that, shivering.

The kettle's got the pitch to its scream now, and the volume. The sound makes you grind your teeth. Lick harder, suck longer, kiss a bit deeper - her clit, the pink tip of your tongue pushing in past the folds, between the ring, deep and heavy. Fingers moving slow, almost absent-minded, flitting across her breasts, pinching a nipple - Irene groans. The metal rattles louder, louder.

The shirt's rumpled, tangled, bunched up between Irene's elbows. You lean your teeth to the crease of her hips. You lick, the smell filling your nostrils, her fingers threaded in your hair - holding you where she wants you to be:

"And fuck, ah, do you, oh god- fucking do you- have an," she sighs, trembling as the movement of your jaw sends her shuddering, as your mouth runs and your hands open her legs. She pants. "Oh, darling. Have an honest-" she laughs and the sound pitches too, "-idea, I mean-"

Irene has started grinding against you. Your heart is thundering.

"-of what I'm-"

A moan finally breaks from her lips, so disarmingly beautiful. Irene grabs for the edge of the granite counter; she can hardly seem to make out what she wants. Her orgasm is cresting higher, each flick of your tongue and soft sound of you bringing her there, near. You like that she needs you, like that the word 'insatiable' becomes an insufficient assessment. You push, you move - her hands tug you. You taste her: a warmth, the depth, the pulsing.

"-what you're" - a gulp, a gulping swallow - the fridge keeps beeping, the front door sticks, and it'd be so perfectly quiet if not for the fucking tea kettle. It keeps boiling and boiling and you are drinking your fill, drowning. Her skin smells fucking delicious. You can feel her heat pooling. "Fucking, o-oh, fuck- fucking doing-"

You smile into it. Against her messy, quivering cunt. You are: unashamedly smug.

And fuck. She's gone, swept away, carried off, the pressure of your lips sending her crashing back down with a moan - the kitchen still buzzing and the steam a bit of a haze, and you haven't even finished bringing her through the dying breaths of her orgasm before she's gasping, pulling you back up on your feet:

"I need you, I- right now. Up here-"

Irene tries to grab for your neck again. She doesn't seem to mind her own lack of strength, though. In any other circumstance you'd think she'd look a bit pathetic: her shoulders curved, chin resting in a hand, a absent, pleasantly confused grin, legs and hair a complete unmitigated mess - and here: her lipstick wiped, mostly smudged, her wet, glistening thighs-

"Tell me," you say, and a thousand possibilities are imagined. To get inside of her, feel her nails dragging across your chest, her teeth at your throat, her moan as you slide into the very heat of her - fuck, you cannot stop. She's got you spinning and you’ll gladly lose this particular battle; a typical Bae Irene ending. "Please, tell me."

The water boiling over has begun to crack; and the first tendrils of steam begin curling into the air.

"God," says Irene, shaking with her body so desperate, her hand still grasping you back. The look in her eyes seems so beautifully wrecked, but in no hurry to show it. She smiles, because she wants that over anything. "Don't you fucking listen?"

She grins.

"Ah." Irene shakes her head, pulls your head back, staring, but does not rise to a sit, just slides herself out. One leg kicks, one, then two, from the corner of your eyes: her nylons shredding down their long seams. You're on your feet; you're not really standing, but then you have no real bearings to start with. Your cock is throbbing.

She just scoots on out, and shuts off the stove, and sets the kettle a step back.

"Maybe," you say, pressing your thumb to the seam of your pants. You could probably die of lust right now and have no regrets. "Maybe not. I think I need more convincing."

It would probably also help if your thoughts could stop racing.

"Huh."

She turns - though not with the skirt. The hem has fallen to the floor. A puddle at her ankles. She's only slightly out of breath; the wet between her legs gleams. The slick, smooth fabric of her lingerie sticks to the swollen outline of her pussy. Her fingers dip down, playfully, so she's leaning over the counter. She tugs, and it presses and plays and sticks at her center. You're obsessed, half-crazy from it. Her expression twists; it's fucking bliss. She smiles, one breath, then two - the house settles. You cannot stop staring; you can't. Your mouth feels hot and dry and sticky, wet from her cum, and your pants, you can't quite breathe and the view's only getting better: Irene naked, against the counter, the jostle of her breasts as she strums herself, as her breathing catches and rises, and those nails digging deep into her clit as her eyes drift shut-

She's biting her lower lip - but she looks at you and - stops, her toes pressed to the linoleum.

The moment is suspended, and suddenly the words do not fit anywhere in your throat.

"Want it?"

"Fuck," you exhale, and maybe she isn't just asking that out loud, she's the embodiment of the fucking question: the need between her legs so vivid. She laughs again, licks the taste of herself off her fingertip, sucks at the curve of her nails - she touches the tip of her tongue to the very edge of her upper lip. Her smile, in its sharpness and precision, remains unswayed.

"Bend me over?"

And then, very quietly, and without so much as a scoff in disappointment-

"Fucking christ," you mutter, and nearly fall in a heap towards her.

-

It's borderline unhealthy, that this happens as often as it does: sex that leaves you breathless, sex that shivers across every inch of your fucking skin, sex that aches afterward, that drives your lungs to strain, a moan trapped forever just behind her teeth. Her hips were either made for your rough palms, or you’ve worn them down to your grip. Softened all the edges. Her thighs open to you like you own her. The ridge down the center of her back, your mouth trailing down every vertebrae - her pussy. The inside, the depth - and everything she doesn't mean to let out: all these little notes she's learning with each thrust of your cock into her, and you think you should just say yes, give in.

Let it go, and just trust.

Sex as routine? A repetition of desire. What is routine is that, with Irene:

There's always a new discovery. She has you when she's bent over and you're pounding her knees into the cabinets. She has you on the floor with her. She has you when she's bent over and you're eating her out again, then on top, and on your couch, and with her legs kicked high on the shower wall, and - you fuck her, you find room for her on the bathroom sink. You cum all over her stomach and she just smiles dreamily. You fuck her until she’s almost sobbing, and then you're saying her name like she has your life and your attention, for everything and nothing at all. And after an hour of letting her have your patience, and your dick, your face pressed against her throat, and her nails deep in your back - you tell her she needs to stay. 

It’s a hell of an admission, apropos of nothing.

"Oh? Say that one more time for me," and she's half-covered, the comforter pulled up over her the gentle slope of her breasts, the bedsheet tucked around her waist. "Again," and you have no real use left, you're certain. The most recent orgasms have nearly shattered you both in half: Irene can barely focus on your mouth, where your hips had slammed hers into the bed and - you are pretty certain - definitely did crack her skull right off the headboard.

"Yeah," you mutter face down into the duvet, "you should stay."

"Then it's decided," Irene says out loud, rather victorious, and drops a hand down the span of your back. She's there still, fingering her own cum from inside her pussy. The look in her eyes, sly. The message in them could not be any clearer: what an excellent suggestion, since you both know she'll have no shortage of reasons to keep coming back, anyway.

-

It all feels rather satisfying, pretending not to like the girl. It feels good not caring where she is at night.

As she had said, like an affirmation, a real statement: "this thing, between us, is so uncomplicated. It's so easy."

And she’s right: 

She fucks, and you cum. She looks pretty. That's what she wants to show off, she does and does it well, and as long as you don't pay attention and pretend like it doesn't matter to you, it's an absolute fucking win-win. That's it: that's exactly why, when she calls, when she comes around and asks about dinner, you ask how far you're expected to go for her. What'll earn you her gratitude? Her pleasure's a quick hit, and it's free - if she asks nicely, if you're up for it, if it isn't the same bullshit, same scene - and the night's never a big deal to waste. That's her script; there's your line:

"What's your endgame here," is a thing you're always asking.

She tips her head, her hair falling off her shoulder, that old cliché, those large brown eyes, batting and fluttering. Just curious, but also to draw attention; what a killer pair she has, they're gorgeous. Your eyebrows raise, and your mouth falls open as her fingers dance over your chest, playing with the collar of the button-up that you aren't entirely convinced doesn't belong to her.

"Who says I have to have my mind made up right this second?" is Irene's usual comeback - a favorite - followed by another favor, then an expectation. Then, as your hands fall to the small of her back: "for you, the point is probably the chase," she reminds you, a low little murmur.

Your heart thrums with the little spike of anger. Then again, your cock's feeling the yearn ahead of everything else already; it’s a bad habit, and not getting anything you need. Or, there's a tumble, a mutual surrender in this somewhere. 

"Sure, says you." 

You kiss her so easily. Run your fingers through her hair and drink down her sighs, pull away and pretend. Pretend to dislike how pretty she looks when you do things like this. Pretend like you haven't missed her, that there is no desire, not to run your touches down the back of her knees, or sink your hands into her perfect little ass.

"Didn't need me to," she points out, the lick into your mouth. And her finger curls right under your chin, nails a pretty, perfect oval shape, manicured and soft at your throat, that way she loves - the angle intimate. "And yet. Not stopping me, are you?"

Which you're not. Neither of you is fool enough. You don't hate yourself, she doesn't hate the truth. So, whatever, sometimes you give in to it - if you could call this a 'means to an end', you suppose that might just about cover the ground, because her plans, her reasons don't matter to you, and vice-fucking versa: just to find an answer, or to find a few dozen, and that's enough.

You're no good at love; she says she's not looking for it either, no heartfelt romantic shit to get a tear out of you, she'd tell you at the start:

"Let's just play it by ear, how about that? I could surprise you. You could surprise yourself."

-

(But fuck: Irene's surprisingly full of surprises.

Take when she texts a few days later.

Hey, a blip on the screen, an innocuous string of numbers you refuse to mark a contact. There's too much power, and leverage. She isn't asking. 

It's been too long.

A winky emoji.

I think you’re able to do me a big favor.

A period. It is imperative. She would tell you, with an authority she certainly isn't trying to front or to prove: she likes her punctuation.

I could really, really do with that same favor that you gave me back when we went to that housewarming party, you remember. It'd really be the best thing you've done with your evening if you could help me out. Call it the nice thing to do.

Is your vibrator out of batteries? you text back.

You are a genius.

Thanks.

Let’s go somewhere.

Just this once. But dinner's on you.

A selfie. Slippery fingers, glued to her pussy, running through the glisten-

Oh. Actually, it'll probably be twice.)

-

So. ‘Surprise yourself’ was, naturally, the key. 

It's difficult to have a notion as to how exactly you might surprise yourself - but here you are a little later; she's dressed and in heels, and that's a relief, or rather a delight: this woman looks devastating with her hair down. But still, like this: the hem to her slacks that draws her thighs down to an elegant peak, the nice blouse she's got her buttons done to the top, and one less: this cleavage isn't wholly visible but the shadow is still a tease, her thin jacket only pinning in how her waist is cut into such a deep arc. Irene had asked if this looked too formal, and the second response in your brain was to ask why: her normal wardrobe's worse - less clothing, more fucking exposed. Then again, you might not mind watching Irene work so hard if it meant your hands get full quicker-

"That is absolutely no way to put it," she admonishes.

"Come again, Mistress?"

"Ass," she mutters. It's not even a reprimand so much as an agreement, you can see where the smile is trying not to crack open. "No," she corrects, and smiles anyway. She pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, "I just mean- fuck you and your terrible metaphors. Anyway, we should go. You drive, my car is a total mess."

-

You take her out. There's dinner. There's drinks. It's something like a date, because that's what she wants. The hostess smiles politely. The waiter raises a suggestive eyebrow at your fingertips grazing Irene's leg underneath the table, and you both ignore the interest. You pass him her credit card without comment when you go to settle up. When you stroll about, the sun is going down and the dying light paints her skin orange, yellow, and red. She tells a story about work. You manage to get a few of your own. Your fingers loop through hers and the action makes her do this lovely smile.

So the gist of it is: you have a fling, her name is Irene, there’s some vague cohabitation occurring, and - oh, she's an absolutely fantastic lay.

It's the sort of thing that on the surface level sounds like a total and complete win, even for all its contradictions, flaws, and pitfalls. She fucks, and you're willing. She looks pretty. You keep her content. That's enough, as a friend-with-benefits; more of the benefits than anything else, she always reminds you. And every now and then, when Irene starts making demands of your time, of your availability - making plans, making reservations, making the expectation known that the two of you have a standing obligation, ‘benefits’ penciled into your schedules every Tuesday and every weekend (and Thursday, too, if neither of you is booked) - she suddenly becomes more complicated than she should have any rights or reason being. There's a kind of security you take away from it.

Irene's holding her clutch in the parking lot, posture perfect. The sky's on fire and the setting sun is burning down the horizon all around her.

"Can we do it in your car?" she's asking, totally nonchalant. 

"What?" "Sex," Irene repeats, like you didn’t understand the question. Her expression is bright, seamless. She holds her wrist behind her back, and twists a little on one heel. "I want to get you off."

This is a case study; you’re walking, breathing empirical data. You’ve gone from wondering to knowing about what they say in regards to women of a certain age. The appetite. The inexplicable desperation. It used to be a joke. Maybe it's because men in their 30s are unusually relaxed with their dating life, or all of their friends are talking about wedding rings, kids, a white picket fence - with life a non-event to handle with finesse and a delicate grip. Or: maybe Irene simply isn't complicated in the ways people seem to expect her to be. She’s needier for sex than usual, for starters. "Are you expecting some urgent business meeting, or an important call - any sort of personal news, maybe - like, in the next half hour?"

"Are you serious," you manage. Fuck her, actually.

"I don't know why, I just feel like you might appreciate the cramped quarters. We can make out while you cum and stuff."

You almost snort, but - her hips have that sway. The door’s unlocked. You stare. The purse settles on the passenger's seat. This girl is so stupidly pretty.

"You, uh, wanna get on top?" you ask, voice already slightly drying at the sound.

Irene reaches over and traces your jaw. Her thumb feels lovely pressed to the seam of your lips, rubbing over them slowly. Her mouth is this gorgeous color and you just can’t stop staring. "So cute. What’s your best guess, sherlock?" She pats the roof of the car, gently. "Get the fuck in."

-

Irene is, at her most shameless, a list of demands: give me your fingers, touch my clit, do it now; take my wrists, fuck me faster; don't you dare fucking cum - there's no rush here, so put in the effort. You have a basic idea of where you're both headed, and the situation demands you to, um, obey. The sound of her wet cunt fills the tight confines of the car.

"Fuck, Irene."

At her most elegant, she's pretty much the same, but she fucks like a total dream: 

"Slow, yes," she'll coo into your ear, in the early stages, before her head starts falling back and her chest rises, and all the sweet notes from the back of her tongue get driven to the fore, and there are moans instead of directions, groans and cries. "Feel me. Deeper. Fuck, babe, just like that."

Her nails drag deep, and that's not usually the plan - the start is fast and easy; her pussy drips like she's soaking a cloth, a fresh layer every second, and a clench that swallows every thrust; and somehow the friction's good enough that if you stick around and keep your focus, you get Irene begging for mercy by the end of it, just to savor and relish the sensation, the motion of your body into hers.

"There," and her eyes flutter, "yes. You are so fucking hard for me." She leans in, kisses the shell of your ear: "you’re fucking stretching out this little pussy, baby, you know that?"

"Jesus. Fuck, please-"

"Should we? Should I let you?" She clenches down, "fill me up, babe? You think you're worth the privilege?"

"If you'd let me - Irene, the things I could do," you don't breathe, "jesus fucking christ."

And she looks at you with wide, honey-smudged eyes. Pretty even when fucked; especially so. Her fingers get wrapped in your collar and she’s nodding her head in rhythm with her quick little bounce. The snapping of her hips. Up and down, and up and down like she’d be insulted if you didn’t drain your balls into her perfect little womb right then and there. She says don’t do this, don’t do that - and then she fucks you like you’re supposed to.

"Yeah, that’s right, be a good boy for me," her mouth whispers, even though there is no one else in her car, you're pretty sure. Her voice is like a vice, just you, with her hips, her hot little hands pushing you down so she's riding the top of your head. You can hear her dripping down into the space, a new leak.

"How're you gonna deal with it when I'm filling your tight cunt?" You thumb at her ass, squeeze. "This pretty, round ass? Want me to cum inside you every which way, huh? Marking up my territory?"

You hear her stutter on a reply, as her pussy gives a particularly strong flex, another contraction.

"All those wet loads, dripping out your cunt, down your thighs... on your lips... you gonna taste every last one, princess?"

She has a face like she wants to hurt you for that one, the moniker - you have a sneaking suspicion there's nobility in her blood, laid deep somewhere in her veins, another lifetime lived far from this one: she'll have a predilection for thrones, diamonds, queendoms to rule. And if that were true - well, you'd be downright lucky if she consented to an audience, even less entitled to her hand. She's out of your league regardless. Or maybe, she's the furthest thing from royalty and she just knows the script better than anybody. Kneel, she'll say, and you find yourself obliging; give me your mouth, your fingers, she'll ask, and you're compelled. It's all ingrained.

"What was that?" she asks, incredulous, riding your cock so hard the seat shakes instead.

"I said: this cunt, christ-"

You bring her closer to your face, have to feel that clasp of heat with every stroke - and when it is so fucking deep, her hips lock up, clamped, thighs quivering - you just hold her in place, give her a few breaths, let the satisfaction really sink in, even if she's already moaning.

"Well, I guess you got me there, huh." Her mouth gives her away, the lopsided-grin. "Yeah. So cum, give it." And then it twists. Her face looks so beautiful in distress, and you're certain you've had that thought many times since: if the situation demands it - maybe it would be just fine to push a little bit more? It's a neediness that doesn't go understated, even when Irene's more whining for it: like, the fuck are you waiting for, her tits out, panting, sweating, cursing and moaning at the slow drag through her slippery muscle, a grip like satin, like velvet.

You’re a total mess: 

"Breathtaking, the faces you make for me" - "you look so good, like that, so handsome" - "has anyone ever fucked you this good?"

It’s official. She'll have to scrape you off the leather.

And as if to add insult to injury, Irene’s hands come up to her hair, holding it up into a messy bundle above her head. There’s a tilt of her chin, a bite into her lip. She’s bouncing fast, taking your cock deeper on each twist, and it’s all very performative. Fucking Irene is as visual an experience as it is visceral, because chiseled into her figure, the lithe frame, are these model-esque proportions - like she’s not actually five foot nothing in her socks. 

(A beautiful little paradox. She’s showing off here. She’s showing off, simply because she can.)

"And you’re the one always calling me greedy," she breathes, like the punchline, as she takes the next inch, the wet slapping of skin. There's heat. So much fucking heat - she's got a pulse that pulls you forward and won't let go, your balls hitting her ass and thighs soaked, so red and plush and beautiful, a softness that takes a second and an elbow's reach and, fuck. Her thighs on the dashboard. "You've been-"

Your palms fit into the curve of her ass. How a small, fragile, dainty thing like her can have so much to grab onto remains a mystery and a fucking miracle.

"-a bit of a prick, honestly, for a minute-"

But she's so responsive - and you want to wring it out of her, really, a desire to destroy and savor, even when that sounds a little wrong and too close to sacrilege - you really ought to just call her the ultimate fantasy: she has the cutest tits, soft creamy thighs, tightly wound curves and a sexy-as-sin attitude; and when she sits heavy on your cock, wiggling her hips in a circle, you lose the plot and a little bit of your mind.

"-have to say, it's been getting to me."

"Here's hoping it doesn't give," you grumble as your arms tense and your back aches, your shoulders strain. Irene seems unconvinced, and she usually is, but the drive is relentless.

"Then you'll have to hurry up," the rake of her fingernails across your neck, "won't you?" and she is too slick and so eager, "because you’re gonna cum for me, sweetheart, just let it all out, baby." Her cunt and her heels in the upholstery and the stinging welts draw you deeper- 

Your hand braces around the center console. 

She has her lips on your temple, your hairline: "I’m imagining how my pussy will look, all creamy and used and pretty - all because you fucked it nice and hard and raw - no matter how many times I fuck myself with my fingers, I'll keep feeling the ghost of this fucking perfect cock."

The noise that leaves your lips is a full, throaty, ragged groan, your muscles shaking and skin burning. "Irene, god," you sputter out; it's not super attractive, you think.

Irene kisses the juncture of your shoulder and neck like it’s music to her ears, her jaw against your jaw:

"You've got to stop edging me, love, my little pussy was made to get stretched by your cock, show me-"

You thrust in deep. 

"Fuck."

"Oh," she whispers, eyes hooded and lashes sweeping low, an awe so thick to her voice. "Such a good boy for me - now. Make me cum, yes - make me cum all over you - mhm-"

You jerk your hips again - your pants hanging around your thighs, her blouse pushed up around her waist. You've twisted and knotted the fabric over and over into something you can pull or hold onto - it's not clear to you yet which idea's more pressing.

Because there's no breathing room. You need to twist your hips just to fuck into her - her lips are parted with this insatiable moaning, and it's sweet and pretty and filthy. She wraps one knee higher. There's the lock to your ankle, but she's grabbing the lever and trying to pull your seat down, the rest of it; you absolutely let her. All this in heels that would be impressive without a tight wet pussy pressing down on the length of your cock, begging for what seems like an endless number of thrusts into that delicious heat, the perfect clutch. She rides you rough: the leather beneath your knees shifting with the constant scuffle. Her elbows bent, a thumb grazing her tits, pushing up the silk and the lace.

Her soft, pale skin is spilling all over you, her limbs finding purchase as her mouth slides against yours on a new rhythm of need and want: "that's the thing, right? You're such a delight when you put your mind to it." She's pressing a kiss against your temple - her tone, this intimacy, a hotness between her thighs that leaves you breathless, dumb - it's the only sort of inescapable validation that might suit.

You had the perfect view as she shrugged the jacket, unbuttoned the blouse, sat the bra over it, just undid her slacks: this perfection, laid bare, exposed in your passenger seat with her tits squeezed in both palms. Then it was her hand tugging at the zipper to your pants.

So - you're fucking her harder than you have any business doing. Her nails are digging trenches in the skin of your forearms and you have the slightest sense of everything she has, wants, demands; you've had her under you, bent her in half, folded at the corner of your bed. You’ve fucked her with your cock so far into the slick-dripping hole of her cunt until she can't stop cumming - or begging - or the Irene-equivalent.

"There you go," she says into your throat, like it's nothing, and sags a little further into your chest. "There we go," she repeats. Her brow is glistening with sweat, and you kiss it: hot, and a little bitter. You can't help it. 

You're fucking her harder than she can handle. You're filling her. She's stuffed to the fucking brim with your cock, bulging at the folds of her insides.

And, christ, her fucking waist. She is so small, so fragile-looking. You wrap both hands around her middle, and as her hips grind forward, meeting the roll, she grabs your wrists, holds your hands up her ribs and gets, and gets - oh, just where you fucking left her. Your knuckles are left digging to the silky skin, bruises dotting purple across her back, her neck, her tummy and her thighs, every surface - you're grasping and claiming what she has to give you, just a hint. There's a million and one ways to love, to give back, to please a partner - but you have one goal: you're not an artist, you're not a philosopher, or a poet - so you’ll leave physical marks, reminders, of everything you've done and will do. You’ll make her cum. Just hold her still and make her cum again and again and again. The weight, the lift. If she asked, you would. Fuck. You would. She rides your cock and rocks you into the upholstery of the passenger-side chair. She sinks down and presses her mouth to the edge of yours, just shy, her own teeth pulling at her bottom lip-

"Your cock feels," and here Irene takes the moment for a heavy, contented sigh. "-ah, fucking unbelievable. Your fucking cock, jesus."

Her voice is… it's really so dreamy. The praise does strange things: you reach down and pull her thighs so they tighten at your waist. There are no illusions here, she's found something worth chasing. The bare-boned desperation drives her insides wild, you can feel it. The clench, the pulse, the absolute slutty-slick dripping, a real, honest, aching cunt, warm and clamped at the hilt of your cock - it's obscene, and your patience is stretching paper-thin. You aren't asking any questions; she's not taking them.

It’s just you and this petite, absolutely stunning, heartbreakingly gorgeous girl sitting in your lap and working herself on you like a doll, and- oh. She really does look great. It's impossible to look away.

The windows are fogged, and her cunt feels divine as she runs you further into your car seat. Her hips snap up, back down - the soft drag and then the cinching flutter. The inside of her, a total fucking delicacy. One of your hands slides across her back, counting the rise-and-falls of her spine. One, two, three, and so on. Her lips are flush at your throat. You feel her whimper.

It’s the most perfect noise you've ever heard.

"Baby," she mouths at your collarbone, her movements becoming more spastic, more erratic. "I can feel you throbbing."

The encroaching dark keeps threatening the corner of your vision, so much tighter each time.

"You're going to make me," you're gritting through your teeth - this feels a little insane, a little irrational. "Irene you- you’re going to make me fucking cum."

"Oh?" Irene’s reply is immediate. She slams herself down on your cock, hard. "Then cum."

Your patience is truly nothing at this point. There is not a single breath left inside her either: the heavy swell of her chest is proof enough, those eyes fluttering shut, the angle shifting as her ass meets your thighs. "Seriously, I'm going to fucking fill you, and it is gonna slip all down the back of your legs - Irene - sweetheart, I’m going-"

Her fingers curl behind your head. "Cum," and she groans, "I know- I'm here. Take it. Use this perfect little pussy, I want to feel you cum." and you pull the pace up into a frantic tempo. The metal beneath your back creaks with the strain; the bounce of her ass against your groin. The moan, it pitches: a need, a lust, and she is rolling, rutting her body in circles on top of you, a wild gasp and then a beautiful cry, almost in pure unbridled ecstasy.

The angle shifts and - fuck. You’re able to fuck up into her so easily. Her cunt is hot and soft in all the right places, wrapped around your cock, tight and snug like she was made for you. Every drag of slicked skin and clenched muscle sends you both reeling.

"Irene," you barely say, and you're cumming, you’re fucking filling her up with cum - the only possible endgame. You can’t stop fucking into her even though she's just been fucked senseless, stuffed with your cock: little helpless noises, squeals and yelps like they're being tugged out of her. She goes limp on you, and then she collapses, shivering and whimpering with every deep-bore pulse: you're going to mark every inch of her body, claim every part of her soul.

"Oh my god." A groan. Another. It's coming off her like a wave - like a river, really, you're drowning. "It is so, so fucking hot. Your cum, in my pussy..." She trails off.

Her tight cunt twitches: pulsing with every motion. She squeezes down - hard. It takes a great effort for you not to let out a loud, embarrassing whimper. Your fingers dig into her ass, her hips, steadying her grind.

But you're looking right into her eyes when she falls apart, too, that long, tensing shudder, the gasping groan - fuck - because she feels exactly like everything that you've done, you know: Irene's tight cunt has kept your cock perfectly in place. She was just waiting for the spill of it before the final, hardest crest. The smell's in the air and the haze is all through her expression and, god, you want her, you could just sink a million words into that, every possible adoration and every bit of yourself and you still wouldn't be getting the entire story; just fuck - you can never not be fucking her, never not want to have her riding your lap, moaning out and falling and dragging every part of your body deeper-

"Mmmmm," Irene lets out, soft and satisfied, a tiny whimper in the way that she goes all soft around your cock and comes down and presses a wet, tired kiss at the base of your throat.

"Mmmm-m?"

"Thanks, I think." Her blouse is falling off one shoulder, the material crumpled. There are creases all across it. She's biting on her lip, flushed. "Thanks for that."

-

It has to be said, here - because you know, because the sun is setting on your open window and your arm is snug at Irene’s waist and neither of you even have to mutter a word to acknowledge the fact that it will inevitably rise across your living room carpet again. 

Irene is everything you might have been running from, everything you’ve ever chased - and you’d never ever stand a chance.

-

Greedy, however, just isn't the right word for it. Not really. 

It's the way she leans in when you kiss. The way she fidgets. The way her tongue brushes across her bottom lip. So no - greedy isn't quite the right way to say it. It's more: instinctual.

She's this not-so-subtle tincture of want and desire, in its most basic form - and that makes this all so dangerous, isn't that right, miss? Because want isn't something to toy with; want is, by design, something measured in its inability to be indulged.

(And for the record, your car hasn’t even moved from the lot. You were supposed to get frozen yogurt but that's looking less likely, judging by the way Irene's fingers are tapping lightly across your shoulder, your own clamping down on her chin.)

It’s just so indulgent. Irene hasn’t left your lap, blithely warming your cock for you. Stealing kisses while the day’s last light bleeds low over the buildings. Soft sighs. Whimpers, mewls, muffled little keens of, "oh, oh, please." You trace the edges of her, where your body becomes hers, and her movements are fluid - supple and knowing and just this side of eager.

The car feels now even more cramped and narrow than advertised, the sweat in your skin starting to bloom. The musk of sex, a creeping heat: "go ahead," you rasp out. 

She nods, a helpless dip, and that comes with a sigh, "yes, fuck, right there," her cunt squeezing, a hot, slick little velvety clench; there's something about being buried inside her and seeing her fall apart. This slow rock and build-up. All the hard edges worn to a perfect point. Her dark eyes are glowing, her clever little tongue darting to her lip.

You hold her, slumping together in the front seat. The leather squeaks with the gentle shifts, the slides. The color rising in her cheeks. She likes when your breath catches; her smile goes sharp, a hint of teeth: it's very obvious that she is very very drunk - on control, on cock, it doesn't seem to matter.

A beat passes before the architecture returns to her muscles. She's sitting up, and with your hand firmly cupping her ass, and your teeth pressed to the flat of her breasts. "You," she gasps, the most unironic and unexpected reply. The corner of her eyes is still glistening, still dazed, still blissful. "Don't play dumb. Fuck - no, don't stop."

"Sorry, say that one more time for me, miss."

"You- ah." She grins, and her hip shoves your cock out with a filthy wet sound in accompaniment.

The air of the car is sticky, and her slick is still covering your waist, so the discomfort makes the little groan extra appreciative, anyway.

"Fucking god-" she grumbles, and the whine that escapes is an order for attention.

You take her jaw with both hands. Pull her, and look her right in her eyes and kiss her. Not slow. Not gentle. Thoroughly, so the tip of her tongue reaches the very roof of her mouth. She ends up with her back shoved roughly into the dash, and your fingers tangled through her hair and tugging. And her laugh turns to a whimper, her eyes a half-closed - you fingerfuck her cunt open. Thumb pressed tight to the clit. Two, and the palm of your hand smacks between her thighs, resonating all throughout the car. It's your own hot cum coating your knuckles and drip-dropping off your wrist, so she's melting and needy. The evening's passing, her hands go to her bra, so she's twisting and slipping, the orgasms strung together like the pearls on her bracelet.

Her fingers squeeze yours, then let go.

She licks into your mouth. "Jesus, you're way too good at that," is what Irene murmurs, when you're both just left breathless, half-shivering, merely recycling the same torrid air.

"Let’s get you home, princess," you kiss into her skin, joking. "Before curfew."

She sits up. "Shut the fuck up."

"Sorry," you lie, smug - not sorry at all. "Can't help it. You're too pretty when you get like that."

"What, when I'm cumming for you? When your cock is inside me? When you're fucking my brain to mush?"

Her heels clack to the ground.

"You’re gross," she adds, and shoves your arm.

"You like it," you say to her, "don't lie."

"Because I’m just this sweet innocent thing, right? I can't be held accountable for anything. Look at you, fucking me like this - corrupting me." A flutter of eyelash, and she leans forward to meet your eyes. She's adjusting the straps of her bra. She's a picture-perfect pinup girl. "Is that really what gets you off?"

"It's not bad." You let yourself soak in it, for a second, just staring at her. "The whole naive, helpless schoolgirl act. It's a classic for a reason."

Irene snickers. It's sweet-bitter, and that's fitting. You like how her blush is red and stubborn.

"Goodness," she says, like you can't see the dust of a smile, of a smirk, take shape on her swollen mouth. "Okay sure, let’s get into that; say my dad is sitting up with worry." Her head cocks, playful. "My family probably sent a search party out for me," and her laugh's lighter than air, warm, a few shades shy of ridiculous - if you thought that the sound could make you as much of a fool as she does - then yeah, that’s pretty accurate.

"What - like in a rocking chair, with his shotgun and everything?"

"Yeah, you’re so fucking dead. He's so going to shoot you on sight when he sees the absolute state you're returning me in. His precious little girl, " Irene picks at her bra, tucks herself back in, adjusts her hair. The last of her hairpins drops, falls to the dash. It rolls back, between your legs. "Pull the trigger and turn you into swiss cheese. Last rites, eulogy, the full nine yards." Her makeup's smudged - red lipstick, the tip of her nose - and you just don't feel like pointing it out yet.

"Cremation, most likely?"

"Eh, who knows," she smiles, and now, more than ever, there's not a sign of hesitation in her face, her voice, the light and effortless way she drapes across the interior, stretches. "You’re so cute though. Maybe he'll give you a chance and let you run."

-

It hadn't really occurred to you until you arrived onto the front steps of Irene’s apartment and watched her sink back against the door, exhaling softly in the fluorescent light, her eyes heavy, but you have a sneaking suspicion that you're doing everything completely out of order. 

You aren't in some trope-addled tv drama, and Irene isn't your childhood-friend or your slowburn-material, someone with a sentimental backstory.

Maybe in a parallel universe, some twisted alternate ending, where she's in this long, silky wedding gown, both sides of the aisle are watching you commit sins the way people can't resist doing in those fuck-it stories, all heat and sex and dopamine without remorse - but not now, not yet.

(Probably - probably not ever, and if that's a cop-out you can't help it. Because isn’t it silly, the things the people will do. Pretending to not be in love, all for the sake of the chase - getting themselves hung up in this world of digital advances and missed connections.)

You'll regret it later, you think. That's an unforeseen variable you should've predicted, though, isn't it?

Because you've both loved before, both been hurt, the excuses are all in the chamber: all the mixed signals and stereotypes. How she looks at you - or doesn't, some days. Your past, hers, the differences. You've never known exactly how this should go, if there even is a best version of this love to pursue, the idyllic happily-ever-after, that perfect white dress. Fuck, that is not the daydream you're supposed to be having.

The story instead, is like this: you drive her home. She sings along to the music on the radio. She kisses you over the console at a red light. Someone honks. You walk her to the door, because you're old-fashioned when you think it’s useful. You're a charmer, she's yours. You grab her by the chin and probably end up making out for far too long.

Just imagine if it had all been by the book:

A first date, then text messages. A second, where you're supposed to invite her to dinner, drinks. You’re supposed to call her, on the phone, with your voice and everything - low, a little assertive - not bossy or controlling, no: that's what the third date's for. There's a checklist for what to do, what to say; how you're supposed to kiss her, and why she's supposed to act all shy, the picture of demure - like she's innocent, though she'll be anything but. At the end of it, you're supposed to pay. She won’t let you. You're supposed to walk her home. She's supposed to linger, put the keys in the door and ask you what you're doing next - she's supposed to look over her shoulder as she walks inside and say goodnight, be coy, let it dangle on the edge. And that's supposed to be that. All of it: quintessential.

Nowhere in that manual does it say anything about pinning her up against the door and slipping your hand into her slacks either - underneath the soft, dark lace of her panties and placing your other palm over her mouth so the neighbors don't hear what a little slut she can be when she wants to.

Just this side of coquettish. A total delight.

Irene practically sobs into the side of your hand. Her mouth drops open, and you haven't even really touched her; she's wet already, soaked - well. She's always wet for you.

"I'll catch you later," you breathe into her neck, letting your fingertips skirt the puffy lips of her cunt on the drag back up because you’re actually not old-fashioned, like at all.

She tosses her hair, lets a sigh run through her smile, the blush, the creased eyes - and disappears through the door. It's the simplest way you two will ever say good night.

-

Ignoring all the rules of engagement, you and Irene never actually tiptoe around each other.

There's never even been a third date because the lines between hanging out and fucking and hanging-out-fucking blur with astounding ease. It's no real shocker: it's the little details in the way you find her sitting next to you at work, hips shifting minutely from side to side on the stool as she sifts through sheet music, sipping her latte, just barely making a sound.

It's the little details in the way she shows up, dresses to all the events, hands brushing yours to call attention to the ends of her fingertips; it's how every camera in the room seems to favor her.

If any of the 14th-century courtship philosophers could ever weigh in, now would probably be ideal. You’d be grateful, sure - because Irene is the epitome of entanglement. And that's your excuse. If anything's going to kill you, let it be her.

-

The texts do dry up for whatever reason. 

Three hours between replies just to conceal a bit of earnest emotion or whatever. You wonder what that's called, wonder when it gets so boring - why all these steps had to be so dull, and why you can't do without them. The modern era has, after all, rendered the ancient rituals pretty fucking pointless - you could both use a time machine to the medieval ages, then you could get the fireworks. The gallant. Some declaration or betrothal - maybe a show of sword, a fistful of your bride's maidenhead. Or whatever the fuck they were calling it in those days, it all sounds a bit crude-

When it really comes down to it, this is less about the charm, the proposal, or the lack thereof. Less about the dear Irene, will you be mine, and more about the want. Want that's palpable, messy: about shedding decorum together and feeling filthy and rough, taking, receiving, biting into the sweet skin of her inner thighs and spanking her so hard she can't walk the next day.

That's all it is, you're pretty sure.

And look - she still attends a majority of your work functions even though, strictly speaking, she has no reason to. Everything is relatively normal, or maybe you don't know how normal is supposed to look, and that's alright because you're trying - and all you really care about is Irene smiling at you with that one knowing tilt of her mouth - and - and she does. 

Hey, you're not entirely hopeless.

-

(The toxicity, the slammed doors, ignored voicemails and belted taillights zooming off into the night - look, not everyone is built for all the drama, not everyone feels the thrill at the tip of their fingers when they cut their losses and move on to the next. Floating through the memories thinking, wow, what a waste of time.

That's not you, you're aware. And Irene’s seen it before, probably, had a story just like it in her own life, maybe been there, maybe not, but isn't it fascinating how all of it always sounds the same no matter how the story gets told.

So, keep it simple stupid. It's easy that way. Don't confuse her, or yourself, don’t fuck it up by demanding more. 

Afterall, it feels good, pretending not to care where she is at night.)

-

So - take some credit, you do something right for once. You call her.

It’s a Saturday and she’s working late because she’s a singer. She's between hair, makeup and costume. Bored. Or, pretending she is, and if you were a lesser person, the type to lie to yourself, you'd let the pretension sit as-is. It's not even difficult: no effort required to sit back, close your eyes, and listen.

"The way he was just staring at me was so embarrassing," Irene is going on about this production assistant, and her voice is always light, playful - it doesn't matter who, it doesn't even matter what, it's the cadence to her speech that lulls. "Like I could read his mind."

"Can't you?" you ask, indulgently.

"Okay, don't try being cheeky, mister," Irene scolds into the phone, but it's hardly stern; her tone's the softest kind of sultry, like caramel, dripping. "He wanted to bend me over the table. Get some nice little marks in."

Hey, who could blame him? She exhales, almost sounds annoyed - the pout on her face is practically audible.

You are not a good person by the longest stretch of the imagination. "Then what stopped him, princess?" you question, not a hint of chivalry left in you. "Fooled me - isn't that your kink? Fucking men you've barely just met."

She laughs - once, breathless and abruptly; something sharp. You're not actually joking and she can't pretend otherwise. "Fuck." The word is a sigh, the suggestion is all over the air. You aren't blind. "You would, wouldn't you? Probably love to see me bent over, too - and split in half on some stranger's cock. Worshiping it like you've taught me, or whatever the fuck."

You hum in amusement, putting the pieces together from what she hasn't said. "Aw," you coo. "Missing me already I see."

"Don’t flatter yourself," she shoots back, all quippy, fast: quick reflexes, the stuff of her brand. "What am I meant to be doing while I'm waiting for the crew, huh?"

And well, that’s the thing - you end up on the phone for far too long, far too late: she leaves you to wait a minute when someone knocks on the door, and you'll have her later, probably, but what's wrong with dreaming of fucking her in one of those dressing rooms, pulling that corset down her curves and kissing her silent in case someone walks by - leaving teeth and nail marks across the tops of her breasts. You expect her to bring the conversation to something a little more in the moment, but her voice carries back into the room and she's asking you, casually, what's for dinner, how was your day. You laugh, tell her a funny story that happens, talk about everything that's mundane, everything she should know and would know about you if you actually spoke all the words in your head.

"Hey," she says, at some point, quiet and suddenly gentle, and you're already wrapped around her finger and you've yet to tell her. "I like talking to you. Keep calling."

This isn’t like you, really. Or it hasn’t been - not in a while.

"As if that's up to you," you shoot back, your voice so dry you know she can see straight through it, but maybe you're doing alright, making leeway - because at least, it's a placeholder. Irene seems to understand what you can't explain.

"Ha." Another laugh, airy this time: easy-breezy. A vocal shrug. "My hair is way too cute right now to deal with your smart mouth, anyways - they're waiting for me." She hesitates, but the gap isn't uncomfortable, a space to breathe. "Let's just say you'll get tired of me before I get sick of you."

"Do you want me to see?"

"Later," says Irene, almost hurriedly, like an excuse, but in a pretty way, and the click on her end of the line is still warm.

(You hang up, stare at the wall and take deep, shaking breaths: in, out, hold - when you don't, you can taste her. But still, you wait for the feeling to subside.)

-

At first, she had seemed entirely untouchable. It’s funny. At first, you were convinced she'd look right past you.

-

She sends you a video, no commentary: the pretty, delicate sweep of her mouth brushing her shoulder. Her arm casts a shadow down the rise of her hips and your eyes trail that shadow south, across the soft planes of her stomach.

There are no questions after it, no words or emojis. Just her. In lingerie and no fucking context. The sound of her inhales.

(She says things with her face like that - or rather she says nothing at all. There isn't a hand-written translation key, though she leaves clues. She's playing it up, knows how you like her when she gets mouthy, lips glossy, knows how you like her panting. It wouldn't take much if she put her hand between her legs for you: you'd suck on her fingers, clean them off. You'd do anything.

The sound she does make eventually is low, frustrated. It's filthy - just thinking about her, all alone and barely touching herself: waiting for your reply.)

-

And yeah, it'd feel good not having to think about the bullshit anymore - you’d do your best to convince everyone that it's casual: the looks, the touches, all of it - the two of you together. It'd be a total lie, and you'd know it: everyone would know it, but that doesn't really matter. Because keeping things careless works. Never had it been about the feelings, and it's a cop-out, sure, that old cliché, but look - there's a really good chance you'll muck this up if you're given the power to put a name to the way her pupils dilate a half second before she grabs at you. Or the way you always fall a little more for her.

You think about that, about the worst of it: that she could ask you the most invasive question on her mind and instead, you'd answer, honestly and willingly, just like that: "hey, do you want to stay the night?" 

-

But here’s the thing: she's a singer and she's got all these friends. Colleagues and acquaintances from work who are, in her words, also 'friends' (code for: people I am required to tolerate by contract.)

Hey, you're no marriage counselor - you won't try to figure out the etiquette. And her labelmates aren't a total disaster.

It's only fair to make an appearance, meet all these alleged Bae Joohyuns. And - she likes it, in that way Irene likes a lot of things you do to her. She’s texting you a new address every few minutes, texting nonstop by the time you've matched a tie to a shirt and are actually considering heading out. It's this afterparty, or wait, sorry, we're actually at a bar now - no, scratch that, it's a friend of a friend's place, you'll love it, I think? - and you can't really picture her stumbling through the city at midnight like she is, but there's a blurry photo of her and Seulgi and Wendy crowded around a mess of champagne flutes on a counter. An outdoor patio, a rooftop garden somewhere downtown. Her dress is breathtakingly gorgeous. There's an arm snaked around her waist and that's - hmm.

Wendy wants u here lol, the next text reads, and okay, you can't actually be bothered to give her shit for that right now. She can't be helped.

Someone's having fun, you type out instead.

Maybe I'm bored, comes the reply, just as fast, and then a few seconds later: i don't think anyone knows me here.

You roll your eyes. You'd love her despite, or maybe because of, a personality like that. "Never took you for anything like a celebrity."

Fine. I'll have to think of something to do, then, Irene responds, almost lazily, the following text-delete cycle appearing under your thumb like some new and innovative high-speed braille. Maybe.

But you could also come over and get me off, you think she should add. That could be fun, too.

No dice.

Meet me soon, she texts, and maybe a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, but she doesn’t even know what it does to your stomach when she follows it with, I miss you.

You wonder, a little, how you got here. You wonder if things like that ever just become normal.

-

Kang Seulgi is standing out front when you spill out of an uber and onto the sidewalk, all stooped over under the yellow haze of the streetlight on the corner, smoke coming up off a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

The chill night wind picks up and the edge of a leather jacket flaps behind her. It's almost eerie in how mundane the sight should be - and you think it's funny: Seulgi can make herself at home, anywhere.

"Hey," the brunette calls, stepping up. She's tall in her heels, the crescents under her eyes deep. The stars in the sky are shining against all the bright signs and street lamps, and it's hard to spot them. "Haven’t I seen you before?"

"Around the office, probably-"

Seulgi's eyes light up - she's not as drunk as the photo suggested, you think - and she gives a bright smile. Her eyebrows jump in recognition: a blur, the glimmering pulse of neon over glossed eyes and a lip caught by a canine. "You're Irene's-"

"-work friend," you answer quickly, before she has the chance to finish. It makes her laugh, which you weren't really counting on, and pocket her hands. You have enough bad ideas; you don't need hers as well.

"Oh. So you’ve got an arrangement," she suggests.

"It's an occupation," is as much as you'll tell her. "We all have one."

"Mhmm," she agrees, the wince on her face passing as a thoughtful hum. She shrugs.

"Did you-?" You clear your throat, don't know why it's hard to get out. "Is, uh, Irene in there?"

She takes a slow pull, long eyelashes sweeping over her cheekbones. Smoke spills out over her top lip. "Of course," says the girl, with all the attitude. "Just, not so alone."

"So," you start, cautious. "Do I even want to..."

Seulgi waves her hand, drops ash off the cigarette. "Nothing to worry your little heart over, friend," she mumbles, shrugging. Her fingers are delicate as she blows smoke between parted lips, eyes angling up at the city lights. "She said she was meeting someone cute. And I’m left wondering, if that someone could be you."

"Um," you respond. "Could be."

"Hm." The word is loaded, considering, and when she takes another step forward there's a smirk painted to her mouth, the deep red cut in the center of her lips almost reflective. She tosses her cigarette aside: a clean arc into a storm drain. "Interesting."

Seulgi's fingertips brush your collar as she ducks into the door in front of you.

"Later, pal," she tosses over her shoulder, and doesn't look back to see what happens next.

-

(You’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

-

A crowd's scattered around the rooftop, now spread a bit thin - most of the people you recognize from tv screens and billboard ads, and everyone else seems a mix of other media. They're talking to each other in hushed tones about some shoot-down, this piece of gossip. They're comparing agent fees, checking the pockets of their jackets, flicking gold-plated pens in their designer hands. The whine of a power drill going a mile a second comes from over the railing: a few shots left to take. A skeleton crew works behind a camera, behind the glass, but no one seems to mind the business of film in the midst of celebration. They really are a different breed, aren't they?

You pick her out of the crowd instantly - in a white silk cocktail dress that costs more than a college tuition and no sense to act the part, Irene is seated among all of them like she fits. It's never a surprise, her at the center of things.

The seam at her hip rides up when she turns to reach for her drink, her leg extended long: overstretched, one toe pointed elegantly as if she could place her full weight onto a thin little stiletto heel and not snap both ankles. Her bottom lip is coated with bright gloss, pink smearing as it pulls at the straw.

There's a pause where everything slows down: she licks the crease of her mouth, sucks something golden and sparkling down, swallows, blinks - slow, pretty, perfect. Her hair is dark, cute, spilling onto her shoulders, and it brushes a collarbone, slips a little into the slit between her breasts. She's looking for someone, gaze traveling across the patio, swimming through the party - searching - and then, suddenly, those deep-water brown eyes catch yours.

They shine just a little bit brighter.

And then, the only logical thing: Irene smiles, before her feet carry you right in your direction.

-

Inside, things aren’t so loud. The night had gotten its worst out of the way early, the only source of music low and reverberating through the walls, the ceilings - all dark and liminal spaces; you and Irene find one to spare and fall into each other there, slow and searching and full of everything. It would be enough to get lost in her completely, this sweetness. You, and the kiss, and nothing else.

It's almost private enough to call it quiet; you're both out of sight and hidden, but there's voices, drowned noise all around. The bass can be felt through the floorboards, underfoot, but you can only focus on the rhythm that thrums from inside of her chest.

There's a disarm, here, too:

"I kissed someone tonight," Irene confesses, and then there's this break, a fragment where neither of you knows who you are to the other, what any of this means - if she'll bite down, be that sore reminder of a few unspoken words.

"Did you."

"Yeah," she says, exhale tickling your jaw. Her lips drag on skin, trace bone - and maybe it should bother you, but either way you can't help it: a thought finds purchase. Irene in someone else's grip, just enough a squeeze. Someone she'd like, or someone she could put herself back in a relationship with, or whatever they're calling this - and all at once, she's trembling.

The revelation is a bit like getting shot through the heart. A simple, awful: fuck. You think you might be bleeding.

Irene pulls the strap of her dress back up her shoulder and explains how it happened, out in that patio garden: a closed-mouth thing, some fleeting nothing, really, a bold dare on his behalf and her lack of inhibition. No, she assures you - he tasted like vodka and it was boring. She kept his hands off her ass, just in case you wanted to know. But still, the blood pumps harder in your veins knowing what she has and hasn't done - and what's wrong is how you only hear her confession in the middle of feeling something envious, a sudden, strong, profound desire to mark your claim: you'd leave this bruise, something ugly at the hollow of her throat. It makes you a possessive, possessive kind of person, and the sentiment, you figure, can only end in trouble.

"Sorry," she sighs, tipping her face forward to brush her forehead against yours, her eyes scrunching as she apologizes. "I don't think you wanted to know, but-"

You're trying to distract yourself; she's pressed between you and the wall, arms circling your neck as her spine bows under a bit of pressure.

"Yeah?" you question though. You can't not. There's this telltale roughness, the need to breathe: you'll hold on too long, take her mouth the way she deserves, keep her quiet, and let your tongue flick across hers until her lips are numb. "What then - should I care? Am I meant to?"

She swallows. It's all reflex.

"He kissed me," is all she says, and then her palm is stroking against the shell of your ear, soft, quiet. "Then he kissed me again." 

She shivers, eyes wide, wet and round and wanting: you could say you understand how he could only dream of being the one to turn her head and bring out her charm, the easy way she smiles, but-

"All I could think of was you."

There was never a chance to compete; this star whose shine eclipses. Your binary system was never quite fair, was it?

Your hands are on her wrists then, trapping them at her sides; her eyes smoky and dark and looking straight up at you. She can't breathe like that, mouth agape as your nose brushes hers, your words blowing straight against the heat of her lips:

"Are you still thinking of me now?"

It's only that - though you can hear a sound building up from her lungs. You kiss the line of her jaw and whisper things into her skin: you have me, you can have me, you've always had me. The truth.

And her eyes are slipping shut: mouth curling into the kind of smile that drives you crazy; half the reason why you're all over her in the first place. You don't care where she's been so long as this is where she ends up, your face brushing hers, the kiss held just out of reach - you press into her forehead, her nose, her cheeks; she tilts her chin towards you, begging you to just - but your mouth is on her, feather-light, not near enough: she chases the pressure, gasps your name as your lips find hers, tongue sliding right past, and oh-

It's fast. It's heavy: you take, you push; her whole body shifts and shudders when she finds a grip, one hand braced on your shoulder as the other swung upwards, pulling you closer by the jaw. Your hand runs up her thigh and you hear her inhale, deep.

Irene kisses you like she was made to. She makes sounds with her tongue against yours, ones that twist in you, wind, undo. Like this, it'd be so easy to just let it go - take, take, take. There's not an inch to hide as your hand climbs her bare skin, feeling a shiver rise as her breath rushes hot against your cheek, over and over and-

"Breathe, baby," you mutter, and Irene huffs like it's a game, one of her soft shuddering hiccups, like there's something you should've known - the gasp when you kiss her mouth open, how it was getting easier to drown. She's not drunk, but she's getting there - and she doesn't ask to take it back when you both tip and crash into the wall beside. The reverberation of her back hitting the surface is nothing like the rest.

You take her arm, press her further against the space.

"Bedroom," she barely manages to request. Breathes, the sound shaking and short, almost - almost a plea, or a prayer. A beg. "Somewhere quiet, please. Anywhere. Please."

There's nothing Irene doesn't do without grace - but how she needs you: her limbs give, and she sags, falls against the line of your torso. There's this full, bordering helpless sound as you find her waist, holding her up, pulling her closer. You're kissing in this empty corridor, knocking on doors, jiggling locked door knobs and wasting time, barely, maybe, forever until you can step back into some stranger's guest room: some hallway hideaway; the unoccupied kind of paradise.

"I want you," she mutters when your hand traces the slope of her neck, and then her face is burying against the space below your ear, her open mouth skirting across the sensitive skin there. "So bad, so much. Out of these clothes."

Her neck tilts and you lick. You find a place beneath her ear, kiss - hard. Irene says please. You leave a mark. You know you’ll leave more. 

An unlocked door, and she shoves you into a bathroom instead, fucks you in there with her underwear tugged to the side and her skirt rucked up her thighs: the mirror reflecting back every whine, the squeal you draw out of her when your teeth dig too deeply, the shock, the undiluted want in her eyes when she leans up against it. You have her half on the sink, your arms a cage around her lithe waist, your grip white-knuckled in the silk outline of her dress; she cums around your fingers, cunt slick and slippery, gasping your name so loudly that you have to shush her; and even after that, when her gaze locks into yours, the pretty round of her cheeks all red and her lashes stuck with her tears: when she tugs your zipper down, fits you between her legs and pleads for you to fill her with your cock until the tightness around it is unbearable, fucking her just as you're pulling apart her clothes, the clasp of her bra snapped so hard she curses - even that doesn't stop. She doesn't ask you to stop - she's incorrigible, needy, practically begging.

"Please." Again. Again, as she touches her cheek, fingertips on the skin that's already turning a deep crimson, all shades and blooms; and then she touches the lipstick-smudged prints at the top of her breast, and all the ones on her jaw. Your teeth, where it was light, and your tongue where it was hard. You took, and you marked, and the way she is, her thighs quivering like an aftershock; her body pliable, barely-breathing: that was almost all of what she asked for.

Your hips snap, and the impact jolts through her: ripples sent into the curves of her body from the pleasure, the pain. You try not to listen, not to look - not the obscenities leaving her mouth in a steady stream as you press her down against the counter: every hiss and moan, your name, jesus fuck-

Irene cums a second time with a wail, like someone's hurt her, like she's been set free, like she'll never again breathe so well as she does when your lips catch the scream and hold down the sobs, fingerprints at the faint, fragile curve of her nape.

"God," she whimpers into your mouth; and the sound, that voice, as she moans it to you: "your cock - is gonna kill me, baby."

Her cunt is tighter around your cock than it's ever been, this total vice grip, her hips lean and arched upwards where she lies, slick-dripping onto the bathroom counter; the edge of her heel catches on the marble-topped basin, and her ankle knocks over the handsoap - the whole of it hitting the floor and shattering. 

She doesn't care. She can’t. She's a fucked-out mess: her black hair in knots, sticking to her hairline, her face flushed with need.

"Darling," the sweetest, her soft voice cracking with a laugh, the tipsy tilt of a joke; she's begging with it, some lazy, pretty curl of a request, some pretty plea that turns around into a bite, the heat, the feral - you kiss her harder. Take her harder. Leave a few more marks: just so you know she'll still feel it later, bruised and sore and sorry, and it might be too much, but oh, the way Irene grabs and pulls and fights and tries to cling when it crosses the line; she'll be feeling this tomorrow, a sharp tugging at the inside of her chest as she rubs circles into the scrapes and imprints on her hip bones. This reminder; of what's right there, if only-

Mine, you bite against her skin, and the voice in her head might scream with it.

You can see the fantasy in her eyes: her standing here in the mirror after you've filled her pussy, fucked your cum back into her cunt and had your fingers inside her for so, so long that she'd been soaking, dripping with it - your palm pressing firmly on her swollen, desperate clit, two fingers hooking deep, right on the spot that makes her twitch, tremble. Her jaw goes slack, eyes fluttering and back arching as you watch her drip with the mess you've made of her.

"It was always, I think-" and she hiccups, a small pained sound, "it was always gonna be you." She says it like an apology, voice quieter, more uncertain, a little shaky. "I just can't get you out of my head."

Your hips are reckless, a little mean - but your mouth moves slowly across hers. It's tender. It’s everything. 

"Baby," you plead back: and it's something soft and small when you sigh it into her mouth. Your fingers tracing her ribs and feeling how she breathes with your every motion; how you're filling her so deep she almost can't. Choking, with a whimper, like it's hard - and then her jaw goes slack, eyes snapping shut - her knees bend - like she'll give up on the control. Her body slackens and gives under you; her legs widen to fit your hips, all her weight sinking backwards on the marble-top-

She keens when you bottom out, a high, delicate noise. Whimpers at how full she is of you; she must've felt your rhythm slipping and letting it run too rough-

And even then. She asks, totally breathless, panting: "Right there," and fuck, god, please. "I love this," she whispers, the sweetest, the most gorgeous, lips moving as slow as a prayer - "and you fuck so good. And-"

Irene swallows; her chest expanding and then halting, shallow and deliberate. Her chin turns; her mouth opening in some expression of yearning before the word comes; a gasp, and she can't - she can't quite-

"Keep- baby, please." Her throat makes a noise and all the words taper. "Please, right fucking there."

She makes another sound, strung out and desperate - and she keeps gasping the faster you thrust your hips. Each drag through her hot, wet cunt has you both clambering closer.

"This," Irene's panting, this terrible, wonderful realization in her mouth. "This feels like-"

A stutter. A strangled sound: you don't even catch a full breath before she's trying again.

"-like us."

Oh, Irene, her heart murmuring. Like something soft, like something hard - this burn, this hurt; Irene, in her prettiest, highest pitch - the way she speaks, the way she breathes, her voice dropping a decibel like some clandestine secret. Like sin, a honey-coated whisper in the space between you two.

"Irene," you say, and she melts like you’re inscribing it into her skin. DNA-deep, carved into her bones. She takes it like a baptism, something in it an invitation, a promise to hold her dear - and all at once, that smile grows, blooms. 

It's intimate. It's affectionate. Fuck, it's true.

You break open her world with her own name, spoken like a sigh and sounding like sin.

There's this hollow, raspy sound she makes. Beneath the shallow of her clavicle. When your fingers push down, her nipples pressing back into your palm - there, as her breath hitches, as she quivers - right there; her cunt trembles around you, eyes wide-open, and you're just watching each other lose yourselves until Irene has to beg for another kiss, and the next, her fingers grasping at the collar of your shirt as she slips her tongue into the corner of your mouth. You wonder why she bothers with perfume; when all she is is vanilla and cinnamon, a saccharine so sweet with a touch of spice; she murmurs the words into your ear: I want your cum. Fill me up. Use me.

You think:

God, her body; god, the feeling. The sound.

Think, still:

Look, your hand. At her waist. At her pussy. Right here. The place where you're connected. Flesh, bone, a stretch of skin - the raw, obscene mess you make; when all it takes is a rock of your hips, a thrust upwards and in to dismantle everything that is her, everything that is Irene, until her entire world is centered around you-

It could be a chorus, a refrain:

Let go. Let me see. Drown me out. Kill the lights. You’ll take three hours over three weeks where you pretend she doesn’t exist. It's simple. It’s, it’s-

It’s this: the press of her to your skin. The nails to your scalp, down your neck. The splay of her legs across your thighs. The sweat - hers, yours - all of it together; your mouths meeting and meeting and meeting. Again and again.

God. It’s the entirety of you which you were hoping to avoid. You love this woman. You fucking worship her, all of her, every piece and the whole - that she's making that noise in the back of her throat, soft; that her breathing is rising, ragged; that you do this to her, just this.

It happens in a blink. You tell her to turn. Tell her to bend. 

She ends up over the counter, gripping the sink, and you lift the fabric up to bare her ass and keep fucking her, deep, deeper. This sound is all you need, this whine that Irene makes, like you're reaching even her furthest, hottest spots - and then the push through her sopping cunt, how she spills around you and the slickness smears at the insides of her thighs; she clings and squeezes and fucks back against you so wildly, she doesn't even recognize her own name. It's the moment when she loses all sight: that's when you bury inside her, pull back her hair, wrap your hand around her throat, and she's under you, on you, body angling upwards like a flower to the sun. She cums so easily, shuddering into the pull of the climax; her pussy tight around the throbbing swell of your cock - the deep and penetrating pain of that desperate pleasure, like a flash-flood, an earthquake, oh, the grip, the warmth-

The moment stretches, just like that. 

Her heels kicked off and toes arching to scuff at the cool, tiled floors; she's sensitive; she wants to play dirty. Your grip loosens, that same tender thing when her throat bobs, a little movement, swallowing for you. She knows exactly what she's asking for, exactly what this all means - Irene begs so prettily: "put it inside me."

There's a few seconds in which you feel nothing but the heat and the way she flinches, like a reaction that's programmed straight into all her nerve endings; the raw instinct; the shudder from deep within her core when your hot cum finally starts to spill thick and heavy inside her - it's been too long since your last proper fuck, and her moaning in the mirror is, how do you say: an incredible inspiration.

"Your pussy," you can hear yourself say, throat gravel-dry. "Is so fucking tight, baby, shit-"

And she's nodding, voice ripped to ribbons. All the words liturgical, a prayer. She's begging with them; yes, please, fuck, god yes, give me-

Her thighs press together, but her eyelids have begun to fall.

"Use me," she mutters. Her breathing begins to even out - the very real sign she's spent, near unconscious. "Want this, want you - so fucking bad."

And the evidence is there. Irene is falling apart beneath you, hands fisting and legs spreading even further as she's braced against the sink, bent, and presented. All of it makes a beautiful sight: the spread of her toned, ivory thighs; her ass pale and her folds so pink; how she's bent, waiting. Everything about her is an artistic consideration, designed, purposeful.

"Christ," is all you manage. The strain is evident in how your tone rasps.

Because your hips are still pumping Irene’s cunt with cum. Fingers wrapped around her tiny waist and pulling her ass flush against your hips for good measure. Again and again and again; no room for doubt: you've missed the warmth, the fullness. Soaked to the hilt as your length curves within her; she coos, and she loves it. She says it’s ruinous. She says it feels incredible. She says it around the shape of your name and with no hint that you should ever stop fucking her apart.

"Feels so fucking amazing." She's panting and she can't say another word for a while; it's a fact and the other is simple. "It's - so good."

She can't stop moaning. 

You’re both breathless, watching her reflection in the glass, a study in motion: the soft bounce of her breasts in the mirror, the cords of muscle tensing in her abdomen, the small, pinkish mark blooming below her left ear. There's her lower lip, pinched between her teeth, her eyes flickering shut as her hair drapes across her naked shoulder and her skirt rolls higher on her waist. She doesn't try and muffle herself: you could hold her down, or even give her your fingers to bite down on - let her go a little wild as she wrestles against the instinct to stay silent, keep quiet. You plant an open-mouthed kiss against the side of her neck and look up, see her watching the movements, her dark eyes lidded, dazed, fucked-out-of-her-mind content as she smiles - lidded and lovely and impossibly knowing and rocking her hips into the moment.

"You are unbelievable, you know that?" you're murmuring, your palm on her shoulder. Pushing her flat. "Absolutely breathtaking."

You rub a thumb against her cunt, pull at the outer, exposed, sensitive parts as Irene's smile falters. You just keep pushing.

"Oh, baby," she whines, pleading for more. For one more press, another, anything: she begs you. "Your cum feels" - she swallows hard - "so fucking warm inside of me."

A shush, the palm soothingly pressing between her legs, and she bites her lips hard. Still trying.

So - you push it all deep into her cunt. 

There’s this beat, this moment, this quiet - where her eyes pinch tight, voiceless, speechless.

And right after, Irene is whimpering: her body seizing and shaking and arching away from the viscous slickness that just keeps building with each and every drag; the cum left on your cock when you pull it out, leaving Irene on the verge of sobbing, collapsing on her stomach, trembling. Your fingers are covered in her cum. And this is how she likes it, stretched and sloppy. The shudder through her body is proof: all over her nerves, electrified. Irene’s shoulders go limp when she feels the push - then your knuckles, curling. The gentle touch, the pressure, the fingers spreading her slit.

She asks what else, anything, please, and hints at wanting more; so much more.

“Irene,” you say, smiling into the ends of her hair. Maybe, you consider. Maybe later, maybe when you're fucking her flat on your bed; your cock up her tight ass or your palm coming down heavy on the supple roundness. You let her fantasize a minute, imagining it's the roughness she wants to receive; maybe the hot, slow grind of you still inside her or the whisper at her neck and her toes digging into the sheets. The offer has her breath stuttering in the mirror.

Irene tells you it's unfair.

"Sorry," you say, and don't mean a word.

Another breath in, the lungs expanding against your palm, ribs slipping. In and out, a reminder.

"Don't be," Irene manages, exhaling a laugh.

She offers you her lips, you know she doesn't mind - and she kisses you. You sink down to the bathroom floor and she sits so easily in your lap, your mouths meeting over and over again. She strokes your spent cock. Your hands squeeze her thighs and you take her chest in your mouth. Wiping your own smear of wetness off her tummy, bringing them to her face, letting her nose knock into your palm and lick at the tips. 

"Can you taste how sweet your cunt is? Baby," and your mouth is on hers, kissing all traces off her tongue-

There's so many things you could do, it's enough to keep you sated for ages. Her back is pressed against your chest, and you gently draw another spill of cum leaking out from her pussy; she shoves your digits into her mouth, sucks until her jaw clenches, your thumb rolling around the roof, tongue pressed right between.

"If someone sees us," she whispers, licks her lips, your fingers, moans, tilts her hips and grinds down a bit. "We'd be so screwed."

"Don't worry, I'd say," and you can't help the tease in it; your voice low and all grit, the heat and your heart rushing through every vein. "It'd all be my fault."

It's filthy: her sitting in the puddle of your cum, making it soak the thin material of her dress; your heavy spill leaking from her cunt and soaking your slacks as the mess seeps further and further down your pants and her ass-

"We are such a disaster." She says it wistfully. "You and me, like this. A total fucking disaster."

(With your clothes torn open, hair a disaster, the imprints of your lips and fingertips all over her, she means. If it was anybody but the two of you: oh, how ridiculous it would seem. But the sheer audacity of the possibility has her looking at the cum glistening on her thighs. Then looking back to you, her dark-brown eyes, brighter than stars, searching the depth of the hold in yours, your arms wrapped around her.

Maybe she just wants to have this. For as long as you're giving it to her.)

-

You can feel yourself falling so deeply into her, the pull. The draw. It feels a lot like being lost. Like, there's something about loving her. The night's long and she's pressed so closely, fitting like something just perfect, and the way her hands find your ribs is the nicest, fondest ache. You only break out of the haze once the footfalls of her heels begin to echo behind you. The bass fades as you both make a run for the exit. It gets harder not to laugh - your giggling voices slipping between you. You have her nose pressed to the dip of your collarbone, kisses dropping in her hair, her lips curved into a smile every time your thumb does another circle - that place right below her hip, or right there behind her ear.

"Take me somewhere," she sighs. Her body pressed against yours, her cheek snuggling against you.

"Any suggestions?"

She shrugs, and the elevator chimes. "I wanna sit with you."

When she leans forward, just the faintest movement, her mouth upturning in the smallest smile. Her eyes flit away, and her brow wrinkles and lifts, like this: here. You could swear, to god, or the devil: there isn’t an ounce of light inside you that doesn't live at her mercy.

The clock is ticking down into the small hours. The night at its calmest, darkest, most wicked stillness.  You ask her again, this time, just for clarity, a bit of guidance. "Somewhere we can go? If you have nowhere in mind, we could head back if-"

"No." Irene shakes her head. "Take me anywhere but home."

-

You're drunk. Irene's a little worse off. Her heel snaps. The usual grace, the poise, her ease, that’s all but vanished. It's just her: Irene. Hair windswept and the edge of her nose nipped by the chill, the moonlight.

She’s so fucking beautiful.

The night can hear her laughter in the air; you have her hands clasped around your middle, legs hoisted over your elbows. You’re carrying all fifty kilos of her across the pavement; the streets are quiet and the city's yours. Her dress bunches, and her voice is in your ear, a kiss peppered to the back of your hair. The both of you collapse and - ow, it's the crash onto concrete, a scrape and a bruise and a story to piece together tomorrow. Is this from the tumble? the sex? I don't know, Irene will say, sealing a band-aid over the red, the swell. Maybe this, maybe that. It all happened. The physical marks, the chemical thrill - the proof of life, a permanence, tethered.

"Let me, Irene," you're insisting, half-joking, pulling at the broken heel and tossing it a mile behind you. And like it's instinct, you just can't - can't help yourself. "Your legs are gorgeous, but, y'know. I’d hate to see you get hurt."

You run your palm down her calf and steal the other shoe. It gets tossed in the same direction, over her whine. "Babe."

Irene pouts, still too lovely, still too fucking sweet. 

She doesn't laugh, or blush, or try to argue. Instead, she sweeps your hair back, curls her fist at the nape of your neck, and suddenly you're staring, eyes locked and wanting. Irene leans in, her weight settling against your forearms, and gives you a look; just long enough and tender and dreamy and calm enough to have the ache of your heart match its rhythm with her own.

"What the fuck," and her smile cracks open as the words struggle in her chest; her hand goes down your arm and strokes a featherlight finger to the edge of your jaw. "Please don't throw away a woman's shoes without permission."

She hiccups. Sways.

You kiss her. And kiss her, and kiss her. Irene smiles right against your mouth.

"Stay right here," she says. "Go get my fucking shoes, but stay right here with me."

-

Look, it feels so good, not worrying where she is at night.

-

"I thought," she's whispering as you cross into a twenty four-hour minimart, Irene on one arm and both her heels in the other - a pack of wet wipes in your hand - and then her pausing, stopping; this brief flutter of something - she says, "I used to think about how this would all eventually fall apart."

Irene leans forward and gives her weight onto you, hand playing around with the sleeves at your elbow.

"I used to wonder which one of us it would be," and the cashier is ringing up your purchases: a bottle of water, a cold compress, baby wipes and neosporin. The ice cream Irene's insisted you treat her for. She runs a hand up the back of your hair and smiles when you meet her eyes again, "which of us would drop the other, you know, first."

"The thought still come up?" you say, sliding a bill onto the counter and offering a quiet "keep the change."

"Yeah, sometimes. Or I mean I'd be watching you, sometimes, I guess." She smiles at your reaction, bumping your shoulder. "That’s the look."

You're walking out to the parking lot and you're pressing a soft kiss against her brow, waiting, patiently; because you always do, waiting. "Do I need to ask?"

Her grin, close-mouthed and gentle, a tinge of fondness, of humor: "you're going to ask either way."

"Hm," you say, popping the lid off the ice cream, breaking off the flimsy paper seal of the container. She's in the pocket of your blazer, Irene's fingers weaving in between yours, her hand reaching for a bite and grinning all the while.

It's four-thirty AM and the early hours will catch up to you, but. It's this: the yellow-orange streetlight above the two of you and her bare feet dangling off a concrete half-wall. In a white cocktail dress and sitting, you and her, atop a parking barrier. You're here, together, watching the skies lighten in the east - there, where the road will split to lead towards her place. Towards your own.

"There's no way," she says, wiping the corner of her lips with her pinky and then making a face. "For us to be together and not mess this up, eventually, somehow." She steals the carton and balances it between her knees. "There's no way to save this."

"Probably not."

Her mouth curls. There, and gone; there again.

"Doesn't that scare you?"

Your stomach is a riot of twists and nerves and the base of your throat is tight, like a swelling.

"It does." You lick your lips, can't think. "A bit, sometimes." You look at her - her profile, her silhouette, the messy, knotted ponytail, the wisping hairs beneath her temple. The press of her lips, how the gloss rubs off onto her knuckles, staining. "But then I see you - and I can't imagine how I'd even pull a 'it's not you, it's me,' convincingly."

Her throat clicks, and she leans her head against yours, and you're forgetting everything else.

You both stop. Sharing a bite. Sharing the silence.

There, and gone.

"Hey," she breathes out - and you can't explain her expression, how her brows knit together; she squeezes your hand, a tremor, and the corner of her lips pulls upwards, almost apologetic; sad, or thoughtful.  "This ice cream is so fucking freezer-burnt."

"It’s not great."

You watch her nose twitch like she's holding back a sneeze, or a sniffle. She laughs instead and leans against the warmth of you; the smell of her, your bodies touching.

"I love it," you hear her say, and she doesn't give the container back.

-

Irene falls asleep in the backseat of a cab as the sun rises, your blazer draped over her chest; she murmurs your name and pulls closer, seeking warmth. The traffic thins as the roads lead to where she'll disappear, and you find yourself dreading it already.

In a day, maybe two. It’s funny. You could end up hating each other. You might have to force a pause, or take a break, or even step back from her entirely. That’s how it goes. It's the hardship, it’s living - it’s the knowing that she has a lease on life that will end, will expire, a loan where all her days are slowly counting down; a timer you recognize the injustice that it might someday read zero.

Not to get too far ahead of yourself, or to project some awful ending where one isn’t likely: but when Irene and you are like this, soft, sleepy, curled into each other; her hand at the small of your back, resting; this close, and closer. Your heart aches with an ambiguous type of feeling, indescribable-

Irene shivers a breath and presses her face into your shirt; and like a revelation: you fall further.

"Where do I take her, sir," the cab driver asks, and your eyes turn, watching her chest rise and fall, steady, easy; as her grip grows looser and her cheek presses onto the leather seats.

She's too gorgeous, too pretty in slumber, in sleep, the innocence the most dangerous thing; you fix these wispy tendrils of hair back behind her ear and press a hand to her temple, stroke the line of her jaw, the bow of her lip. How soft, she's always the sweetest sight - with her head resting, her mouth falling slack, eyelashes fanned out over the fullness of her cheeks, and all of her like this, all her darkness tucked away: you think about all those times you've traced her from across a room, across a city; if there was anyone else you'd rather wake up beside, in your bed and beside the pillow; someone who doesn't pick your fights and your silences and loves them in spite of, despite everything. Who lets the fights burn white hot until it leaves you both splayed raw and exhausted, in her, on you-

Someone who fits so, so perfectly with the grooves and the curves, who completes you.

"Just drive," you murmur, looking away, blinking away. "I'm not gonna remember."

You're thinking about a book you'd once read, an idea. The world of difference, the fact in its finer detail; all the myriad iterations of 'loving' and 'missing' and 'want': the imperceptible shifts between being the absence of something and feeling it, tasting it, taking it, drowning it and holding it in your palms, seeing it every time you turn, breathing, living: wanting to never let her go-

"You alright back there, bud?" the driver asks. The tone: the slow and steady understanding, his age, how he watches you, the soft shake in your voice, the gentleness with which you hold your gaze - he knows. A blind man could read what your heart’s written on your sleeve. "Late nights are a killer," he says, a chuckle, before shaking his head, muttering, "but mornings even more."

There are a few more hours left. Maybe more, maybe less, of not worrying, and not caring. The thing about loving Irene is this: her touch, the press and the tugging and pulling; her body and her heart; she can be anyone, the best friend, the boss, the mistress, the princess. The pet. And you would be remiss, she says, not to remember: you, too, can be just anybody. So long as it’s you, I always come running.

-

It's the last time you kiss her, and that's an okay thing; you pull off the side of the street to brush your hand up to her temple, and when Irene opens her eyes to you, her lashes fluttering against the swell of your cheeks; her hair in soft strands over her forehead and framing her face like this. This vision of her is for you, all yours, all the little things.

"I’ll see you soon," Irene says, sleepily, and you know that you will.

-

The nook she occupies in your head by now, is so well-established.

You can't remember when it began. Not like there was a sign, a hint, or a clue. Just, her. And her lips and her tongue and her touch, all this reckless abandon - like everything else, there had to be a leap.

Even with all the lights burning out and the moon hidden in clouds and the nights and days unraveling around you - in those early days, the press of her shoulders or the palms of her hands would always send the worst kind of butterflies through you, like everything else - just her, the sway and the tipsy, the turn and the look she'd have before she would touch the pad of her thumb to your cheek and drag her nail down the curve of your smile.

(It had felt - and you're no longer in it - but it had felt so frighteningly fast.

Weeks, she had told you once. I fell for you in weeks. Months? Years? Fuck, no time at all.)

-

"Hey," Irene says in the not-so-distant present. She's sitting across the kitchenette - knees under her, bare feet pointed to the window, and the steam rises from her tea.

"Mornin'," you mutter sleepily. Stretching, craning your neck and arching your shoulders and ignoring the pop in your lower back, the strain at your ankles. Irene tilts her chin up and blows through the steam. There's an air of self-sufficiency, a state of mind she seems to always have, as if, the ability to ignore her vulnerability is a muscle she could constantly flex, expand, train herself to avoid - and all you're noticing is how that small movement has her shifting and curling over the cup, trying to keep warm. Her hair is pulled high in a knot and held up by an elastic, her baggy sweats loose and rolled twice over, the camisole low, a thin strap sliding off her shoulder.

"When'd you-"

"Had to wake up earlier today." She blinks, her legs slipping open, bending.

"Any chance-"

"No." And Irene snorts. The teasing pull of her lips has your stomach twisting a little more: "you know me."

That you do; the lazy Sunday, the slight pull in the center of her lower lip as she purses it. Irene, with her hair messy-perfect and that stupid fucking smile, so careless, and the joke-flirt she's doing; she knows just what she's doing and, yeah, god. You still have a weak-spot for her and it's so big; the twist in the base of your throat. Your morning wood rising. You’re familiar with this: the deep ache.

"You know," you say instead, blinking through the heaviness of your lashes and scratching a thumb against the line of your jaw. "A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair."

"Girls love me." She turns the cup around in her grip and grins again, makes sure that the image stays locked. "Or," and Irene holds up the fingers, counts on two. "I've had two affairs in my life. One is basically a distant memory-"

"The other?"

Her teeth press down on her lip again. "How am I doing so far?"

"Honesty and self-disclosure in the kitchen, at eight in the morning? Irene, you're really outdoing yourself."

She lifts a brow, then brings the mug to her mouth - like a second-rate cigarette and a scalding-hot burn. "If you did bring a girl here," she says after a while. And, smiling: "she'd see me sitting here, incriminatingly pretty. I mean, she'd probably cry. Screaming fits, a fist fight. Then the waterworks - oh, he was my first! I loved him! He took my flower - ow, don't touch me, I think I might faint-"

"I doubt it."

"Ooo," Irene sing-songs, turning and crossing the space to sit on the armrest beside you. The sway of her body's so obvious. You've got enough room to pull her onto your lap, but you keep your hands to yourself. She runs the tips of her nails over your shirt, just above the buttons and across the sleeves. "Hun, I bet she'd kill you. It'd be very bloody, but romantic. Sad, but inspiring in a mundane sort of way - something you've only heard in mystery novels. Riveting, sordid stuff. Could fill your entire inbox. I mean, as they say in Chicago: he had it coming."

"Nah," you decide, after a yawn. "Too dramatic."

"Not at all," she scoffs, peering at you over the tops of her glasses. "The man she loved was a heartless betrayer."

"Can I ask why my imaginary girlfriend always comes across like some cliché young ingénue? You seem to have a lot of opinions about this girl."

"What, the girl next door, a little smart, but neglects her intuition?" She flips the bun at the back of her hair. "All wide-eyes, a ribbon in her hair, a flower-child who's seen too many Wes Anderson movies." She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Never once stops thinking about the bad boy."

"If you want to get technical, all my girlfriends have been older than me."

"Whoops," she says flatly, hand falling to her collarbone, "spoke too soon. Got you wrong. No need to panic. I'm sure you, a man, are not drawn to some young thing, easily swept up in a passion. Simply, if nothing else, for the sweet naivete. Those hushed little moans and then, the screams. She would tell you it hurts - and on the same note, she’d be begging you for more - the little slut. God, she'd still be so, so nice and soft and quiet. Ready to be anything for-"

"And if you're the girl?" You stand up and grab her wrist. "What then?"

She pauses, considering this new development.

"You do not treat me very well." Irene pushes the bridge of her glasses back up the curve of her nose. "No candle-lit dinners or grand, public gestures." She twists a curl of black hair around her finger. "Definitely not a confession on bended knee - oh, no, never, never - you'll not have to stoop to that. Because you are, in fact, quite terrible at it. I don't think I'd have a single opportunity to pine pathetically, waiting. And maybe you're a bad kisser, actually," she concludes.

You tsk, scandalized. "You are really not cut out to be the ingénue at all."

Irene laughs, softly, reaching out to tug gently at a tuft of your hair. She smiles up at you - and it's so easy for her, somehow. So graceful. "Shall I fix that for you?"

"Do not fall for me, sweetheart."

"I will try to resist the urge." She tilts her chin and presses a finger to her lips. "Kiss, first."

You lean forward, let your nose bump her temple, her hairline. "Glasses, first."

"Whiner," she murmurs. She yanks, gently. Tugs and pulls, and presses the pad of her finger at the sharp cut of your jaw - her gaze half-lidded and slow as she holds yours. Like she's reminding herself, something she can't forget - what it feels like, exactly. A reminder. You can only keep your eyes on the slide of her jaw. "Gonna keep you like this forever."

"Love," you find yourself whispering. Sometimes you wait just so you can relive that first kiss. Irene swallows. "What a beautiful temptation."

-

You imagine, again, if it had all really been by the book:

Three dates and a letter of recommendation. Making her pay for half, instead of making her feel guilty about paying at all, which for the life of you, you can't fucking figure out: how to treat a woman. Chivalry in modern times: a fucking travesty, truly. She'd lure you to her apartment, or you'd do the same to her - just after the first, you know, the obligatory. The getting to know her, except you'd end up skipping the post-dinner steps of being a gentleman, which would leave the night open-ended, and you wouldn't give it much thought until the kiss against her door is so fucking filthy it makes you reconsider everything and everyone, you know, the morality of fucking someone more than once in a day.

You'd have hit all the milestones, she'd have to lead you to bed, and you'd play all her favorite movies as she lays across your chest and shows you what she likes to do best: finger herself, or something. And you'd talk about it, afterward, you'd acknowledge it - because this should be what dating is, right? This should’ve been the next few months of your life. Running that same exact pattern, knowing each other so well you can tell what sex will be like before it even happens, anticipating exactly what kind of text you'll get the next day - the call the following night, the feel of her hands on you in all the right places. The lazy moans, her lipstick imprints on your skin, the smile at the corner of her mouth. Nothing like putting your own fucking hand in her pants and rubbing a few hasty circles until her slick gathers around her knees and she can't walk for a whole day.

Things fall into place, they fill gaps, the idea must be mutual at some point - mutual attraction, mutual enjoyment-

How it is Irene got to spending five, six nights a week at your place is beyond you. Not because you're worried about what people will say. You're not. It's just - weird, to not know what you've done to make this last so long.

Are there rules to loving someone? Is there a checklist, a script - what praxis will keep things in place: comfortable. Last you checked, you have no fucking idea how to treat someone like she deserves. To treasure and cherish, hold her tight but never cage - what qualifies, huh?

"Irene," you say, one day - as you're both brushing your teeth. Because really, what does.

She looks at you like she's bored.

"Forget it," you reply, laughing to yourself and leaning down to rinse your mouth. "Idiot."

"Wait, no," she says, stopping mid-brush, her toothbrush bouncing obscenely in her mouth. "What?"

"I said forget it," you tease, and of course, the glint in her eyes is a warning if you ever saw one - but who would you be, then, if you didn't lean in close and tell her, ever so gentle. The three words could be: not a clue, or, you're so petty, or, simply, I adore you and she’d let that one lay to rest.

You choose them a little differently, and Irene's face lights up like she hasn't known all this time. 

A foamy spill of toothpaste leaks down her chin. "Th'a m'eh?" She's a mess, wide eyed and dripping and already reaching to swat you on the shoulder, disbelieving. "You can't just-" and her face scrunches, this exaggerated - ugh! - before she hides it in her hands.

Oh, you love her, and it feels so good, not pretending.

"Again. Say it again. I didn’t even hear you." She knocks her knee against yours, grinning behind her palms, wide and genuinely - happy. "Like, have some decorum."

Laughing - so hard you can't breathe - you shake your head and curl your fingers tenderly around her wrists, pull her hands from her face. "You are so greedy," you attempt between breaths, letting yourself press against the softness of her palms, her wrists, the pads of her fingertips - wanting to be a poet, she is a masterpiece - and tell her properly.

-

a/n: thanks for reading, it's always unbelievable to me anyone ever finishes these fics. This one's a very belated 'thank you' present for @yieldtotemptation. I'm like way late, but thanks for everything.

[capslocked]

PROXIMITY

male reader x chou tzuyu

25k words

You’re not a bad person. And you know how that sounds apropos of nothing - defensive, unscrupulous - but it’s true. You’re like anybody else: full of mistakes, but good, mostly. 

You are also aware of the way she looks at you. None of that has changed.

The slight quirk at the corner of her lips. A flicker, a smirk. A game, all doe-eyed and deep dimpled - she's playing the seduction one. It isn’t subtle, and you're losing by proxy. So you're backtracking, drawing your conclusions; you're reading into the line of her jaw, the fall of her hair. Measuring the weight behind each blink.

"You were wrong by the way," Tzuyu starts, indifferent. Through some act of divine retribution, she laughs. "Because to tell you the truth, I used to have, like, the biggest crush on you."

She’s young, and - well, she’s a lot of things. A terrible idea. Incredibly off-limits. She is anathema, red tape, an original sin. You shake your head at her, smile fading - which for anyone keeping score, is an admonishment, however faint.

Because Chou Tzuyu, you recognize, is categorically, unequivocally: never supposed to happen.

-

If you want a read on your current dilemma, then this is how it pans out:

You’re walking headfirst into one of the multiple terrible, terrible scenarios you've probably had an anxiety dream about. It’s an ambush, really.

There’s the text from Mina, explaining all the ins and outs of her winter hideaway, the logistical whereabouts, and the pinched photo from the outside, the endless winding driveway, the clearing in the woods. The remote location, the unfussed snow, the towering trees. There are no neighbors to speak of, just seclusion and isolation and that makes you, among the seven billion or whatever, the only one who will know precisely how fucked you are.

The door to the cabin swings open on its hinges. You kick the snow off your boots, and the air smells indistinctly of peppermint tea.

It’s a cozy place, you think. A slightly rustic aesthetic. There’s a pair of skis decommissioned over the mantle. Mina, as usual, has good taste. You peek around: the foyer, the open living space, the wood finishes, the sunken fireplace. You almost make out a bathroom, through a half-opened doorway - and the kitchen, maybe, is nestled around the far corner.

You settle in, find your bearings, and start taking these leisurely steps down the hall.

That’s when you see her. Wearing a sweater that's a size too big, draped over her frame - sleeves tucked, exposing the barest hint of skin on her wrists, her delicate fingertips. You blink once, twice. That’s a dangerous flare. The rest of her, this canvas of pale skin and soft, endless legs, the hollowed stretch of inner thigh-

Actually, you know what, you are going to delete that out of your mind; as far as you're concerned, Tzuyu absolutely does not have her long, satin-like mahogany hair spilling over her shoulder, her bare legs poking out from under that bulky cotton blend, and she definitely, very absolutely has not given you a complete lack of boundaries, so it's more than plausible for her to slide onto a stool near the countertop with her painted-toes peeking out from beneath the folded press of her thigh (the pedicure, really, now?) and look over at you like you aren’t perfectly familiar with that goddamn face. Those eyes, that jaw.

And her collarbone is out too. Ouch.

Tzuyu rests her chin in one of her perfectly manicured hands, and tilts her head: she’s very blatantly checking you out.

The problem is, you’ve recognized her immediately.

Which - god, the bottom-lines, the blurred borders. It’s been years. She's twenty-three, twenty-four now, and as it turns out, she's taller than you remember. She's thinner, taller, actually a bit filled out too-

Right, okay, no. Just. Delete that image from the internal memory.

"Oh," you breathe, because there's not a single thing you're sure you’re supposed to do. It takes a split second too long to put the brakes on everything in your brain and say, "Tzuyu." It takes even more control not to tack an unthinkingly fond 'miss' to the front of her name - you're a god-honest lost hope - but at the last minute, you settle for, "hi."

It’s unnatural. She's actually somehow prettier than you remember, and the tousled brown curls flowing down her shoulder make it worse. She smiles, gently; this soft-spoken, "hey."

She’s at the kitchen island, holding a bowl of cereal and looking at you like she’s taking inventory. The strap of her bra is black, loose around the curve of her left shoulder; she's barefoot. Any other context, and it's your favorite kind of combination, basically: casual and messy and haphazard. Perfect. She's so tall, christ.

"We've met a few times," and she's not even phrasing it as a question - because she knows for a fact that you know her - and now, well, you can see how that's a problem.

"Yeah." You drop your bags. "Nobody said anything about anyone being here, so, I'm just a little-"

“Relieved?” Tzuyu tries, and if it sounds conceited, you’ve imagined it.

“Surprised,” you amend, quickly. There is a massive amount of distance currently between the both of you - several feet and an island counter to top it off. That's good, you think.

Tzuyu runs her hands over the top of her hair, a half-effort at putting it up into some sort of a ponytail, or maybe a bun. You see now that her nails are bare. "I'd heard from Mina," she starts, "that Sana was coming here-"

And you watch, absentmindedly, as Tzuyu slides down off her chair. You watch her too carefully almost, for a beat. You want to follow the length of her legs with the same ease and shamelessness - like it's instinct or just expected; it's ridiculous and wrong to think, but-

"-with, uh, someone. She left it purposefully vague." Tzuyu finishes, then pauses. Her gaze slides across you. If the awkward stretch of silence is weird, she doesn't comment on it. “Then I heard the flight got delayed because of all the snow."

"Just Sana’s," you correct, and that's not information you should be simply giving away. She just stands there, blinking up at you.

"Huh," she says, eyebrow lifted - slower than is explicitly necessary, “so you’re like. All alone until she gets here.” She simply eats a spoonful of cereal, chews for a moment, and adds, “bummer.”

It’s true, in some sense. You sigh, rake a hand back through your hair, and your jacket falls further down on one of your shoulders; she drops her gaze down, almost imperceptibly, following the motion.

There is definitely a point where you could take notice of a lot of things, and they include, but are certainly not limited to: the fucking languor with which she is licking the yogurt off the back of her spoon, her stupidly long eyelashes fanning on the tops of her cheeks when she glances down, the frankly risque neckline of her sweater. Those kinds of things. Those kinds of details. Really, you wouldn’t dare.

"It sounds like she’ll be getting in tomorrow evening," you decide to inform her, though she didn't ask, and now she nods, focusing still on the yogurt and granola at the bottom of her bowl.

You walk into the kitchen. Rap your knuckles on the countertop. Tzuyu’s right there, and your mind is filling up with images you could really do without. That's the unfortunate, traitorous nature of all this: in any universe, Chou Tzuyu fawns over you. And she will, on accident or purpose, test you. And as for your hesitation - that's an instinct that gets activated every time you so much as meet Tzuyu in person, this invasive little impulse. 

"Well," Tzuyu says, way too casually. “It’s just us then.”

"Yeah." you agree, stilted. “Just us.”

"There's wine," she decides, tilts her head. Then, matter of factly, "and coffee, hot cocoa. Mina’s more or less stocked on everything."

Her voice hits the room all nice, sweet, syrupy - god, fuck, maybe there's a window or a door here somewhere that you're supposed to open to clear the air, but when you look, there’s frost on the glass; it’s the subalpine frigidity. Tzuyu flashes you this other sort of glance - her teeth scrape the rounded spoon's tip before her lips fully fix around it. The drowsy, delirious feeling is almost involuntary at this point.

"I should unpack my things, is what I should do, probably," and now you are saying things for the sake of saying them, as an escape. "Hey, seriously. Sorry for the inconvenience."

“Don’t be,” she tells you. "The weather isn't anybody's fault."

(Here, a premonition. You look at Tzuyu, who raises an eyebrow back.)

The next logical move is: leave. Tzuyu folds her long limbs back up onto the stool, and you're - trying not to look. You're also trying not to do it consciously, actively - you're not, and not. You fail, like you did a few years ago, too - the eyes have a bad habit of wandering. She's made of porcelain, all thin wrists, thin neck, soft curves and delicate lines. She's made out of glass - she’s at her most dangerous when you’ve gone and broken her.

It’s possible, you think, she could break you too.

-

Look, contextually - it’s Murphy’s law, or maybe your own very specific curse. A lot of stuff happens, so here’s a rough draft, your best effort at an approximation, a smudged-pencil sketch:

Tzuyu has been on vacation in the Alps from the start of the week, or maybe the week prior - she's alone in this stupidly big cabin you're supposed to be meeting Sana in for two weeks and change of pure unadulterated, hedonistic fun. Skiing, lounging, stargazing, drinking, screwing, consummating a situationship. You know the drill.

However there ends up being an actual, literal avalanche - with snow and rocks and ice and whatever the fuck - the power goes out, and you can only assume the whole mountain's gone dark. It's like a classic, a cautionary tale: hey, dude, you're on vacation with this drop-dead gorgeous girl who will let you do whatever you want to her - in the name of love and lust and a loosely legal liability. She says she'll be yours forever, except you also heard her say that the universe is entitled to laugh at you, a bit - so you do something you'll regret (which, okay, you've done countless things you'll regret) and now you're getting punished for it, and so is the stunning temptress currently shivering in the bed next to you. Seriously, whatever you do, do not fuck her, don't let her get too attached, because oh, man - Tzuyu really likes to make herself comfortable, huh? To nestle herself into your arms, let her hand stroke circles in the dark fabric of your t-shirt, warm her cold nose into your chest, and cuddle the night away. She's so easy to give in to, isn't she? This walking, talking paradox of everything she's not supposed to be and everything she'll willingly do anyway - there's her expression, placid and rapturous in equal measures, the sleepy mumbles against your skin that sound like prayers, her damp breaths.

You should know better. You should know that this is the universe, laughing its ass off at you.

And just for the record, there is sound reason for everyone to feel, in some sense, extremely concerned by the narrative that your life has slowly, unceremoniously devolved itself into.

The first time you meet Chou Tzuyu is years ago. She’s dramatically, devastatingly, problematically, young.

It was all happening before you could really clock it, and it was morally reprehensible, and it was, in fact, probably all your own doing.

And it’s even more obvious in retrospect: how she would react to the way you reach back and ruffle your hair when you laugh, the casual appeal of your smile, the depths of your tone, how you cut it as close as you can get it. A girl will trip all over herself to let you look after her; that’s the basic blueprint, that's the default. See, you're in your twenties, an adult - not having figured out much, but having certainly figured out this - and it's very much not lost on you that the girl should not be flirting with you - but she does, and the very worst of it is: you let her.

“Are you out of your mind?” Jihyo had said at the time, and, in fairness, yeah. That more or less sums it up.

So you end up making a point of never getting to know her, to always keep the conversation nonexistent. Or in the worst case scenario, brief - on surface level topics. The weather. Your job. Food. If you like her sunglasses. (They look protective, you’d told her, very practical. Very safe.) It's the essentials, a light, professional rapport - never once crossing the border from casual conversation to candid disclosure. 

She's infatuated, of course. You're not mincing words here. It's actually rather unfortunate, how gone she is for you. You could’ve probably stood to dial it back; you, and your charm. Your smiles.

Because Chou Tzuyu was however many years young, very much off-limits - and like a lot of people it seems, totally hooked on your whole deal.

-

(Theoretically, that's how it all starts. Which is why, pragmatically, you will never, ever lay a finger on her.)

-

So, the plan to get through this was simple and to the point and as follows:

* Avoid unnecessary physical contact

* Maintain social distance, in fact - something covid-esque sounds great, about six feet

* Do not offer opinions/advice unless specifically asked

* Minimize speaking, just to be safe

* Do not exchange gifts, especially personal ones

* Be wary of the temptation to take a voluntarily-tipsy Tzuyu to bed, because you'll want to - and god knows Tzuyu will make it extremely clear that you could; this is exactly how shit turns south-

* Adjust and reframe

* Reinforce

* Remind yourself

* To just fucking think about literally anything else

It was working fine, so far - really fine, especially if you consider how early into the stay you're sitting there, telling yourself off in the bathroom mirror, get it together, you dumbass. What is wrong with you, don’t you know better by now - before an unapologetic knock on the door snaps you out of it, and the click of the door opening a moment later forces a heavy inhale from your chest: you just need a fucking second, thanks - not a half-decent excuse or a rearrangement, not a careful restructure, just a split second in your own head; that's not even the sort of thing you're prone to needing, because it's you, but with Chou fucking Tzuyu-

A soft breathy laugh, "are you okay in here?"

Tzuyu pokes her head into the room, her hair a wavy curtain that tumbles down past the middle of her back. You have this vague, fleeting impulse to run your fingers through it.

"Well," and there goes all the shit you'd managed not to think about, or contemplate, or dwell upon for that one glorious, naive, misinformed second. "Sort of," you say, offering her a quick glance.

"Really?" Tzuyu says, not catching onto the whole existential crisis thing. "Is there anything else you need? I mean," and then your eyes fall upon her; she's put a sweater on, pants, which all things considered, is a huge victory, a total rout - her baggy sweater drapes on her, practically brushing her thigh where the material stops, the hem. "I guess not, just. Um," her teeth catch her bottom lip for a quick moment, and this time she glances back towards the hall, the granite-finish tiles. "Wanna make s'mores?"

"What," you ask, because honestly, what the actual fuck-

"I went into town to get fresh groceries earlier this week. Everything just kinda landed in my cart," she says, the beginning of an explanation - the backstory, if you will. "And there's a fireplace. Momo always says the calories don't count if it's social eating, so." She makes a small shrug.

"Oh,” you say, like you understand. Your throat feels tight. “She’s totally right.”

She offers you a small nod. Tucks her hair behind her ear. You wonder if she knows how suggestive even the smallest of gestures she makes are; and more so, if she does it knowingly, or simply without thought - if it's a facet of her own effortlessness.

"Um," you say, for no particular reason other than that Tzuyu is fucking distracting. "Okay."

The edges of her mouth tick upwards at that. "We could put something on the tv,” she suggests. “For the vibe."

"Oh yeah, for the ambience."

"For the ambience," she nods.

(And fuck her, seriously. You might be a goner already.)

-

"A winter weather advisory," Tzuyu reads, squinting slightly at the tv. A minute later: "Just stay home," followed by another pause, and a frown: "hail and ice too. Yeah, no kidding."

She's reading the weather report. You're pretending you have any idea how to work the fireplace while she sets her eyes on the news, hands running over the blankets she has huddled around herself - legs folded, tucked into the edge of her chest. She'd gotten as far as logging into her Netflix account before the suggestion of cuddling was so obviously implied, her hands patting the cushioned space beside her that you were required by moral law to flip through the cable options until you found the least sexy, least rom-com-y option you could find: a newscaster reporting on the ongoing inclement weather, a forecaster saying 'near zero chance of improving, so travel is heavily discouraged, we strongly advise against-'

"Wonder if Sana's even going to make it," Tzuyu breaks the relative silence, and you are acutely aware of how casual she has been referring to Sana, the complete and utter lack of jealousy or any emotion related - or you guess, inspired. She's not even the slightest bit irked. “If the airport opens, maybe," she adds, and, after a beat, "let's hope."

-

It gets colder. You can barely see three feet past the front door. The forecast only gets worse, the storm intensifies and swells, it snows and snows - and this isn't a cottage somewhere on the lake, you're a couple miles down a single-track, woodsy road, far, far away from society.

-

If only these walls could talk, honestly. You're like, caught in a moment. With Tzuyu and marshmallows and these tiny, sticky wooden skewers. This is a story you will tell nobody, ever.

"I don’t mean to say I told you so," she says, but it comes out with a mouthful of chocolate and graham cracker, and marshmallow, which sort of takes the bite out of it. "But the movie is a little more entertaining."

You pretend like you weren't staring at her mouth a beat prior. "Right, a cinematic masterpiece." 

Tzuyu tugs a marshmallow off the stick, and looks over at you again. Smiles around the impromptu pastry. She's just such a bright, wholesome thing - soft-hearted, selfless, so innocuous and so pleasant. It's absolutely sick. You have a fucking pavlovian response to Tzuyu simply existing.

And you’re pretending like the white, tacky remains on her mouth haven't permanently solidified that look into memory: the melted chocolate, the whipped sugar, the dimple. You could really do without this specific feeling - for however much longer it'll last, should the storm linger.

"You don’t ever have stuff like this, just for a quiet, carefree time?" Tzuyu licks it off her skin, and the question kind of drags your attention elsewhere.

You breathe in, slow.

Maybe she can feel it too, you think. Because Tzuyu drags the pad of her thumb against her bottom lip, and a question she doesn't ask flickers to life in her gaze: if you'll break or not, if there is an absolute limit.

But it’s impossible to read her. Tzuyu takes up this real easy-going disposition, all quiet and stoic, sort of, and maybe that's the dangerous part of her - the stillness. Other moments, she has this uncanny knack for conversation. She's charming in that way, you have always thought, a bright face. She has a keen understanding of things too - maybe sometimes too much; maybe a little bit beyond her years, really, a little too knowledgeable.

"When the gang does," you answer, diplomatically. “Sure, I suppose.”

There's another smile at that, which is how you know that the back and forth, this coolly cool, somewhat-stiff exchange is sort of becoming a game. A bet on who cracks, who turns. She won't tell you it's you, and you'll never in your right mind acknowledge her. It's some version of honesty. A bit like Russian roulette.

"I used to think we were friends, you know," she muses, like it's some great mystery - all very deliberately cryptic. Like it's funny.

"Hey, you were like, a teenager," you're grasping at straws. You’re spinning the bullet round the conversational chamber. “And I have this thing-”

"You have a thing?" Her eyebrow is raised again - sweetly challenging.

"-like, a principle, a standard - if there's nothing there, and let's face it: there's really not something here-"

"Aw," Tzuyu fakes pouting, which is simultaneously very mean and also like, painfully hot, and she makes this pitiful coo, "you really have nothing to say at all, do you."

Which. Fuck, she’s right. The 'thing' here is the no touching, the no messing, the no making anything resembling a move. She's sitting over there with her mouth covered in sugar, batting her goddamn eyelashes. Which you ignore, thank god for impulse control, or the instinct of it, and Tzuyu pushes a graham cracker past her lips to placate her own expression.

And so it goes. She keeps looking at you and looking and looking and you stare, transfixed, back at her. The edges of her jaw, the rise of her nose, the jutting curve of her collarbone; you say something dumb or clever and you're making her laugh, and every time she does, her teeth catch on her bottom lip and you could really do with a distraction right now, but it's impossible not to flirt. 

It's just the way the universe has constructed you - this starvation, a twisted desire. There’s cruelty in the design.

-

(Things take a turn for the worse, of course. You don’t know how, but she gets to you agree that you two should've gotten closer in all that time-

"Well, I’m sure you were just so busy," you'd shrugged, indifferent, and she'd pressed the sleeve of her sweater to her mouth, just to hide how bright the smile was.

-which, honestly, fuck you - given all the context. Because now she's right here in the cabin; she's an arm's length away, and all this time, you've meant to stay the fuck out of reach.) 

-

Tzuyu does the worst thing. She returns from the kitchen, hands full, with two squat tumblers and a bottle of dark brandy. She sets one down next to you and asks if you want some.

You look. You mean, what are you even supposed to do? It's a catch twenty-two, it's a joke - what can a girl be thinking, standing there. Bending the right way, hair framing a face like hers.

Yeah, sure - it’s the voice of someone who's slipping, who’s gonna say the same thing three more times. "Hm, why not."

The ice clinks against the glass. Then, the pour. Toast to good health, a clean conscience, safe passage; you’ll take whatever you can get. 

You watch Tzuyu knock back an impressive amount and make an impressive face. There’s maturity there, you cope. Because you want to touch her jaw, thumb over her cheekbone, breathe baby, it's too strong, slow down on her lips, watch her mouth open slightly-

The fire pops.

She leans toward you. “Are you going to keep stealing stories from me, or are you going to supply anything good to the discussion?"

"About me, personally?" you say, purposefully pedantic.

Tzuyu’s smirk is half-present, half-playful. She sets down her tumbler on a coaster - Mina would be appreciative - and hums at you. “What do you think I mean?”

"I was really hoping the inflection would help clarify."

She levels a gaze with you. You fight back for a hot second - this slow-burning heat under the skin, your resolve threatening to buckle, shatter, spill itself everywhere - and in the end, she is the one that looks away, softly laughing, a pfft under her breath. You’re left the opportunity to just - look. See where the glow from the wood-burning fire has cast this gorgeous gold over her face, all her defined curves, her delicate features.

"I don't care, it could be anything," she poses, settling back into the pillows. Smiling. "Please. Entertain me."

Her cheeks are rosy. You realize, quite suddenly, you are not totally sober either. This is exactly how Sana talked you into something however many moons ago, then however many moons later, surgically unattached all the strings. Sana’s good at talking. At convincing. And you don't do shots like her, or apparently like Tzuyu does - but hell, it's that maddening, pretty little dimple of hers - the one that's always there when she does her mischievous smirk - a deeply devastating look, a devil-may-care demeanor, and you're dead-drunk on it, honestly.

"Want me to talk about Sana?" you offer, "seems like an obvious choice."

"I think you’re projecting," Tzuyu teases. “You just miss her, I'm sure.”

"Mhm. Sure."

Tzuyu makes a noise halfway between a chuckle and a snort, and draws the blankets more tightly around her. "What," she says, nonplussed, "who doesn't want to hear some gossip about their friends?"

You're fucking up, right? Fucking up the same way you did years ago when you caught the wrong kind of feeling for an entirely, altogether inappropriate woman. But you'll blame the drinks. And the mood. And the ambience, the fucking fire that's almost suffocating, the closeness of her body next to you-

"Hey," you say, and it's such a mistake. You're pointing to a spot on your chin. You're making it worse. "You got a little, uh-"

You watch as she lifts her hand, glides it through the air - brushes her own cheek with her fingertips, smoothing out an imagined blemish.

"Did I get it?"

"Uh, well, sorta-" and she knows you’re lying.

Tzuyu tries again. Comes up short, and when her hair falls in front of her face, she’s looking at you like maybe you’ll help take care of that too. She’s a total fucking coquette - though maybe she hasn’t even done it on purpose, maybe she's just that unaware, innocent. Not the second one, you figure. You're leaning, tilting closer and closer to her - in any other scenario, there'd be the shortest possible time between her touching herself and you, cupping her jaw with one of your hands.

But your mouth feels like it's moving of its own accord. "No, wait, let me help you," you continue, before you know it. 

Isn’t it disastrous; all ice and hazard, this is the advisory in effect; a napoleon-goes-to-russia caliber calamity, a colossal write off, a write in. You could have, should have stopped, except you didn't and now you're reaching, gently, until your palm cups the side of her face - until you press, until you hold her steady. Her head tilts. She lets you, blinking up. Her eyes are this hazy, intoxicated coffee-brown, honeyed and burnt and fucking beautiful.

You swipe your thumb along her bottom lip. The gesture is slow, languid, intentional; you think, through some cosmic error, that might just be the end of it.

"There," you say, smiling, naive.

"Yeah," Tzuyu breathes out, and she winds her fist into the fabric of your shirt. "Thanks."

You lean, or she does; you go down, or she pulls you; there's no difference, really.

She is kissing you, this soft little press. A tug in every direction. You hadn’t kissed her, at the very start, but when her fingers thread through your hair, gripping hard, bringing you closer until you groan, parting your lips slightly, and - and her tongue flits past yours - your brain does this wild mental leap that you ought to be questioning later.

But everything starts to sink. 

One of your hands lands on her waist, thumb slipping under the hem of her sweater and pressing against bare skin, and her knee nudges between both of your legs - until Tzuyu hums this low, pretty sound in her throat. There is something fervent here, all-consuming, devouring; her mouth moves like it's frantic for air, for oxygen and fuel, and her whole body melts under yours like she's completely falling apart.

Fuck, you think. There is a deep, smouldering heat in the pit of your stomach.

Because she’s perfect. You always knew that, didn’t you. She is firelight and perfume and muted gold; everything else falls into shadow, fades into the background. Her lips are velvet-soft, and they open again and again with these heavy exhales of hot air - so much so that you have to shift the hand you'd set on her waist lower, a little, her hip bone under your palm, a touch ghosting towards the dip and the swell.

Somehow you have this knowledge: at the end of everything, it'll be her name falling helplessly off your tongue.

"You were wrong by the way,” she stops to say. 

"About-" You press another kiss into her jaw, and her mouth parts around the same slow sigh. "Wait." You lean back enough to look at her again.

“Whatever you said earlier." Tzuyu’s eyes go half-lidded as she starts petting your hair back into place, thumb stroking your jawline. "I'd have made time."

Oh, christ-

"Because to tell you the truth," her tongue wets her lip, shiny, wet, "I've never really forgotten. Like I just thought, that whole thing was so… fleeting, you know, like the last time, when you let me text you - god, I was crushing so hard."

You breathe, shaking your head. 

"Don’t," is what comes out of your mouth after, quick, sharpened. 

“Don’t what?” Tzuyu taunts, pushing another inch further. That small grin on her face, her long, nimble fingers combing through your hair. 

You are trying to think, and there was an apology, right? You'd had this one in you. The one that began as a guilty soliloquy, a rueful acknowledgement; something that should have been directed toward Tzuyu, told her, at one point, or another: look. Sorry it's like this.

But there is a hand tracing the collar of your shirt - a sensation that follows all the way to the base of your throat; you lean further into her touch, almost involuntarily - a simple motion, and yet. "You shouldn't. You shouldn't say things like that to me," and you mean: these things you already know. "It's not good."

"Doesn't feel that bad," she tells you, a breezy sort of whisper, warm. "I think I'm getting the opposite impression."

"Maybe for the wrong reasons," you remind her. And to remind yourself, actually. "Probably for the wrong reasons - trust me, it is.”

"Trust you," and it’s the slightest bit ridiculing, a tease - Tzuyu drops her smile, pulls you in by the hair, whispers low. "Sure," the syllable soft, pressed against your throat, "I trust you not to hurt me," and the 'not' gets hung on for an impossibly long moment, stretched out thin. 

She's sinister; she has to be, or some amalgamation of the most potent version of every word she’s ever said. A dream girl, the definition and essence of a temptress, this shameless attraction - an insistent siren begging for your attention; the incepting mind-game; the entity that stalks the halls in the deepest trenches of the night, whispering your worst fears right into your ear. You fall further into Tzuyu, the prettiest of nightmares.

(Oh, it's the dimple that does you in, really: if there's any possible way that Chou Tzuyu has unintentionally ruined your life, she's done it with that innocent little smile.)

"You can kiss me again," Tzuyu says, permissive.

And you do. You kiss her, and kiss her like you’ve no choice - like you've decided, at least in this very moment, if Tzuyu can own a piece of your soul, you can take something too.

-

(The thing about a cautionary tale: sometimes it is really just a story. Sometimes it happens and the world is left unscathed. There were a lot of warning signs, yes. But this could be a coda, a moralistic adage, a story to turn the page on and laugh and be embarrassed by and say, oh, no, I'd definitely do better; a blip. We’d never do anything like that. It's all history, honestly.)

-

It's not romantic, and it's less gentle than you’d have expected: Tzuyu bites your lip at one point, and you grab her hip so hard she yelps. The pause in the after is filled with a provocation, a stare, a tilt of your head, and her saying, “hey, easy now.” You cup her face in your hands, and run your thumb over lips. The calm is pretty short-lived. She gets her hands working frantically to tear your shirt off over your head. Then it's a haphazard stumble into the doorframe of the bedroom, with her pulling you in too-hard by the waist, bumping your nose against hers in this rough meeting - until your lips fit together. 

“Mm,” Tzuyu’s mouth pushes insistently into yours and your tongue immediately laves at its underside, coaxes it to slide against yours and soon she’s sliding forward on purpose - on her own initiative, pressing the steady line of your cock against the seam of your pants, the pressure sudden.

"Watch it," you murmur, breaking away a little to glare at her, which just makes her smile, like she likes pissing you off or something, likes watching you get mad at her, or whatever - if she says it's true, then it is, probably - she's honest.

Her small hand darts up, gripping the sides of your jaw tightly and moving in, kissing like it's easy; like she knows what the fuck she's doing. Her head tilts and she does it again, except it's a few times in a row, making out in the doorway. 

"And if I say no?" She grins, hand at your dick again, just palming through the fabric and getting off on your soundless reactions to it all. "Like, is that really enough? I feel like you'd have to like - tie me up. Something - you know?"

"That sounds like a you problem."

A mischievous smile steals across her lips and you feel yourself doing the same. "Yeah, you're right," she responds, dragging her thumb and forefinger from the zipper of your jeans to the hard line of your cock, pinching gently along the shape. "It is my problem."

She feels pliant, more than willing, but it's a calculated type of softness. Still, you get a hint, a vague message and you figure, the way this girl's smirking in her lips: she likes being held down, held fast and steady, so you pin her wrists above her head - her eyes stay on you, don't drop; you pin her, and her expression becomes that shade more dark, more teasing. Oh, you'll go slowly, you think, until Tzuyu gives. You'll climb a hand further under her sweater, let it skim over her ribs. You'll kiss her again, open-mouthed, and slow, until she can't breathe.

Her head knocks into the wall, she bites and smiles like a promise, and all her muscle flexes under your grip. "Oh, seriously," Tzuyu whispers into your mouth. "Y'know, this is like a fantasy of mine.”

And that's kind of it: she has that look. In the morning, you can see yourself chasing her down into sheets - just pinning her with the weight of your whole body, feeling each tensed curve of her against you. She pulls you closer, into her; she seems the type.

"I’d really rather not hear that, Tzu.”

"And I want to hear you say please, more than anything," Tzuyu laughs at herself, something hard in it, "but I think you want to fuck me so bad, it'll come naturally. Like, the second you have your fingers inside me. And that's what you want, right? Tell me."

"I'm thinking about your legs,” you tell her, running your palm around the curve of her thigh. Fuck, she’s perfect. “Think they'd fit around my waist."

"And hook my ankles? I’d love that." Her eyes crinkle. "Is that it, though?"

"Maybe I'd keep my hand on your throat and fuck you like that, too. That's on the table."

Tzuyu laughs: a real, actual sound, but not at you. "It is. You're smart."

"To be completely transparent," you mutter. "I don't plan on asking you very nicely at all."

The lines in Tzuyu's face go a little blissful, contented, like she's so, so pleased with this, like she approves, and she kisses you again, the length of your bodies pressed together, except where her hips cant up and meet the space between your thighs. You drag a hand roughly along her waist, kneading muscle there, down to the rise of her jeans - which, fuck, you need to help her shimmy out of and find the pull of the sweater, whatever - and she grinds out some noise, something caught between her throat and her teeth, but mostly in the place where your hand's dragged under the material, tugging gently at the wire of a bra, and you'd actually kind of forgotten it was a thing.

It's when you hear her own rasp, when she slips the side of your zipper open with a few quick strokes, shoving her fingers inside to hold the base of your cock, that you finally decide:

She's yours and you'll prove it. You'll make sure she knows: the evidence, the fingerprints,  the bruises blooming the size of your thumbs and she'll be the one showing them off with pride. She'll let you do whatever you like, which'll be a lot. She'll appeal to all the worst parts of you; she'll say thank you; she'll whimper while you're pulling her bra off and simply letting it flutter to the ground; she'll be crying within the first half an hour of you touching her. You can read it right off her gorgeous face. She'll be so damn breathtakingly-pretty, bouncing on your cock, folded under your weight - it'll be incredible. She'll be yours.

"Come on," Tzuyu breathes. "Yes. Please," she adds, as though it's an afterthought, her free hand tangling in your hair, pulling. "Hurry, or something - I fucking love this but we need to- I’m literally going to, like, die if you don’t touch me right now."

"Yeah," is what you get out. Her jeans finally fall to her ankles and she kicks, to get them to puddle onto the floor. "Yeah. Alright, maybe."

You won't even need to hear her begging, you already know how she sounds: a little annoyed and very turned on, rolling her eyes at herself. This part - she's playing at resistance, but she's giving in. A kiss back, hotter than you were expecting, as you slip a hand up the back of her bare thigh and the edge of her underwear, a thin strip, like it's done on purpose.

When you tuck a finger inside the waistband, feeling a little guilty about the way her whole body reacts - the flex, the pull, the weight of all her muscle straining against how her legs fall open - Tzuyu manages, her face in the hollow of your cheek: "you've waited long enough, right?"

God, she knows where the wounds are still fresh. Which bruises will hurt most when she puts a finger right into one - a reminder you couldn't possibly ignore. She's playing this whole thing a little bit sadistically; she wants this to be your fault, you can tell.

And your mind isn't unbending. You push a finger into her cunt and the girl absolutely shakes apart, body jerking like you've severed a lifeline. She's so wet, and so pretty, so sensitive. Maybe you really have.

"Tzu," you tell her. The hand in your hair tightens, a warning, as you let two, then three, fingers shove inside her. She's breathless; the slow, rough motions, her entire body riding the heel of your palm. "Do you want me to tell you how good you are for me, right now? Is that it?"

"Yeah - do. Please, fuck - please say it."

"I was right," is what you manage, biting your tongue.

"Right?" She asks, her fingers locked, urging your thrusting to turn punishing. "Please."

"Do you want me to make this a nice, pretty little memory? Suck the bitterness out and - have something sweet to go back to, the next time someone hurts you."

"I can take it." She snaps, not even responding to your comment. "Tell me you need me and you're leaving me no choice."

You smile into her hair, because she's a dream. Your thumb pushes into her clit and you can feel her seize up with a pathetic whine.

"Pretty," you mutter, as she slumps her chest to yours. You kiss it right into her hair. “I need you, Tzu.”

And the idea's seductive: keep her pinned and fuck her right into the wall. See her wrecked by the end; the swell of her thumb bloody from how she was biting into it, how she's wrenching at your wrist. Your lips land over her collarbone - no, hers do, to the side of your head - she'd be bent in half if it wasn't for the wood at her back. Her leg crossed in the small of your back. A proper, all-consuming kind of wrecking, with your name on it.

"Yes." Tzuyu nods into your temple, “just- that.” 

You're kissing the crook of her neck; your fingertips sliding right against the end of her, your fingers pressing into her and stretching the girl to her limits, making her tremble in her own skin, making her insides melt for the next round, and the next round, and the next; the best, and worst, and longest-lasting kind of high. Your fingertips push together, flutter apart, and Tzuyu's eyes open all of a sudden, locking onto yours.

"Please," she gasps, this one thing. She has tears in her eyes: her face falls into your hands like water, a long drip, and she's all but unraveling.

"I'm going to make you cum, okay?" you tell her, and it sounds so sincere that she simply nods. She trusts you. Implicitly. You see how something in her relaxes, muscles unwinding as though for one last moment. Then you lean down, to her ear, to murmur: "say you're mine."

Her teeth are gritting. You can feel every last point.

"Just yours," she mutters, and it's barely even audible, but she'll say it: over and over, as her orgasm builds, before her mouth goes slack. "Always been. From the very beginning, please-"

“Fuck,” you bite down, and she looks like she’s won.

“So long, y’know?” she manages, in her halting voice, as if you haven't got two fingers up her sweet, perfect cunt, which is, currently, gripping the shit out of your hand, the hungry slutty muscle spasms, a slippery fist; it's not too hard getting Tzuyu to talk dirty and vulgar like a total degenerate - all it takes is the circle of your thumb and she’s perfect and pliant and absolutely out of her mind. “Since like, forever-”

You need her to stop. Need her to be quiet. Your palm lands over the shape of her mouth. She's murmuring something else, but it's muffled - and that's perfect, really. You’re not going to hell; all the devils are already here, getting off on the impropriety-

On the fucking drag of your fingertips. If it isn’t mean, it’s definitely cynical. Each curl of a knuckle unwinding her, a little more, a little further. The gush of her slick that’s collected on the webbing between your fingers is getting unruly, and you’re pressing her mouth flat against your hand, muffling the sheer appreciation.

“Shh,” you tell her, and she seems to calm - insofar you find a spot inside her that makes her eyes roll back and her chest shudder. “Don’t. Hold still for me, I want to watch you cum, Tzu.”

The only thing you can hear beyond the stilted breathing against your hand is her wet cunt getting stretched and fucked on your fingers. It’s so simple. So straightforward. The front of her orgasm makes her jolt against your hips and you pin her again, just to see those gorgeous eyes opening and shutting in sync.

It's this beautiful thing, watching her cum; her flushed cheeks, her pupils blown.

"Good girl," is the only thing you manage in response. "Such a good - such a good little-"

She moans into your hand and finally the muscles of her core tighten, tipping over the precipice as she tips back from the edge. "Ah, you - oh, it feels so-”

You tell her not to talk, and thumb her sensitive clit until the girl's screaming.

Her cries cut through the hallway: the friction, your movements - she's grinding desperate to ride her own orgasm. The absolute highs wracking her silent. She doesn't seem capable of getting off her tiptoes, or opening her eyes properly. Her mouth's still gaping beneath your palm with a whimper, her lungs heaving, and her cunt practically burning-hot - or, she just is, she's overheating, and everything else is burning around her.

"I'm going to fuck your pretty little cunt, Tzu," you tell her as her hips jump and her eyes open. You drop her leg, which buckles instantly. "You're going to be good for me, won’t you?"

"Yes, sir," Tzuyu promises you - it makes you wince - like she'd say anything else, with her hips pushing into your hand like she can't remember how not to. 

Even with her brain turning to mush, Tzuyu finds it within her to tease, to pull, to coax - as her slick slides down the seam between your fingers, like she's gushing, a wet ribbon coating the backs of your knuckles. There's a fantasy in it, you think - and it's always the unapologetic type, like, they never admit it: they want the dirt, the debasing. There's always a blueprint to it; they want to hear how terrible it is and then have some fun playing into it, playing a part.

Only Tzuyu’s lip is wobbling; she’s looking at you like you’re going to fuck her apart and she’ll thank you for it. There's no play. Tzuyu wants your cum and she's so open-legged about it you can't pretend it's not exactly that simple.

She’s going to fall apart if you don’t shove your cock in her tight cunt. You need to pin her there - fuck her until she’s shaking. You can already see the face she’ll make when you shock yourself inside her-

"What is it, baby?" you ask her, and a beat later, you draw your zipper down with a steady hand, the other working in her mouth, pressing down the tip of her tongue - not exactly holding, not exactly pulling out of her.

Tzuyu sighs, heavy on her eyelids and slow. Very pretty.

"I want-" Her head is lolling. She's in a daze, now, you can tell: her mouth wet and trembling, her legs kicking weakly, a full-bodied tremor overcoming her. Everything wraps around you as your cock slides inside her: the pale-soft underside of her legs, her slender arms. All those lovely, endless tensed lines, her strong abs. She can hold you like this, with only her abdomen tightening, the rest of her almost liquid. Her head knocks into yours. "Fu-fuck my cunt, fill it, please.”

You use the angle, the approach. Her pussy's practically spasming on the thick tip, milking the hardness there - but the deeper, more confident strokes, you feel it in every one of her shaky breaths. The only thing you can see is Tzuyu's dumb little doe eyes, the one-to-two second interval, fluttering in between slow, heavy blinks. The walls of her pussy are all at once so gentle and smooth, her cunt a plush, warm vice on your cock; she's clinging, and hot, and you're so buried inside you could probably pick her apart with a few words alone:

"Please," she's muttering to herself, and every single cry gets stuck in her mouth and vibrates between the both of you.

Your fingertips hook into the curve of her waist, until your nails are sinking into the flesh, pinching gently, and watching her expression twist, you grip her hips with all the bruising-strength in your hands, yank her back onto your cock. Her spine goes rigid as a line of curses fall like rain from her mouth. A shuddering gasp - you have to steady her against you, where her knees lock tight around your waist as though she's worried you're leaving, like she's scared you won't stay-

"Baby," you grit out, like you'd beg too, "Oh- fuck, my baby, you're - you're all mine, okay."

You bury yourself balls-deep - and there's no pretense, it's just you and her, the pace making Tzuyu's little repeating "ah" go choppy with your thrusting, her eyes clamping shut, her limbs locking around you.

"Too deep," she groans. "Jesus, it's-"

"Uh uh," you mutter against the bend of her chin, and press in, still, maybe just to spite her. "Fight me. If it's too deep."

There’s tears in her lashes, she’s sobbing; you’re fucking her so properly you think she wants to kill you. It might even be written into that glossy expression: death, your demise. But her pretty eyes glint with mischief and her lips split into a grin.

"Try me," and this laugh, coming up from your chest - low, amused. "Go ahead. Put my neck in your hand, if you want-"

There's only ever a couple of moves. Like in chess, the combinations repeat, patterns emerge. Tzuyu pulls into your kiss; her wrist pinned to the wall behind her with one of your hands, the other knocking her thighs apart. Her ankles hook into your hips, just as you knew they would. There are so few options for a person; the only solution's the natural one - the urge to match each other's needs; to lose yourself in the easy push and the easy pull.

It doesn't take long before she opens up beneath you: until there's nothing between the hard pound of your hips and her tender, creaming cunt. Then there's that final gasp, this violent pulse as she takes her hands back from you to cup around your ears and press her lips to the line of your cheekbones and nose and mouth, with her tear-slick skin and saliva and, god - she's a whimperer, you now know, but Tzuyu holds her body still enough to not sway. The picture-perfect example of a good little girl -

That's how you push your mouth to hers: the steady-languid thrust of your cock between the hot clamp of her legs. "Oh, god, you’re gonna make me cum again, christ," her cries go, all muffled, right into your lips. She’s a little lost. Fucked-out. Blissful.

It's not right, though; just pinning the girl against a wall - no, she deserves better. You don't let her fall as you drag her into the bedroom. Not until a tumble into the sheets. She doesn’t try to control the fall, you land on top of her, and Tzuyu laughs a little, but it dies into the hard breaths you can feel bouncing back against your mouth. Her soft thighs pressed beneath your weight, quivering still.

"Fuck your cum into me," She huffs out, softly, more air than noise. You’re practically crushing her. And then the tilt of her head, almost inviting, like a question. "Please. I want it."

In hindsight, the real memory of this moment will be a soft and lovely thing - fabricated mostly: her tiny frame shaking, trembling in its effort to take you in, her voice giving out around a cry as she cums again - there's something sacred there, surely, a holiness that isn't altogether safe, considering what this girl is.

You’ll try not to remember how you fucked her and buried your face between her tits, though she did look up at you through her tears and made it sound sweet, said your name just so, or even the fact that she watched her whole body get filled and only smiled with contentment. That part won’t survive - nor the fact you’ll hold the girl down later and cum inside her three times. Until she’s leaking. Details to be confined to Mina’s cabin-secrecy - or at least, to whatever depth of oblivion, past your will to suppress it, her mind reaches when you bury your hand in her hair and pull her head back to really make sure you've hit every corner of her and left your cum there, marking her insides, turning her warm.

And look, Tzuyu doesn't balk. Instead she lets you pull her in close, her nails raking into the nape of your neck, the muscles under your skin. She drags scratches down your back as you sink into her cunt, hot, willing - she’s so fucking wet you’re bottoming out in each sloppy thrust.

"Tzu," you can't stop yourself from muttering, almost reverent. You were right, on all accounts. The girl is a problem.

One that is currently collapsing under you. You push her knees up to her elbows, and all her weight melts under your hands, limp and helpless.

"Fuck, your pussy is unbelievable.” You shouldn’t be fucking her this hard, but, well, you are - “Tzuyu, baby,” and when your hand comes up to her jaw, she palms it. Takes your thumb into her mouth and sucks. Fuck, it’s all slipping, consuming, you need to cum in her, need to bury your cock deep in her cunt and cum right into that wet sopping mess. Fill her up where she’s molten hot and her walls are gripping you so hard they’re practically begging-

"Yeah," she repeats around the digit, flitting her tongue against your fingertip. “Yeah. Cum for me.”

That's how she likes it. She'll scream, if you let her. If you give her the deepest fill. She’ll apologize and she won’t know for what. You already know how her expression will shift as soon as it hits. Head falling back. Her hands fisting in your hair, the bedding - her knees nearly get drawn up, and you push them apart by your fingertips. She whimpers, and whimpers, and you can't stop from fucking the pretty noises right out of her lungs until she's dripping - soaking you, all over the sheets. You want her to feel it when you leave. Your presence. It’s only fair - she should remember some part of you, in exchange for what she’s traded and stolen away - ideally forever.

You thumb at the tear tracks and lift her by a fistful of that pretty dark hair. And for her, you can be kind, you let your lips graze hers. As tenderly as you can manage, which isn't much, but then the angle settles lower, your cock hits deeper, all the right spots - and god, Tzuyu is so easy to fuck. She slips a little, and you’re catching her, pushing deeper, harder - she’s easy to pound too, to hold down and smother and grind deep, to have under you, all boneless, insensible-

"So pretty for me, Tzu," you growl into the shell of her ear, because you can, and another stroke, another velvety drag has you cumming in her hot, little cunt.

Each throb brings more, pumping her full of your cum, and she likes it. Keeps muttering baby, baby please in your ear, and fuck, you almost slip a hand down and make her fall apart too - but - her fingers wrap around your wrist before they get there, so tight.

"Can feel it. So deep," she whispers, when your eyelids screw shut and the mess floods out of her - gets fucked right back in: your hot cum and her thick slick, the creamy mess leaking from her cunt. You pull your cock out halfway, and she does sob - that sounds just like you'd imagine, too. "Please. Oh, my god- sir. That's it. That's it, let it out, sir. Sir, all your cum feels so good in me - please. Please- just give it to me, sir, yes-"

She’s not even taunting or mocking on that ‘sir,’ you think, not the way she sounds now, the halfway-slur. It's all torn up and tired. It makes you press closer, making the head of your cock swell between the thin walls of her pussy. It hurts - the squeeze. And then the soft, pleading sound she makes.

"Anything for you, sweetheart," you groan, a last attempt at a condescending tone. But she's so raw, so broken down by now that nothing is quite right.

"Fuck," she mutters against your mouth, "fuck, thank you," and your palm drags down the length of her sternum, following the angle of her jaw, slipping your palm onto her tits, thumbing at the indent. It's soft, pliant skin, and you pinch: not anywhere sharp or cruel, not especially sensitive, just in a line below the ridge of her rib cage, and it's too pretty a picture not to smile at her, when her entire chest jolts at the contact, the intake of breath. "Sir. Fuck."

"I'm still fucking you later," you assure her, as if her breathing could've convinced you otherwise. "But I wanna hear your voice some more. Hum a little. Give me a yes, sweetheart. Can you do that?"

The noise is barely audible, almost nonexistent, except it is: she hums her assent as you dip two fingertips back into her swollen, well-fucked cunt, scooping out some of the mess. Your fingers hook into her cheek and her mouth opens, because she's so obedient, because that's why it has to be like this.

You rub her bottom lip. Her eyes open into yours; a wet mouth. It's impossible not to see what's right there. It's easy, really, to press through and in, and give her that taste, that warm, velvety brush, like she's been sucking your cock, and maybe - oh, yeah, you'll remind her about it tomorrow, how she's a needy little slut for it, can't get enough - how you could've fucked her face until she was drooling and out-of-her mind - but the way her eyelashes flutter against your touch; the look-

You’ll take your time. You know what she wants: more than anything. It's the thing you can read. Maybe the hot, sticky mess, the flush in her cheeks. A touch to her face. Your thumb in her mouth, too, stretching, prying, holding. More cum falling beneath her tongue, dripping in those gaping, half-open red lips.

She’s licking your load from your knuckles, your Tzuyu. You can’t believe it.

"Swallow," you tell her.

"Mmm," and it’s there: this gorgeous expression on her features, her eyelids dropping, the shimmer, the shine. You'd do anything to keep it there.

You let your thumb leave the corner of her mouth and it stays open, just the tip of her tongue darting out to taste what little she can. The rest of her lulls back with a satisfied murmur, eyes half-closed, clearly the type of content-afterglow of wanting the man who'd just ruined her. A gratitude, or a simple, silly thing, if he would just pick her up in his arms: "thank you, sir."

Her panties end up back around her hips, and a new shirt's thrown haphazardly on, a soft, gray cotton which rides down, slipping past one pale shoulder. And then she turns over, to the side, her back curling into the heat of your chest. There's no attempt at leaving or any plans either. The arm you've loosely wrapped around her waist simply tugs. It's not subtle or even nice: your hand rucks up the fabric and snaps the waistband, and the soft cotton doesn't stop it from being painful.

"Fuck me again." Tzuyu shakes off with a shrug. She's wiggling her ass, practically. She's not wrong, you suppose - your cock hardens easily, more of a reaction. "Are you just going to - keep teasing?"

“Such a brat,” you say, and that makes her whole body tense; she makes the most beautiful sounds for you, but words, praise, humiliation - those always hit harder. You know your girl.

"Your brat," says Tzuyu, easily. "You can do whatever you want." 

Your grip on her hip is brutal. Of course you know. That doesn't mean you can't look for loopholes, anyway, right? You don't move, but the threat's there.

The look she shoots over her shoulder is smug. "I like it rough, or something. Doesn't it make you mad that someone could've had me before?"

"Should I be?" You're swiping your cockhead through her folds before you have a chance to say, "Should I care that some guy's had my little cocksleeve before? Should I be angry that someone used my pretty toy before I got to?" You thumb at the tightness, and Tzuyu gives up the front immediately and jerks her hips backward. "If I wasn't the first?"

"Not exactly," comes Tzuyu's mild answer, "not if I was always thinking of you. Plus, they didn't make me feel like that." She tips her head up, to nip at your jaw. She's smiling so fucking coy when she adds: "please, don't hurt me too bad."

You wrap your hands around her. Press a kiss into her shoulder.

“Or do, maybe. Whatever feels natural, you know," she bites down.

"The hickeys are going to be difficult," you agree. "People are gonna see them and they'll picture themselves, probably, with you spread out, huffing, gasping - fucking you out of a brain."

"As they should," she says, and then hums this low, heartfelt note into the mattress. "So how hard can you do this, hm?" She's moaning into the pillow as you slip back into her cunt, but it's a challenge, the tilt in her voice. "Like, if I ask, real nicely."

Who’d have ever guessed she was so filthy. All hidden behind the pristine, the perfection. The prim girls are always the worst: all that beauty means more to them wrecked than revered - it means they've won, again.

Well, that works just fine. She's won you over.

You lean into her shoulder, murmuring, “you’re pushing your luck here, Tzu.”

“Am I?” Her head tilts back until it finds the curve of your jaw. Those deep brown eyes flashing. She knows what’s coming, her pussy tightening prettily. "I'm sorry, sir. I’ll clean up my act."

And the little smile. The fucking dimple, proudly stitched into her cheek - right as you pull her back onto you again, your length working its way slowly into her cunt. The way her ass fits in your hips lets you know you're no match for this girl: how unbelievably good it feels to be inside her. Hot, tight, wanting. Pressed tight between her gorgeous thighs.

“Guess I never noticed,” she says, before falling quiet with the soft punch of breath as you drag her backwards, against your body and the rocking press of your hips. Her eyelashes tremble while your cock nudges its way fully inside her pussy. The rest, as it seems, is silent: only the crash of skin, the sound of your breathing.

You’re already gathering her hair into your fist when you tug her back to your waist, mouth hovering right at the shell of her ear: "fuck, you take my dick like you're made for it. Do you even know how good your pussy feels? I'll ruin you if you let me. We can find out together," you tell her, pulling her back onto your cock. A wordless, pained, perfect whimper.

Tzuyu lets herself go slack against your chest.

She's taking you like a dream and that's it, that's enough, all you've got to say, and Tzuyu, jesus-fucking-christ, she does it with a laugh: this awful, melodic, bright, sweet, airy fucking thing: "don't fucking test me, Tzuyu -" you repeat, a warning.

Tzuyu bats those long lashes, like it'll mean anything, like this isn't all the proof you need. 

"Okay. Don't tease, then.” Her hand reaches up to the nape of your neck, finds your body close and hot. She sighs. “I want to feel it, sir. So much that I can't walk after. That I'll still have you in me. I want it all to hurt. Is that too much?"

All she does is try to hide her smiles, and she's terrible at it. There's a gasp buried underneath her giggling, one that Tzuyu loses every time she moves her body with yours. There are only two conclusions now: either she's that perfect of a fuck or she's as full of shit as you are. Either way, the dimple's giving her away - her smile, her lips, the full, syrupy brown of her gaze.

Tzuyu wraps that leg up and back around you and the angle is devastating.

"Baby, I want you- I want your cock deeper - yes, baby. Deeper - as deep as it'll go. I want you to fuck me until I can’t think, until there's nothing I can do. Seriously. Fuck me." 

Her hand dives over the shirt; there's no question when your gaze follows the trail she takes over her tensing body, over the curve of her breasts and down to where she's dragging at her pussy, where she's exposed herself. She finds the space and lets the fingertips flutter down, onto her needy, swollen clit; the place where your bodies join and separate; the throbbing pulse of her pussy.

"And then fuck me some more,” she adds, like that'll help. Her pussy fits you like a glove - it’s not fair. It’s not right.

But she's so beautiful up close, eyes fluttering in pure, concentrated rapture as she loses the tension in her face - one more thing that the facets, angles, and shades of Tzuyu become, something you tuck away in a vault somewhere safe; a secret just between the two of you.

Her hand runs up your thigh, fastens back on your hip. “You owe it to me, to use my body a little bit, don’t you think?”

There's no sense fighting it, not anymore - maybe there never was - and when you grip Tzuyu's upper thigh, tilt her leg upwards, she gives you an anticipatory hum. This light sound. An ankle lands over your hip, and what follows is a tight, enveloping slide, your cock buried in her wet pussy. So close together that she can't move much at all except to take it - the hard thrust, the one that forces its way up to the hilt. She's impossibly, overwhelmingly soft, a pleasure unlike any other. The absolute worst kind.

She knows exactly the danger of getting involved with you, and when she cums, once, again, and once more - her eyes water, her voice flooded - you think, so do you.

-

It’s in the hours of the morning that’re not quite today, nor quite tomorrow when Tzuyu leans on the end of the bed as she stretches. A loose t-shirt is draped over her petite body - you glance over at her as the bottom of the fabric lifts, exposing more skin across her legs. No matter the circumstances, the space she inhabits will always feel charged. She could wear a potato sack and have the same effect, you suppose, because that's just how she is: Tzuyu is magnetizing.

"That is definitely not yours," you say, finally.

The girl has a lovely arch to her back, a golden glow of perfection that you can't find elsewhere. That's when Tzuyu laughs and spins around. "Is that a question?"

You only have yourself to blame. Of course it's not hers. The shirt's oversized and could fit all five feet, eight inches of her like a tent. It doesn't belong to her, but her heart-shaped lips make you feel stupid, so you're giving her a second chance. You really need that shirt back. You packed light, it's your favorite tee, it’s a family heirloom, or something - whatever makes her get it off, you guess. You sit up against the bed, and watch her fingers hook into the hem as it slowly peels off from her frame.

And that is - a vision.

You already knew - but it's worth repeating, or forgetting your name and every last bit of your existence for; the sharp collarbone, the striking red lines beneath them, the palest, sweetest chest. Her breasts, a bit smaller, a bit rounder than normal (not that you would know), sit heavy in her hands, soft and full - oh, the hickeys, the perfect peaks and the bruised nipples - she's an aphrodisiac.

"I want one later," she tells you, and runs a hand over her breast, pressing against the angry red marks that color the pale skin.

"A shirt?"

She turns back toward the mirror, an image reflected tenfold - a beautiful flush on her high cheekbones. It's only a small win to think that those rosy cheeks are there because of you. Only a little one, if at all. "One of yours, sure."

You laugh, but she looks taken aback. "What, you mean like a keepsake?"

"Hey, if it smells good." Tzuyu brings up the neckline to her nose, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second before they snap closed. "Yes. Like a keepsake, is that so unnatural?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you are, like, really forward." You thought you knew, but there's this part of you that wonders. Why the sudden revelation. "Not that it isn't obvious. I meant...with the rest. Just to clarify."

"With sex, you mean?" Her smile turns a little sheepish. "I can tone it down a little. I don't even notice sometimes, I just talk."

You walk forward and wrap your arms around her waist. You fit easily around her. "Don't," you say, quietly, against the back of her neck. "It's nice, in a way."

She cranes her head to trade the reflection of your eyes for the real thing. Her body is soft, warm. "You like to talk too."

"Right."

"Your favorite past-time."

"Point taken." Your thumb runs down the middle of her breast and traces her nipple. It's tender, you note. You can’t really keep your hands off her waist, or stop touching her tits - because who would ever let something so delightful pass them by? Not you. No way. "Want to hear a story?"

"If it's coming from you," she whispers, a little smile, a lot of entendre, "I’ll listen to anything."

"Do you see the wall over there?" You nod to the window. She follows it with her gaze, her chin jutting towards your shoulder, her long neck arching. It's hard not to kiss it. There's a clear stretch of drywall beside her desk. She nods. "When I came here with Sana and Mina last," and your nose presses into her hair, inhaling her, the way she smells like something tropical: vanilla and citrus. Something far from here. "I put up a few paintings. I'm handy sometimes, a hammer seeking a nail sorta thing."

Tzuyu almost snorts, and sways a bit in your grasp. You tighten your hold, not wanting to drop her. "Oh?” she teases out, suggestive. “Show me."

-

(You shouldn’t. You can’t stop, frankly. Fucking Tzuyu is in its own category: the luxury, the treasure, the extravagance; feeling between your fingers the finest silk, the richest cashmere.

Her palms slide higher up the wall, fingers splayed. The curve of her back, the pull of her hair. Tzuyu kissing you like the world will end and the moon will be the first to know, her fists curling into your back, a furious, frantic urgency - Tzuyu fucking you. Well. Tzuyu always, always kissing you; it's the universe resetting, it's a timeline rewritten, it's trading everything sweet for salt, giving you teeth and tongue, the insides of her lip rubbed raw - she tastes like 80 Proof, a sticky, melting liquor, and it goes down too easy. "Why are you making this hard for me." It's not a question, her face in your neck - then she says, like there's a hundred other things, a hundred thousand ways you can ask:

"What makes you think I want to make this easy?")

-

The power goes out early in the morning.

Which means you're in the dark. But, it's alright. You consider for a moment the omen-like timing, if such an idea is ludicrous in the first place. This could be a metaphor. After all, what is Tzuyu if not a classic trope? It isn't fair to judge anyone based off their flaws. For starters, you have more than you can count. You consider a moment longer, that the timing isn't metaphor-worthy. After all, if this was a punitive force, you're certain that it would've been more apparent, more explicit, if the electric panel had burst into flames or the cable box was shot-out; something bigger, flashier, less like something that you'd play up for theatrics. And it probably would've been when you had the girl on all on fours, your handprints seared into the round of her ass-

Or, when she got on her knees. The snap of darkness setting in as you slipped your cock out of her lips and spilled a rope of hot cum on her face, in her hair. The way she just relaxed into it, a reverence to her being baptized, kneeling. “Oh, Tzu,” you said, with a fist around a cock, and jerked the rest right out on her tongue. You probably would have heard her sniffle after, still recovering from her choking a bit.

Or, when you had half a mind to kneel down between her legs in the shower, suck her clit until she was dripping, fucking her open with your tongue; you could taste her sweat, her slick, and imagine how hard it must be to put up that front: biting into a washcloth, trying not to fall apart.

(Karma arrives late, or it doesn't arrive at all. Or, something. Who knows. It doesn't matter. The outcome would have remained the same.)

Tzuyu opens the sliding glass door to the balcony.

You watch her from behind - there's a small pile of snow at the edge. The whole mountain has gone into complete darkness. No moon, no lights, no light poles, or blinking bulbs or strobe signs or house lights - just night. How eerily romantic, that. And if there was an excess amount of snow before, it only got heavier, thicker, now weighing on the steel bars of the railing.

Tzuyu rests her hands there, leaning her hips a bit forward, so far that her knees lock. Her back bends. "It's so weird," she breathes out, and you can see your exhales, both of yours. "I feel like you and I are the only ones here right now. Everyone else is probably taking shelter. Maybe the power went out for everybody."

"Maybe."

"It's all a bit spooky. Or creepy. But, exciting too, yeah?" She turns, just enough. Her fingertips run along the side of her face. "In the mountains, yes." She doesn't even need to say the rest, doesn't need to ask: does that appeal to you? All this isolation? I could scream and scream and nobody would ever hear it. I'm yours to fuck, to have, to own, to do anything to-

"It'll probably be fixed in the morning," you tell her. "Who would turn it back on tonight. To this place. They'll start at the closest areas to town and go out from there."

"Mina has a generator," Tzuyu supplies helpfully. "No living clue where."

"Want to look for it?"

She lets her head tilt, as if to follow the expanse of trees leading up into the rocky ground. "Would it kill us to wait for tomorrow?" Her bare toes curl into the floorboards. The blanket stays wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and a single line of her wrist can be seen when she tilts her arm a certain way. "We won't die or anything."

You wouldn't die, not before being smitten with a different death, falling headfirst and in love; and that's what you've felt since the start, since the beginning: you've always wanted more. It was always inevitable, her letting her weight fall backwards, in the living room - all your filthy secrets falling out. It felt like the sky had dropped. All over the bedroom floor.

"Then let's get some sleep," you say, but still step closer, as you do with anyone, to brush aside the strand of hair over her ear.

-

It feels like the temperature must have dropped dramatically. Not that it bothers either of you very much, you note, when you move under the blankets together. Some might feel embarrassed by the necessity, but then, most aren't half the people that you both are.

Tzuyu presses her fingers under her thigh to keep her legs shut. To avoid the cold, she claims, but you can hear the slippery noises that her cunt makes as her body shakes with each thrust of her fingers. You almost suggest that you heat her up in an entirely different fashion, but the smile, her smile, gets the best of you. Instead, you let yourself touch and trace, and feel her wherever it may land. There's no sense in pretending either, so you tangle yourself into her: a finger between her legs. Another in her palm, resting against her hip. When you press your thumb against her cunt, she begins to smile, too, as if to show you exactly what kind of person she is. That is to say, completely insatiable.

You let your free hand slip under her chin. Tilting her head up, exposing the faint pulse-points. You wonder if she's imagining the things you'd do if the snow never cleared: toying with her hair, petting the top of her head, speaking pretty and dirty and pressing kisses against her bare back, in a rhythm, as you fuck her without care - something close and tight like the little noises she makes and how they die off, finally, when you push your cock deeper, still.

There are no words between you anymore, maybe - but she's not laughing, and you're not angry, and it's only one second before your mouth is on her neck, kissing the column of her throat. It's easy to sleep with her - so, so simple, if not anything else.

"I don't have anything in the morning," you murmur to the top of her shoulder, barely moving as not to break the moment. To tell her it's fine to leave her body or keep it forever. Either way. Both, if it's an option.

She smiles. Her eyes are still closed. "It'd be weird if you did."

She can be a tease - a complete brat - sometimes. Like now. But then again, who would you be if not the person who falls for exactly that.

And that is a weakness: you have a very specific kind of hunger, that won't fade, that can only be sated. She knows it, and yet her coy grin remains. It's a habit, not a mistake. "Yeah, well," you lean up onto your forearm, pressing the knuckles of your right hand against her soft cheek. "This is the most inconvenient of all places, but- don't worry about it."

"Meaning?"

"I don't think they sell birth control or morning after pills or anything up here," you explain, lightly. Your gaze passes from her eyes to the pink of her bottom lip and back, again.

"Do I look like I'd care?" Tzuyu sighs and takes your wrist, pulling your arm over her body. "I know what I'm doing," she adds, which might actually be a lie. "Obviously. You don’t need to pretend you’re like, responsible, or whatever."

Yes, obviously. As if it was all as easy as pulling strings, deciding exactly which points to tease, to stress. You should know. You just kissed and held down and fucked and fucked your cum into this one: you know how to move her strings better than any.

-

You flip the switch in the kitchen. Up, down, up, down: except, nothing. The electricity is still decidedly off by mid-morning, and you and Tzuyu end up having actual, quality, conversation. 

You sit her on the kitchen counter - though it’s not fated to last long, because her legs loop around your waist, and she tugs your sweats down as you try to fix the two of you lunch - Tzuyu gets what Tzuyu wants, of course - so you're standing there fucking her while her head leans back on the cool marble, her silky dark hair tumbling off the end of the counter.

She ends up propped up on one elbow. Eyes hazy and half-lidded, fixed on the glide of you into her creamy folds, spreading her wider, wider.

Tzuyu asks questions - all innocuous, at least to the ear. About your past. Who you were before all this. Whether you want kids, when, whether you were religious, once. She gets personal before you have her cumming and incoherent: how you sleep, in what positions. How often you jerk yourself off. What you're thinking of when you do. How you'd use her - not the lewd version, the spitting, filthy iteration, just the you and her and her being yours part. And she gets specific about that. She'll slide up to you and bury her nose in your throat, wrap her arms around your shoulders, mumble about wanting you closer - you feel her, maybe more than you should - but every few seconds you're sliding home into that pussy and her chest heaves out a deep breath-

"I want what's in here," she finally says, her delicate palm cupping your balls. She's pulling you into her on each stroke like the fucking sun's gone out and this is her last chance - she's magnetism, gravity, a blackhole you'd give up the rest of the universe to. She's got one fist on your shirt, and the other hand on your sack, and her pussy's fluttering around you, and she's watching you watching her, and it's infinity:

"The idea of you." Tzuyu smiles at the way your eyes narrow, the way the word turns itself over and over on your mind, her. She tilts her face to look at your expression. "Like, in here. All your cum. There's so much. Can I please have it-"

You swear.

"Pretty please, baby," Tzuyu's asking if you'll fill her up, if you'll make her your cumdump, keep fucking her even with all your cum inside her, asking what the worst of your fantasies are - you fuck harder, deeper, and she nods eagerly, tightens that fist in your shirt. "Can you give it to me? Please, it's the only thing I need, and we both know I always need something, please."

"Jesus fucking christ," you tell her, helpless, and it's never felt better: her cockwarming on your lap, her teasing and teasing until your self-control's paper thin - won't you? won't you? fucking breed this slutty little cunt? won't you cum until I'm so full it's spilling out-

The snap. Like falling, it’s something you notice right away, but only ever understand a long ways down. 

"Yours," moans Tzuyu, half in an accusatory fashion - fuck - she's almost gasping: "fuck - just use me, use your cumdump, 'cause you'll never have a tighter cunt than this."

God. Damn. Her. You cum so hard it aches, and there's no hesitation:

"My cocksleeve, my good girl, shit-"

"You could leave a baby in me, even, just like that. Couldn't you. Isn't that hot. And nobody could do a fucking thing." Tzuyu’s tits are spilling out the sides of her camisole and she looks like pure porn, in person. Your cum is dripping out of her and you watch as it spills on the marble.

"Is that what my girl wants? 

She smiles, again, so prettily.

“You wanna be full of cum, is that it?" You grab Tzuyu's hair; pull just enough to get the point across. "Is that it? You're a perfect cumslut who needs all that fucking cum, huh? Wants it pumped deep? You like being full of it, right Tzu? This needy little cunt loves the thought of getting bred? Knocked up? Goddamn, Tzu."

"That's me," agrees Tzuyu, in the afterglow. Dimple dug deep. "Yeah. Your personal cumslut, sir."

She just grins when you reach between her thighs, pressing your fingers into the cum you've fucked into her, before you decide that the wet warmth is yours and you’re going to fuck her even further into delirium.

Her hips come up off the granite, desperately.

"Uh-huh," she mumbles, already drifting - you put her off her balance, for real. "God, yes, please," she's whispers, as if all the ways you'd ruin her were prayers, like she wants to start a new religion all her own: you're a god, and it's all about Tzuyu - just you, and her, asking, again, the questions piling on top of other ones, the sweet drawl, the sinful want, the curiosity-

Fuck. She wants everything about you, your dirty secrets and your nice manners - the stories behind your scars, your funny little quirk of raising just one eyebrow at a time-

You turn her around. She's made for this, intelligently designed: her tiptoes just touching the floor, the delicious curve of her lower back, your cock sliding effortlessly into her and hitting a spot she arches into like it's divine intervention and that pussy making its first church of your name. The cum you'd already left in her cunt is making everything wetter, making those obscene sounds echo in the space around the two of you. It's rapturous; you let her feel it slow, and deep, and it’s bliss.

“Tighter,” you growl into her ear, and her cunt clenches like you own it.

The girl's figure is pristine, an ass that belongs under spotlights, on camera; those thick lips, the curtain of her hair when she tips her chin down. It's all been in magazines, billboards, it's been idolized - she is the icon and you're the follower, but, this weekend, here and now-

"So. Fucking. Good-" she gasping, falling apart. She’s collapsing and it’s not even noon.

"Oh, the world knows." You pull her up, hold her body in yours and snap into her cunt. Her skin's hot, feverish, the light that filters through the blinds and the snow slows outside.

It all happens without a moment’s notice - Tzuyu reaches behind and clutches your thigh, as if she could ever pull you deeper, like it wouldn't tear her in half. But you find yourself in a position to grab the edge of the counter; your phone buzzes. It's Sana, probably asking what's up. You want to ignore it and keep fucking Tzuyu from behind. You want to hold her hips, be mindful of the marks, the bruises, sink your fingers into her hair, her tits - you end up murmuring things like please and fucking perfect and if we were a little more religious then you'd be a sin to remember-

Fuck, you're cumming again. The writing’s on the wall as soon as your cock makes her breath draw short and her eyelids snap shut. She’s exquisite, a masterwork - you’re painting in broad strokes, all over the beautiful curves of her ass - not only because you’ve needed to see it cast in hot streaks of white, all debased with your cum, but simply to prove a point; to say that you can. You cum on her cheeks, her cunt, you pump your fist around your shaft and cum in the crotch of her panties too.

"That's it, Tzu," you croon, "look at that," your spent cock twitching against her plush thighs, her dripping pussy lips, and she's sagged forward, onto the counter, your thumb running through a particularly thick rivulet. Her face dips down, pressed to the cold surface, and the words coming out aren't coherent, are just filthy and true; but they're there: she's taken you and kept you, all for herself.

(Thank you, she says, for making me into your little cockwarmer, your toy, for breaking my fucking cunt, baby - thank you, please, thank you-

You could end your career tomorrow, it wouldn't matter. Just saying, man. This girl, fuck.)

There’s a beat, the strained breathing, the panting, the disbelief. She ends up kissing your chin after sliding back to her feet, a saccharine imitation of chaste. Pulls up her shorts without a second's consideration. Her panties, still sticky with your spend - well. She puts those back, too, grinning dreamily. 

Oh, how is a woman like Tzuyu even real, huh? You really do need to find out, somehow.

"Your imagination is…" you say, your tone flat. “I swear.” But you don't deny that the sex isn't. You don't think of her that way. She doesn't ask you for your hopes or your dreams or the full gambit of life, as some people might. She asks about what you think about at three am when she's got one hand on her tits and one on her clit and one finger in her mouth:

"Anything we can think of," she corrects, her long limbs squeezing her tighter to your front. Her grin bright, so perfect she's beyond believable, and how can such a dissonance exist in something, someone, you're holding on to? "I mean, we can if you want."

-

"Maybe we'll talk about that - how you can handle me," is what Tzuyu rasps, softly, tying her hair up afterwards: and you realize this is her post-coital. For her, sex makes her nice. Sweet.

You've already fixed her lunch; Tzuyu comes to sit down at the table with you. "Like, for future reference." You're raising an eyebrow. She grins at that, kicks her feet. Her hips don't do the same, though - no doubt still a little sore, like her lips. She's worn out, finally. She won't try to slice off and claim any more of your aching soul.

“You have no business thinking about babies.”

“Tell that to my ovaries.”

"You have a breeding kink, is what it is, really. I’m being completely serious."

"Well, am I pregnant yet?" Tzuyu flutters those lashes, puts those big pretty eyes on full display. "No? Then I'm getting off on something else, clearly, isn't it obvious, like maybe there's something about being on the other end of someone so big. Have you considered how wet you make me when you-"

"Tzuyu, cut it out," you chide her. The little brat's giggling. You aren’t going to let her know how pretty the noise is.

"Fine." She reaches across the table, puts her small hand on your larger one. "Like I said - how to handle me." Her tone is placating, the sharp edge to her personality blunted. It's different with Tzuyu - after sex, she gets like this: playful, easy, fond. The mess you've just made, the cunt you've stuffed full, that's another Tzuyu altogether. "For your... benefit."

"My benefit, really?"

"Aside from getting my brains fucked out," she explains, "is what I meant."

"Not making this easier, babe."

Her mouth curves a slow smile. She likes when you call her names, cute shit like that.

"I need to call Sana back," you explain, finally.

Tzuyu nods.

"In a bit," you add. "Also," you're saying, leaning forward. Her head tilts toward yours.

She's receptive, her whole body pliant and lazy, after that, well, marathon - she'll roll with whatever you're suggesting. This has always been a dream to her, she's mentioned. (Who has dreams like that? Someone so young, that innocent - well, yeah.)

But you kiss her temple, lightly. "Gimme a minute."

Tzuyu blinks, in that catlike way she has of staring, intent. Her mouth slightly pouty.

"Then you get your turn," you offer.

"Deal," she nods.

And that makes her beam - your beautiful, very good, very perfect, little toy.

-

"You're going to have to slow down," you tell Sana over the phone. "I have zero reception up here, sorry."

"The highway is shut down, I literally can't get to the other side of town," she yells over the sound of tires rolling on snow. Sana does not sound in the best spirits. If anything, she sounds slightly desperate. "Part of the mountain collapsed on a cliff somewhere. Fuck's sake. The weather is still terrible and they're shutting everything down. Literally shuttering every road off the base of the mountain."

"You sound good," you deadpan, and when Sana grumbles, say, "try the next exit, head around and take a back road-"

"Yeah, except it's snowing like nobody's fucking business right now - I'm not going to risk exposure to try to get there on my own."

"What should I do?" you try, a bit helpless. "Stay here?"

"Why are you even asking," Sana scoffs, "yes, stay there, stupid. Tell Tzuyu you can't drive in snow, that she can't possibly expect me to deal with any of you leaving a safe situation." There's another brief pause. "Ah, seriously, there is not a single living human being near here that can be helpful - and they're supposed to bring us new tires? Here? No, fuck's sake."

"Oh," is all you say.

"Don't worry about me." Sana's voice goes up a notch. "Just be there, alright? Stay warm, okay?" A crackle, more radio waves or distance.

"Text me," you urge. "Tell me you're getting in safe."

"Of course, of course," and that's when you get the click, the abrupt disconnection. You stare at the device in your hand and consider the possibilities, and the outcomes, and how to stay sane while alone with temptation incarnate for a couple nights.

Maybe this really is hell. Or it's a trial. There’s the storm, and there’s your angel, contextually out of place. You're incapable of controlling yourself, clearly.

You sigh, let your gaze slide. The lights are still out, and in their absence, Tzuyu has dragged every available blanket or bed sheet within her reach into the living space, spread a dozen pillows across the sofa and is now occupying one of the corners: there's a book, opened onto her lap, as her nails run circles down the blanket draped over her lower back.

"Tzu, what exactly did Mina mention to you about the generator," is the first thing you blurt, upon entry, and Tzuyu smiles, holding up the page against the fading daylight - which is currently hardly much. "Better question: how are you able to read in the dark?"

"Takes a lot to shake me off, honestly,” she says, which you already know to be true. “Also my eyes aren't old like yours, so."

"Wow."

"What?" Tzuyu grins, tilts her chin. "Do you want me to say that you're ageless? Thirty, flirty and thriving. So impressive, your youthful vigor, that sort of deal? How attracted I am to your experience," the insinuation, this sudden intimacy. She laughs. "Seriously. Let me read."

"Apparently we're going to be stranded for a few days."

"That's cute." She pauses. "Sucks for Sana."

"You don't know what sucks for Sana."

She peeks over the corner of the page, then, grinning, the teeth of a joke. "What's on the menu, then? Hm? So far, the best part was waking up beside you," and you almost grin, at how honest she manages to be without seeming conceited. How shameless Tzuyu has become in the ways of liking you, and maybe a bit of who she thinks you are. And why that's dangerous, really, and it makes the guilt burrow down beneath your ribs a bit: "my ass hurts," she's complaining now, which is only going to encourage the teasing-

"As it should," you comment, then watch her eyes sharpen, glint with mischief. "Oh," you realize, with a shrug, "do we get to cuddle again."

(Let's hope, for a moment, this isn't really karma. Because really, it'd just be an uncalled-for injustice: Chou Tzuyu delivered down on all fours, head tucked into your thighs as a fist grabs a handful of her hair, a slow push and pull - your cock sinking into the velvet warmth between her lips, again, again, and again until she's ruined and crying and still swallowing you whole - as she, not the universe, forces a massive dose of her own medicine down your throat. You see how that might not be quite fair.)

"But I'll have to leave again," you're protesting - no heat, no vitriol. "There's, like. Stuff I gotta grab."

"Then grab me," she sighs, pats her lap, "read over my shoulder. Make out with me. Just keep me warm. That'd be very helpful, and I would be so grateful."

Well, fuck. You're not one for inflating egos - at least not anybody else's - especially when, unchecked, that tends to do the exact opposite of keeping them grounded.

"Fine," you're muttering, and you clearly have a habit for capitulation wherever Tzuyu is concerned, the quirk in her lips, the quiet pride in her dimple, the cadence in her speech - which she's already smug about.

"Wonderful." She taps the back of her fingernail against a book page, waits, just a few more seconds, her grin spreading as you begin to fumble around. "Please," she says, flicks her gaze back down, a tease, "take all the time you need."

-

The thing about mountain air is it has a way of clearing your head, cooling down the frenetic thoughts of indecision and uncertainty and moral conflict.

Well, maybe that's a slight overreach, the mountains also have a way of getting you killed, but the intention was to look upon the white caps and ponder. It didn't work.

-

You eventually find the generator. You hear the clicks of metal and electrical wiring, the roar of the motor kicking on, a steady hum. Then, Tzuyu pokes her head out from behind the shed, her cheeks tinted a warm pink; her eyebrows rise up a beat.

"Yes?" you prompt.

"Is it working?"

"Does it look like it's working, miss?"

"Looks a-okay to me," and she presses the heel of her mitten into her teeth, tries to bite it back down her wrist; she stumbles, a moment, slightly clumsy in the snow. You instinctively reach out. Your hands brush the outer seam of her pajamas, the heavy fabric of her coat - "oh," you can feel the instant the shivers start, "fuck, I'm cold.”

“We’re both probably pretty due for a hot shower,” you say.

"Yeah, you came in my hair. Er, sorry, I meant, we both need a hot shower."

"It was really adorable when you were rutting back on my dick like some horny animal," you snort. "Admit it."

"No comment."

"So shy."

Her smile cracks open, and her breath is a white plume. "Fuck you."

"Sure, babe," you're agreeing, the tone almost saccharine. "If you insist."

She blinks back in mild surprise, the blatant answer - and god, her fucking eyes: soft, dark, her eyelids barely lift up. Even when they should've narrowed. That was another thing to learn. (Maybe, god - who knows, maybe she's still learning how not to care.)

She runs a hand through her hair. The scarf around her neck is fluffing up. There's white clumps settling on the fibers, slowly dissolving into a damp mess.

"Listen," Tzuyu murmurs, wraps an arm around yours to help herself up. 

Your palm settles on the round of her thigh. She shifts, her hand dropping lower - tugs at your arm until she has an elbow in hers. The backs of her knuckles settle against your hip bone, her fingertips sliding across the waistband: you walk backwards through your snowprints, gently - the side door to the cabin is unlocked - Tzuyu's stumbling toward it.

"Going to the shower, we're turning the water on," she explains. You grin, feel your own arm, a slow drag around her lower waist; she tilts into it, steps closer. Presses a finger to your chest: "dinner's gonna be in half an hour," she announces, "and before you ask, I've been craving those boxes of instant mac & cheese in Mina's pantry."

"I haven't had one of those in ages."

"Me neither," and with her heel, she kicks the side door shut; Tzuyu yanks on a cord, pulls the blinds closed. It's pitch black. You're chuckling low, turning around - one of Tzuyu's hands smacks over a nearby light switch, illuminating the room just a shade lighter than it was prior. She presses a hand to your chest, a single-minded goal to your front.

You put your hands on her hips.

"It's the kinda thing that makes me feel like a kid again," you hear her say, just slightly; that, and how the white fabric of her sweater twists, pulled to a single point.

"Happens," is the best explanation you can give. She slaps the lightswitch again. Kisses you. You shove a leg forward. She whines. "Be good," you're chiding, though you both stumble until her back is pressed against the wall. "You were just complaining that you're still sore."

"Maybe I can't help it, maybe that's all on you," the end of the sentence fades. Her nails slide up the sleeve of your arm. There's the soft hitch of a moan. "It's just you. So unfair." She rubs up. Swallows like it's instinct, at the slightest hint of friction. You curl your hand, your thumb grazes the waistband of her underwear; her fingertips tighten, her blunt nails sink deeper - press like she means something else, wants something more.

It'll be a few days, at least, more likely a week; and by then, this girl will have you right where she needs you. She's proven, time after time - you can never just say no.

-

The days bleed together after the snow.

You fuck her, but slower; sometimes softer, a little less raw, the hurt. Not that you'd ever try to take too much: the thought is unthinkable, un-imagined. Infinitely impossible. You'll pull out and empty everything you have, paint her skin, make her ache, fuck until you know exactly where the bruises are and how to touch them, how to breathe the hurt down from her ribs.

But some mornings: she rolls over onto her side, opens her eyes and smiles. Brilliant like the sun, something that would warm your heart even without trying. Some afternoons, you put the fire on; read something aloud from Mina's bookshelves, and watch the red-orange flames turn Tzuyu's cheeks and neck pink and honey. Evenings, especially the colder ones, you're wrapping her up, blankets, sweatshirts, pulling her close: into bed with the lights turned off. She wants the touch, she craves it, she'll almost whimper when you get near her - and it's you, whispering words against her ear; tracing fingertips lightly against her temple, down the nape of her neck, her lower lip-

"How come you don't kiss me, hm?" She sounds sleepy. "Baby. Don't pretend you're a stone. Like, an unfeeling brute."

"I have my limits, princess."

"Like not kissing someone you're fucking." Her face drops from your sight, and Tzuyu turns over: she curls into her comforter, and her legs nudge the back of yours. "That's so fucking cruel," her voice a little whiny. "But okay, okay - tell me the reasons. Just so we can keep going."

"Keep going, huh. Even though I'm mean."

"Well, yeah, I've done much, much worse," the worst, if you think about it; and it's almost true. Maybe her morality was on the rocks long before yours. "Obviously."

You drop a kiss into her hair. "We both know what that mouth of yours is capable of."

She grins into your skin. Presses her lips, like a sign, and stays.

-

A girl like her inspires the worst in a man, and that's just about it: you think a man would burn the world down for her, with her, and maybe that would be how all things end, someway, somehow - not because of him or her, the full spectrum of his intentions, all the intricacies and subtleties, and hers too. You're both complicated creatures, sure; both very capable and wanting. Of big feelings, deep attachments: the overflow of your good hearts, perhaps; or, rather: the deficits.

She appeals to your worst impulses, in the plainest terms.

"Jesus Christ," you hiss, hands firm on her lower back; your voice breaking; Tzuyu has shed the bedsheets and climbed into your lap, one leg bent at the knee, digging the other into your ribs - her shirt hitches up and over the curve of her spine and then pools at her neck.

"Tell me that's good," she murmurs, hips gyrating, rocking her pussy along your cock. "Like that - right?"

"Fuck- yes," your cock slides into her, your entire length, the rest of the world fogged out: even the fire is quiet. "God, tzu. Feels amazing."

Tzuyu rolls her body forward, rides you with ease, and puts one small hand against your mouth. Her shirt hitches up and over the curve of her spine and then pools at her neck.

"I want to make you cum," she says, all quiet determination and wily confidence, "only you." She rolls her hips in your lap and then finds it: the steady, rhythmic grind down, down. Her ass crashes into your balls; the first telltale sign of that wonderful orgasm to come. "Is it wrong to want this? Like, you and I? Fuck. It feels like your cock was made for me."

"Yeah,” you grit, “fucking you feels - like it's meant to be, huh?"

"Sir," she says with an unhealthy smirk. She’s loving this more than you are, and you can’t really blame her for it: there’s no other sound quite like the slick, wet noise that her pussy makes as her body drops to yours, your cock filling her completely. It's music to your ears.

You grab at her ass, her hip, and pull her closer. She smiles, tilts her face down to you.

"Me too, you know, me too," she murmurs, kissing you softly; when you cup her breasts her breath hitches. "God- fuck- just-"

When she does cum, it's with the faintest little groan; a small, intense quiver in her thighs. You kiss her to swallow down the sound; and feel yourself tip over, and when she fucks you through your orgasm - her smile is dark, wicked, totally satisfied.

-

And everything else follows, because you're weak: because she makes you want to say no, even while simultaneously being your very favorite yes. You warm your cock inside her with some slow, gentle rhythm, her nipples hard against your shirt, her cries as sweet and earnest as all the best promises; a slow grind down, her fingers scrabbling for the headboard, you lean and lick her breasts, roll her nipples on your tongue - she gasps, tenses, digs her nails hard into your nape.

You'll have her again in the morning, she's adamant.

Her hands find your back, her legs circle your hips. The taste of her sweat. The taste of her nipples; her chest flushed, hair disheveled, pupils blown.

"Not letting me go." She whispers. Her cheeks are a lovely pink. "Even after this?"

You kiss the corner of her mouth, inhaling, wondering what to say.

"Good," Tzuyu tells you, tilting her jaw: "that's really-" She catches her lips with her teeth. "That's so fucking good."

-

(Her pussy grips your cock like it's the home she's always missed, her lifeline, her safe harbor. And it's dizzying, it's heaven, hell; and, in the morning - when everything is sepia-warm and sleepy - you fuck her again.

A promise, a hope, a plea. It's what makes a girl fall for a guy, in theory.

It's what makes her heart beat. )

-

"My phone's charging," Tzuyu sniffs the next morning: you're brushing out her hair. The sheets are warm.

You continue combing.

"Sana told me she would be texting, or trying to call."

"Well, that's nice," is all you can manage.

"Babe-" she leans back a bit: turns her gaze to the ceiling, exhaling sharply, "what if she got caught in a whole different avalanche, or fell from the top of a mountain, or something-"

You let go, letting her rest her weight against your thigh. "Honestly? Would serve her right. A little cold, a little damp-"

"If you don't take that back-"

"Alright. Alright. I'll send an apology prayer when I get around to it."

"No you won't." She curls in further, and you stroke her neck, shoulder blade; down the ridges of her spine, across the width of her back.

Tzuyu shudders slightly under your touch.

"Haven't I earned enough good faith, or a clean conscience?"

"Sir, don't pretend."

"Let's pray for Sana, then," you mutter. "Wherever the fuck she is."

"With respect," Tzuyu pipes up, eager: "bitch ain't found."

"Jesus.” You laugh out loud. “At least your brain isn't fully turned to mush, yeah?"

"Give yourself some credit. I can hardly fucking walk. You really pounded the feeling in my legs away."

"Too bad."

"Sorry." And she noses at your collarbone, tugging the waistband of your boxers; "feel free," the drawl of an old, forgotten song, "to make me repent. Baby. Do your thing."

"Right, I forgot that I could convince you to do anything by sliding my dick in your throat. Yikes."

"Baby, just, uh- do whatever." Tzuyu grabs hold of your cock through the thin fabric: one light tap of a finger, "my lips are numb," the suggestion. You really could be her everything: and maybe if you said, stop, please, you won't. She'd pause; look at you like you're insane and maybe spit out what the actual fuck is wrong with you. Like the reality:

This doesn't have to end, no?

"Sorry about your phone battery," you tell her, brushing out the knot at the base of her skull. She exhales, goes soft; lets you tug lightly. "We’ll figure things out when Sana can actually text you, okay?"

"Dumbass. When it's warmer and you drive down to meet her."

"You're not jealous," you tell her. You’ve decided for her.

Tzuyu rolls, leans down on her back, smiling prettily-

"Nope," she agrees, pulling your cock out: already hard, ready to cum down her throat. Her fingers pump soft, slow, the anticipation- "just not done."

"Crazy."

She shrugs and lets the silence calm the world around the two of you; at least for a little while. "Takes a certain kind," she agrees.

"Permissiveness. Like what I'm seeing. Your brand or whatever."

"It’s straight from the heart." She shoots up, making a face you want to kiss. "Honestly."

"Absolutely sincere," you deadpan, and she ignores the jab.

"Tie a bow with my hair," she chuckles, the laughter light, and your fingers graze her temple. "Come on. I'll make you so proud. So pleased. Sir. Let me, let me-"

"Only if I can finish down your throat," you retort - half-joking, but, her eyes grow warm, molten, the lust is immediate - you tip her head, lower it gently - she bites down onto her lip, nods a bit.

-

You don't take her right away. Not at first. You’re trying to show some restraint, trying not to think about how Tzuyu wears clothes like a vice. She's that kind of girl. Like an accident waiting to happen. She's moving around the kitchen later, poking about the cabinets. She's slid into some jeans that fit her a little too well, and one of those obscenely thin t-shirts.

You watch her back muscles work, how the cotton bunches as she leans, arms extending. Her chest's flat against the counter to grab whatever item's out of her reach. You catch the ribbon in her hair bob slightly back into place when she stands back up. The hairline on the nape of her neck catches a long highlight of a morning, the thin strands a brilliant brown, a spark of warmth in the midst of a muted winter morning - and it's honestly amazing to look at.

(Her ass hangs out in the open like an invitation. Your eyes are running down every curve of denim like they can't help but search.)

"Tzu," is the warning, and she flashes a grin; turns, the expression shifting, wide. "I can literally see everything you have."

"Hm." The front of her shirt lowers, too - her black bralette, barely a scrap of lace and string, visible through the thin fabric. "If I'd known you'd like that so much, you could've told me earlier."

"It's not your job to figure me out."

"Well, I'm not sorry." The words are sugar sweet, with an almost fake concern: her feet pivot, her ass filling your vision- Tzuyu spreads her hands down her outer thighs.

"Be nice," you reiterate. "C'mere."

Her legs snap to you quick.

-

You are careful, tentative and slow. You leave the ribbon in place and everything; just your mouth, like you have a right to lick down her breasts, her stomach, her clit - like you deserve the faint marks where your hands pressed down onto her waist.

The slow licks, the soft kisses; you could eat her out until the sun sets and Tzuyu was left sobbing through the overstimulation. Her fingers rake your hair like it’s exactly what she’s hoping you’ll do.

When Tzuyu does let go: she doesn't drop. There is no shame, nor shameful whimpers. Instead, she fucking screams, so high and clear it doesn't seem possible: a singer's wail.

"Sir!" she's crying, you can feel it through every tremble. "Oh my god, please-"

You get her to climax twice before the tears fall, your fingers tracing her spine, pressing deeper, a knuckle, then two-

She looks at you in abject reverence, "God, you don't know," is the gasp, "how perfect you are," and you're sure. You'll never get it right again: at least, not without her.

She cums a third time, shivering, collapsing: her eyes wide, glossy, breath shallow, limbs giving in. The sweat clings to her like a lover, a life she doesn't know how to leave.

So, you ask:

"What now, doll?"

Her tongue sweeps the corner of her mouth, a tiny wrinkle.

"Whatever," Tzuyu exhales. "Fuck, whatever, seriously, that was like- amazing- but my throat is actually going to murder me."

"Was the screaming really that necessary."

"Not sure- about anything," is the groggy admission, "like, honestly. Too horny to care, but." She pauses for a second. "You," she finally decides.

"I," is the immediate reply.

"I’ll let you do - anything, but I- can I, like, get a breather? For a minute. Can you wait, like, just."

Her arms open: you settle against her side, and a shaky hand starts combing through your hair. Her other palm lifts to rest against your cheek, cupping it. The nails tap gently along your hairline. 

"Been waiting so long, Tzu, honey," and it doesn't sound as cruel or glib as the slip up should be construed - doesn't even bother to count on forgiveness, either. Maybe you're beyond all of that, honestly, and more or less in love, as a result. It’s kind of fucked. What’s a minute more?

She laughs softly, a cough catching up and sounding pained. She's lost her voice, the poor thing, she’s cummed herself hoarse and ragged and you’re proud of your handiwork.

"Honey," you hear her say, and she shakes, pulls herself closer, kisses you back: like the old, gentle motion can ever fully cure the fever of desire that grips the two of you. It's a pipedream, and you're kissing her. It's a pipedream, and you know it.

-

The calls start coming in after the sun sets and the cabin grows cool with the dark: you feel, faintly, that it's inevitable. That the snow would clear and time would start marching on, a predetermined cycle. (That, maybe, something in the universe - at this stage, almost a hundred years of weather, tectonic plates, astronomical phenomena, interconnected - knew the two of you needed that bit of seclusion.)

"I dunno, just some bog-standard hotel, holiday suites or something. The point is: the roads don’t open until tomorrow and I've been holed up for a while." Sana sighs into the phone. The static pops. "Oh my god, I'm bored out of my mind. I've had like, three full bags of crisps in one sitting, which is just plain wrong."

"You're basically living off carbs." You say this from in front of the fireplace. Tzuyu is sitting on the opposite side of the couch paging through a stack of magazines, wearing a big jumper and sweats and socks pulled up to her knees. Her hair is falling around her shoulders in soft waves, and it makes her look small and domestic and a bit docile - she’d re-tied the ribbon in her hair after you’d fucked it off her, and that more or less completes the look.

"Yes, I have gone off the deep end. A tragic, awful spiral. Because you're not here. Fuck, you have no idea."

"Ah- Sana." You stop. Take a deep breath.

"Do you have any idea? The state of me right now? seriously. I packed so many fucking condoms and the idea of bringing them back home is more defeating than anything else." She lowers her tone a little, then adds, "because, not to be weird, I was kinda sorta hoping we might use them when I got up there."

You blink. Tzuyu isn't even pretending to look anywhere else. Her whole face is shifting into a satisfied expression, and when she catches you looking, she winks.

"Right. Now this might sound like a surprise," Sana is continuing, her voice full of amusement, "but when I get stuck somewhere, alone and thinking about the weather- I'm often in need of a fuck. Please be prepared to service, because god damn, I've got nothing and it's gonna have to be the battery."

"Is that Sana?" Tzuyu interrupts, the tone hushed, but lofty.

You make a face, like: who the fuck else - but that makes her smirk; Sana sighs, then laughs.

"So if you like, you know. If you feel like the vibe is there. I'd appreciate the hand out."

Tzuyu walks over: sets herself down between your feet and kisses your knee. Just to fuck with you. Because she wants to. She holds the kiss, the bow in her hair, done up tight and shiny, visible. You want to tug the stupid thing until it unravels; all your fingertips, her lips, and she sighs-

"Oi," Sana's saying on the line. You can hear her crash onto her bed. "You still there?" 

"I'm sorry," you say, "are you uh, asking for phone sex - or did I totally read that all wrong."

"Nope. Pretty direct." Sana laughs, and the sound should make it easy to close your eyes, picturing it: a silver smile, the low slung skirt and a stretch of stockinged leg, the twinkle of a drink as the ice hits her mouth. It’d be easy, y'know, if your gaze wasn't pinned on the girl who's settled at your feet.

"Oh, jesus, okay," you manage to breathe. Tzuyu hums a little: reaches for your fly. "Is there anything, anything that you want me to do?"

Sana's laughter drops to a murmur: the air goes heady as Tzuyu parts the zipper and rolls down the waist of your pants- "ask me what I'm wearing, duh."

"Boring," Tzuyu breathes into the air. Because apparently Sana's defining trait is being loud. The kiss to your clothed cock is hot, teasing - her eyes never lift away, "always, always start with, 'darling, sweetheart,' or something stupid, sweet." Her tone is pure syrup: you can feel the warm, the wet; a fucking tease, all the way to her core.

"What are you wearing, darling?" you ask, dryly. Tzuyu rolls her eyes.

Sana's grin widens and you swear it's audible, "oh, just these boring pajamas." She draws it out slow and sexy and completely aware. "It's all loose cotton, and it doesn't hang off me, just folds."

"Is it the type that comes down to the mid-thigh? The white kind, where you can see through to the skin?"

"That's a little presumptive, don't you think? A bit on the nose? Yeah, fine, I'm wearing the kind, if you absolutely insist. These legs, bare. Maybe you'd want to bite. Y'know. Mark 'em'. Whatever."

Tzuyu is kissing the outline of your shaft. Pulling your hard-on out from its confines - all gentle and tentative. Her pretty brown eyes dart upward, gauging: okay, just do your thing - you shrug - but it'd be so helpful if you could scoot to the end of the cushion for me, can you-

"Yeah," you're agreeing into the phone, somewhat vague - to no one in particular. You don't give Tzuyu just an inch; instead, you lift your thighs toward her. Sliding, Tzuyu pulls your pants down: enough. There's a delicate pressure applied at the bottom of your cock, right at the base, right where Tzuyu drags her nails. "Let's have that show off a little," your breath comes shallow, "then. Strip, real slow. We can try for something sexy I guess."

"You," Tzuyu kisses the base and shuffles up the rest of your shaft, "just love bossing people around," then her lips part: the slightest graze, then warmth, the faint suction. “Don’t you?”

"Uh-huh," says Sana, and then the rustle of cloth: and you could imagine her, really, lifting the shirt up, off, sliding it along the inside of her ribs, over the tips of her breasts - she'd cup them, lean into the contact. Sana's hands are always on her tits, or the spread of her hips - she likes the shape of her body more than anyone else. "Sometimes, that's the best way," she tells you. Her breath is hot, full of sex. "Being told what to do. Isn't that true, hm?"

Tzuyu tilts forward, lets your cock drop over her bottom lip. It leaves a smear of spit in its wake, the sensation electric. Her head falls, swallows the whole of the tip: her tongue immediately swirls. A hot little pulse. Her cheeks hollow.

"Yeah. Some could probably argue," your breath catches, the weight of the sensation, the fullness, your hips arch, your spine straightens. The electricity goes through your stomach and down your spine; you can feel the wave rolling along. Tzuyu giggling into the stiff line of your cock-

"Telling us both?" Tzuyu smiles again, running her lips slowly up and down the sides, teasing with her breath and her fingers running down the ridges. "What you want." She hums low, into the hot air.

You press your phone to your neck. "Can you, like-

Tzuyu pulls her mouth off your cock. Just sits there blinking. “Hm?” she asks, tugging a strand of her hair from the corner of her mouth.

“Just please stay quiet, or something- this is already harder than I thought it would be," the joke is as unsubtle as they come, "jesus, okay-" and put the phone back to your ear, "shit, Sana- can you, like-"

Her fucking mouth. The seal, the press - the tongue swirling around your head. Fuck.

“Yeah, babe? What do you want to know?”

The words aren't coming and a very obvious swallow is, Tzuyu leaning closer, and her fingers tangle with yours - guiding you closer, guiding your hand to the ends of her hair.

"Explain," is somehow where you land, shaky. You stick the landing just enough that Sana might buy it. "What are you doing now?"

"Slow circles. On my nipples, pinching," her voice strains, then settles,"yeah, the tip's so sensitive. Jihyo was laughing that guys always obsess over her tits. Always wanna suck, or nibble and I'm like, girl, what the hell are you complaining for?" - Tzuyu inhales a huge breath, and then another: her lips, those eyes - open and glossy, every movement steady like she knows just how to make the wait worth it - "or, or maybe I'm just weird, because the first time I felt someone's teeth and their tongue. Fuck, like, I almost screamed. Or, cried. Literally."

"Hah," and Tzuyu brings her lips lower. Moves her hair gently out of the way to take the rest of you into her mouth: bobbing up, her lips puckering in some rhythm, and her tongue darts, swirls the edge of the cock. Tongue at the slit. The pressure. Fuck, your head falls back. Every breath sounds heavy, loud. "Fingers,” you huff, “are good too I'm sure. I’d be paying close attention. Making you feel good."

"Mhm." Sana agrees. "The little pinches, ugh, I could die happy if you did just that, it's that fucking amazing."

"Baby," you half-moan. You’re struggling. The mouth stops, then sinks: down, all the way. Fucking amazing. Fucking hell.

"Oh?" Sana laughs airly, "are you touching yourself, hm? No fair, are you going to leave me all lonely here-"

You can see that smirk. The fuckery that would come: Sana's version.

"Sir," Tzuyu mumbles, sounding muffled. Her mouth is a tight vise of warmth, and your hand threads through her hair again. You hold, tighten the ribbon a bit, and Tzuyu stares at you through half-lidded eyes: you don't think she'll blink until you make her cry, and by then-

“Fuck,” Sana says, totally flat, "I'm actually pretty wet," the emphasis, "so I'd like some real advice, y'know-"

You see her legs. The tops. The bottom, all the way down- and you inhale sharply, too much and too hard.

Tzuyu has her fist at the base of your cock and her palm is sliding down the slick flesh and, a moment later, up, meeting her mouth at the top of its stroke - and, without a goddamn care, she hollows her cheeks - puckers her lips along the surface.

You were right. "This is hell."

Sana hums a laugh. "Need me that bad, huh? We're missing each other by just a couple days."

You stroke the top of Tzuyu's hair, her bow bobbing in a nice little bounce. Sana would know better than to wear her hair up. To even go near this, her throat - you hold her jaw steady, maybe a second, the moment of recovery to make Tzuyu slow and careful: her tongue does a pass at the sensitive, rigid underside of the crown, the sudden movement - before she speeds up.

"Picturing your hand." She tells you in a languid tone.

"God," you half-say, half-moan, and Tzuyu is good. So fucking good, and the mouth is too damn eager and it's difficult to think.

You barely get your hand free to switch to speaker, then let it clatter to the side. Tzuyu grinning, her lips flushed red and wet and dragging over your cock, sliding down, her tongue doing another pass, swirling at the center, the flare-

"Thinking about you, actually, fuck," Sana has a hitch to her breath that wasn't quite there before. "Doing those things, that mouth all over, Jesus Christ - ah- my legs, my breasts, fuck- are you jerking off right now? You sound, well, pretty uh, yeah."

"Just saying," you breathe, as the shock and the sensations rise and fall; Tzuyu's edging you in her mouth, her own head starting to shake, her chin bobbing up and down the full, long line of your dick - she's never done anything by halves. "It's getting- I'm thinking about you, Sana, of course, and your- pretty cunt, god, of course, so- ah, close- you said you were wet?"

"Huh? Of course, dripping. Imagining you - your thick, your cock," Sana sorta giggles, out of it then-

Tzuyu moans. Her body is pliant and her shoulders roll; she sucks, her cheeks dip, her back arches, and all of the noises hit the air thick, all while Sana's voice sharpens - both girls, two. You're slipping off the cushion, and probably out of your mind. The ache builds and burns and yearns for some sort of release- 

"-how wet and tight I would feel, after so fucking long. Please, fuck, fuck-" you hear Sana, "would you, fuck, c'mon, how I would look, on top of you? Could feel- the stretch, your cock deep inside. The, fuck- friction."

There’s this beat, where it’s just Sana’s stiff breathing; you can picture her wrist between her thighs, the pump, the twist as her fingers run over and over again through the sound of her slick. You’re left wondering if she can hear too, the mouth trailing kisses along your balls, tongue gliding back up and swallowing your length whole.

“Mnph.” Tzu chokes down a little.

And you look down, you have to eventually - to see the steady stare. Tzuyu's brows pinched and her eyelashes fanning out over the hollowed curve of her cheekbones. Pretty, fuck. Beautiful. So sexy: she looks up, swallows you back, like a fucking slut. Her mouth, wet, messy, hot, and her body-

"Third finger, by the way," Sana strains, "'cause- fuck, my pussy - my tight little hole would be swallowing your cock so damn good."

"Mmm, fuck." You're reduced to your base instincts, pulling Tzuyu's hair, dragging her wet, velvety mouth onto your shaft - she follows willingly, no question of her pace slowing, but - more, and more, and you could probably cum in her mouth if her hands weren't clasped firmly over your thighs and you weren't brushing away the tears pricking the ends of Tzuyu's lashes- you won't tell. Not with your fingers. Fuck. Her nails bite at the skin of your bare legs. She looks angry, insistent. Choking.

Sana sounds just as out of sorts, out of breath, "you would feel so fucking good. Look so good. Let me have it- whatever I need, yeah?" And you think she's close: it's that keen edge, a faint, broken whine. She's never going to finish any way except- "would you, inside me? Y'know- make me cum, real full. God- are you close? Would you make a mess out of me? Of my pretty pussy?"

“Okay, holy fuck-" and the question barely even hits you. 

Tzuyu is glaring now, shaking: she wants you to lose it, and she looks furious, holding her fingertips, her thumb on the base of your cock: a new pressure, a new feeling, a new pulse, a new high- she wants you to forget about Sana, maybe. What she sounds like, how she looks. Her legs wide, her bare, slicked skin on display. For you, yes. Fucking her until she- "uh, baby," and this time, your voice makes her smile, and her teeth drag. You wince. Her pupils are blown out, and there's a flush building in her chest. "Where are you?"

"Laying down. Flat- god. Where I'm always-" and you imagine a plane of soft, tanned, toned legs, her wide hips, "I'd, yeah, in a second. Pressure at my back- it would feel so fucking good, y’know, if you were here."

You have no doubt in your mind: Sana would be gorgeous. Even from the back, she'll be hotter, fuck, she always is, especially like that - and the movement of Tzuyu's fingers tightens against the straining, needy ache, and- 

"Please, fuck, fuck- need to-"

"Would cum- a lot, that's it- over my back. Oh, yes, all over my back. My ass. Messy. fuck that's actually so good, jesus christ-" and then Sana lets out another soft keen and a shout - and it's so sweet and high-pitched and familiar, almost musical; she's cumming, hard. You're only a second, a third behind and-

Your balls draw tight and a coil in your stomach unfurls-

Tzuyu sees you, grins, your eyes trained on the pink of her mouth and her perfect, wet lips and the deep brown eyes - her dimpled cheek is the softest fucking thing - but the rest, her mouth, her wet heat: it's pure sensation. The tight vise of a throat swallowing, the taste on the flat of her tongue. You've got your cock shoved deep in her mouth, and you're not easy to take. Fucking Tzuyu's face, thrusting and the throbs of your cock pumping out a hot, heavy spill. More and more: sticky, filling, spreading out from the corners of her lips. Tzuyu gurgles, struggling - fuck, finally letting go with a weak pop, falling back, and the white mess runs hot over her mouth. Your release smeared across her lips, dripping off her jaw - fucking christ - her tongue, her eyelashes - a wild mess of fluid. It splatters against her pale skin - runs down the hollow of her throat to the edges of her chest. She has her fingers working fast still, a squelching tight fist: you cum all over the stupid, cutesy bow too. It's all you see, the only thing-

“Fuck,” Sana says, oblivious. “That’s good.”

-before your eyelids shutter close, a ringing in your ears and your heart racing; and, not far, another sigh, followed by the slide of your phone down the couch.

"Aw, you done already?" Sana says. Lazily. You can see the look on her face, probably rubbing her pussy and thinking about more - if there’s any two ways the girls compare, it’s this allergic reaction to anything like temperance or moderation. You need new friends, new lovers; this can’t last.

"Uh-huh." The back of your head digs into the couch cushions. Fuck. Sana. Phone. On speaker. Oh. Right. Shit. "But I was- mnph. Uhh." Your brain has lost a lot of blood. It's doing nothing. Nothing but losing blood. You wish it’d stop. “I’m here, Sana, talk to me.”

Sana giggles at that, delighted, "don't tell me you're in such bad shape I need to save you-"

"The uh," your voice slurs. Then you're pulling the phone to you, closer. Fuck. Yeah. You're an idiot. Your breath is heavy: "I could go for more, yeah, how’re you feeling?"

"So fucking tired." Her breathing sounds less ragged. A full breath. A pout: a poor me.

"Hmm." Tzuyu crawls onto you. Slides the fabric of your shirt between her palms, up and down your ribs. She pushes the sweater and tee away. Bares your stomach- then kisses there. Lower, and then rises, looking through her lashes. It's clear: a demand. She'll be insisting, pressing down on you, kissing, running her teeth along the edges of your shoulders, your neck. She’ll kiss you right now if you let her - until she sinks into a promise at the center of your body. Your back is arching off the leather from the sensitivity, and Tzuyu has her lips all over you - smiling when your hands tangle with the long strands of her hair.

She pauses. You drop a hand to Tzuyu's waist. Pinch.

"Ow-" she says, coming across slightly betrayed. 

And, satisfied with the expression her face, the phone cradled between your chin, her lips warm over your ribs, her head tickling the edges of your jaw, you keep laughing, or you want to, but Tzuyu takes you between her thighs, lifts a little on your cock - her eyes widen: she's testing your flexibility. Trying to drag this out, trying for teasing. She’s good at that (a verifiable truth), but you’re you - you see right through it: she likes how it feels, the thickness and size of you. Tzuyu keeps sliding slowly down the full length, letting you fill her inch by inch - her slick heat feels unbearable.

“God,” she mutters, and she’s making the dreamiest expression - the blush in her cheeks, the eyelids hung low, the mouth slightly agape - she lifts up, then slams all the way to the base, flush. You grab anything you can to hold onto. Her legs. Her ass. Her thighs. Her jaw. That perfect little fucking waist.

She’s sublime. Your cock is bathing in her slick, the wet heat, the throbbing pulses - she's gasping in your lap, like she can’t believe how good you feel filling her cunt.

"Sana," you grit, "there's- nothing else in the world I'd rather do right now than shove my cock-” 

“Ugh,” Sana sighs in agreement, in imaginary bliss. “In my little fucking pussy- you’re making me miss you, or something, jesus-”

You squeeze her thigh and her lips quirk, just barely, a challenge.

"Want put a nice thick load" - the hand on Tzuyu's hip brings her down in your lap, fucking up hard as her chest racks with breath - "in your slutty little cunt" - you fuck her faster, the sounds of flesh against flesh obscene - "fill up your pussy, princess. Would cum in it until" - and the last inch of your cock, filling Tzuyu’s cunt, you've no control - "you're a mess, you're dripping in it-"

Tzuyu's movements still. A pause. Her hips. Your own, and all the rest, every nerve in your body is on fire. 

She moves with the most graceful slide, her wet lips gliding - gripping - up your cock. Then, down. The quiet. The lull. The pause before she does it again. She has cum all over her face, and she’ll kill you. You’ll let her.

"God. We'll have to get around to it," Sana finally tells you, dryly, "when this fucking snow clears. Say hi to Tzuyu for me won’t you?"

-

You're not a bad person. 

(The reassurance that you aren’t - or don’t want to be? - is probably still not super convincing. There's some line drawn there, blurred, crossed, and thoroughly annihilated by your actions, you think, vaguely, but maybe it's better if no one sees, hears, finds out. The finer details matter a lot less at that point.)

You're like anybody else: you get desperate to hold onto something, somebody, even for just a moment. Sometimes you don’t even need a reason at all.

Tzuyu is stepping out of the shower, her head bobbing: it takes everything in you not to drag her back in there. She’d let you. She wouldn’t even complain.

You can hear the catch and the slide of a bath towel, the wisp of water hitting the bottoms of her feet and trailing, an exaggerated moan - a gesture, meant to entice, a suggestion: fuck her right back in the shower until her hair is plastered to her cheeks, and she's panting. Or the steam lifts her breasts in a gentle, humid press. That mouth on the tiles - sobbing.

“Tzu,” you call out, and she just continues humming some indifferent tune. 

You pull a thick sweater over your head: it's gray wool, and it's all clean and good and new. When she wraps her arms around you, a deep inhale: a grin, then a shiver. She's naked and dripping everywhere, wet hair leaving a trail in its wake. She burrows her face in the folds of fabric at your spine - and if you turned, the slightest movement, the smooth line of her torso would be exposed, and your fingers could trace down her belly button, the tips dipping between her legs-

The window is fogging at the bottom, the steam slipping out in tendrils - but the heat can't compete against the girl all wet and dripping, and it does nothing but give way to the cold, seeping in.

"I still think it's funny," she says, all matter of fact. "It's weird that this isn't awkward."

“What’s that?”

She's at the doorway.

“Us. Being here.”

You turn, and Tzuyu pulls at your sweater: looking for attention, always seeking out the easy praise. Her hand automatically slides beneath the cloth of your collar, drawing your jaw up for a short, hard kiss.

"Okay," and there's a small nod, the line of her throat pulsing as she breathes, "yeah," her chest rising and falling.

"Look at you,” you tell her. “All dry and tidy. Cute. "

A dumb comment earns you the tiniest smile, then she's leaning back, taking her hands to her hair and wringing out the water, pulling and tugging at the tangles - the towel wraps around her waist again and again, and she looks good, clean: it makes you think of what comes later. Not having to give a fuck - at least not for a little while.

"Jeez," she's shivering, still, and rubbing the tops of her arms, "and Sana is gonna be, like, all over you once she gets the chance. Wants a nice lay too, from the sound of it. Was being honest about that. Seems pretty pent up."

“Maybe you can help,” you offer, a bit flippant. She smiles - but in all seriousness, it’s a resounding: no.

There's something else, too, as she runs her fingertips, absently, through her hair - it falls flat on her neck and around her bare shoulders, dark against the lightness of her skin, but somehow you get the impression that she's not entirely preoccupied. "Y'know, I had a really good time and all, but I'm not the homewrecker type, yeah - it's not worth the stress," a slight shrug, like she isn't certain, her mind a little more tangled than usual, and for good reason, too, "probably won't hook up ever again."

"Gloomy," you tease.

"Don’t act like you're not going to miss it," she says, conspiratorial - and Tzuyu plants herself where you can feel her in your space - but she doesn't press. "Even when you're keeping busy, you'll have the smallest reminder, like - aha, Tzuyu would've really liked this, or that - when, y'know - you're stuck somewhere, thinking about the weather," and her cheeks are heating with color as her tongue forms the syllables - and the meaning is clear now as it always was.

“Even if you’re like, totally smitten, or whatever with her,” she adds, smirking.

"Sana will be back to her usual antics in no time. Being annoying and forward and whatever," you reply. "Won't miss much."

The girl's expression flickers a little - a slight twitch - but otherwise, a flat look.

She fixes the lay of her towel across her wide hips. You reach for her arm: pull at it, pulling her toward.

"I mean- Sana and I have a few things in common, anyway. Something in common. Can both be a spoilsport. Dull. Can be a bit, uh, territorial, if you you know-"

The rest is cut off, the words running into a kiss, deep and desperate; there's no place like her mouth: soft, eager, hot.

"And our usual antics?" she asks.

She leans into you, the chill starting to set, a fire burning nearby: something clandestine that maybe shouldn't last as long as it does. A log settling against the others, another plume of heat, and you say, a touch solemn,

"Dunno if we've ever been in common about anything, babe."

"Jeez. You don't have to spell it out like that, do you?" Tzuyu laughs lightly, holding the bath towel at her hips - her breasts are bare. They fall without support, her nipples, the slope of her ribs, everything. "I mean, how cruel."

(It isn't really. Because, here's the thing. In the grand scheme of things, Chou Tzuyu was never really supposed to happen at all.)

-

The snow clears, like all things you suppose, slowly and with a sigh: with the change in winds and a promise for a gradual spring. Tzuyu steals a shirt. Doesn't seem inclined to return it, says she's good at letting her imagination do half the work in lieu of the actual sex. (The nip is like a sting: it'll last longer, apparently. The bruising at the edges of her waist is more abstract.)

You’re in the driveway. Tzuyu’s leaning back on her luggage.

She kisses you like she wants to make you lose something: her lipstick, her mind, her heart or soul. And when her arms slide, her mouth parting - her tongue darting and sweeping, taking - Tzuyu knows a good many things about herself. She knows you, too. What makes her wet, what gets her off. What part of you will always come back to her. But her hair falls heavy: so much silk. She's laughing - a grin and she's licking the pink right off her teeth and she's beautiful and you think you'll want this always:

A girl like her, kissing so eager for you-

"You can totally say it first," she tells you, that mouth at the edge of your ear.

"Um," you say, and she settles down a little further, her wrists locked behind your neck. "You are so: clingy."

The look she gives you is adorable. All dimple, no worry. “Yeah, so?”

“How is that fair?”

"I don't really care if it is or isn’t. We’d be good together - and that’s a fact. So say something good, or I'm getting in that cab right now."

So you do. You do. The first word, the syllable, the way you ask her, the sound that is something like: mine, and the way it dries the edge of your throat; you kiss it away and she giggles because maybe this means, after a while, you really are as terrible as she always hoped.

She'll give you everything. She says, yours, and it would always be you; she halts a bit, and says it like she’s thawing a revelation, one that’s been there since the start - says she loves you and she always has. You laugh and she says it again: always.

-

Sana ends up standing in the cabin a day later. The same place you stood, watching Tzuyu lick yogurt off her spoon. Her coat looks expensive. There's her purse. The boots. That red-painted mouth. Her eyes are fixed, and she sees nothing out of the ordinary. Which is probably, you think, ideal.

"That's funny," her face betrays nothing.

The cabin smells a little like burning wood, vaguely: peppermint tea. An electric kind of heat and the warmth of the sun. It had smelled like evidence prior, the way a girl gets with her underwear missing, hair a tangled mess, body sore and aching, a wet bed. You'd looked like a pair of kids caught in a terrible storm, a lovers' quarrel in a small space - or, just: well-fucked.

"What's funny?" is how you finally manage.

"I just mean," she starts again, "she used to have like. The craziest crush on you. It would’ve been cute if it wasn't sorta sad. Did you know? You couldn't, I guess." She shrugs: a heavy lift of her shoulders, a release. The tension is leaking everywhere. "Must've been torture for her to get stuck here with you."

"Huh," you say, like you were missing something, which is exactly the wrong tone and definitely the wrong sentiment. “Oh, the crush. That. Sure.” You’re suppressing a smile. “Torture, yeah. Hey. Don't worry about it. I’m sure we’ll be fine."

-

(You can’t stop running it back through your head, her long dark hair disappearing into the cab. She loves you and you love her, and it’s got this beautiful caveat of being something simple-complex. Like, who would ever believe any of this? Like, who else even matters? 

You say, you belong to me, and she agrees without even thinking. 

“You always knew, though. From the start, you always did. I was never going to be anyone else's," and then she pouts. "Wouldn’t hurt telling me, from time to time."

And the mountains have a way of feeling like the end, sounding like the closing score, the credits - you look out at the white caps and reflect: maybe you shouldn’t have let her go. Maybe you should chase after her. Maybe you could still make it work. Maybe you should consider that a promise.

You look up at the sky, the pale blue - and maybe you can afford to let her go. 

You know you’ll only find your way back.)

[capslocked]

PARITY

male reader x sana & miyeon

21k words

Within some reasonable tolerance, the two are carbon copies. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

Doppelganger, twin, deadringer - they always tell you, they don’t see it.

But when they stand together it always comes across like two shadows stitched into one silhouette; the slope of their noses, their mouths; the way their hair cascades down past their shoulders.

You’ve learned to recognize the twitch at the corner of their lips before a laugh - how they speak in the same inflection and pitch and tempo, the same cadence coloring all their syllables. Even in their figures there is something uncannily familiar: that petite stature, that grace; they both have perfect posture, an ingrained elegance, like something handed down generation to generation. And of course - the height. The hair. The eyes. The same-damned-smirk.

Here's a hypothetical: if Sana's DNA, then Miyeon's RNA. They're both two separate ways of reading the same thing, and they both have it in them to transcribe the same hot load of proteins over all their pretty faces.

"Oh, that's like a sex joke," Miyeon says to Sana, frowning slightly, "right?"

"I don't know." Sana hums. "Protein... like sperm?"

You sigh, rub your thumb at your temple. This is why, normally, you wouldn't take ditzy to bed, but there's all this history between you and Sana that proves otherwise. The dirty truth is: you’ve been taking ditzy to bed for years. And Miyeon’s right there. She’s all bright eyes, blonde hair, tiny little waist, the perfect height to get two fingers in her cunt and the rest of her in your lap without you even needing to shift your arm into something more uncomfortable. God forbid.

She pulls back the curtain of silk-glossed-hair spilling over her cheek and tucks it neatly behind her ear. Okay, fine. So maybe you really do have a type.

"Yeah," Miyeon decides. "I think that's a good pun. Cute."

She glances sideways at Sana; something flashes between them, imperceptible. They've been doing this sorta thing for a long time - long before they ended up in their current living arrangement. This machine of synchronized, unvoiced communication.

"Cute," echoes Sana, delighted, and she lets her eyes flick back to yours. "Baby, are you, like, gonna give us lots of protein?"

"First of all, we’re fast approaching the point of diminishing returns on the whole protein spermaestria," you muse, wryly. Sana beams. "And again, the point I’m trying to make, Sana: you two are identical."

"Not in spirit," says Miyeon, automatically. "Or intellect. Or appearance, either."

"You can't just claim that," says Sana, matter of fact. "He means physically. I have bigger tits and a better ass.”

There's no argument from your end. And not only because the cab driver hits a speed bump or a pothole or perhaps a small child way too quickly that sends you all lurching together into the seatbelts.

Miyeon finds a good hold in the handle over the door - it saves her - and you wind up steadying Sana. For a split second, it's both their shoulders leaning on yours: Sana, then Miyeon, then Sana. Back and forth. Back and forth. The three of you still end up sprawled halfway out of the seats and onto each other in the cramped cab, tangled all together.

"Please, explain it then," implores Sana, hushed slightly. "Go ahead, I'm sure Miyeon's dying to hear it."

"Look, it's not a perfect one to one mapping," you say, running your hand through your hair and putting on your patient professor-in-front-of-the-class face. "For example: Miyeon's cuter-"

"Thank you," chirps Miyeon, sweetly sardonic, before you can even append anything else to the statement. Sana’s already there with a noise of mild protest.

"I mean, I'm a full inch and a half taller than you."

"So?"

"That’s an unfair advantage. You've gotta be the dumbest person I know."

"Funny," chides Miyeon, swiveling her gaze onto Sana. "You could barely talk when we were fucking your brains out on your birthday. He's dating you, not me, remember? If anything, you're the one sporting an unfair advantage."

"Okay, well," Sana counters, reasonably, "when you can barely get a sentence out from choking on my boyfriend's cock, who the hell is supposed to call it?"

You ignore that. Miyeon is having more difficulty; her face has flushed cherry red and her hand's white-knuckle-gripping the side of the cab's passenger door. 

"For what it’s worth," you cut in, placidly, "I don’t think there’s any clear answer."

"Nonsense," they both reply, simultaneously and satisfied - like wind up toys. And that's the way the conversation tends to go when you get them alone like this. Identical, you pause to think again after spilling out from the back of the car and onto the curb outside the girls’ apartment.

All the things they say are word-for-word - they walk the same, eat the same, smile the same, tilt their heads the same. In those moments where you don't speak, it feels like watching some two-headed monster, an entity constructed from equal parts of both. And it isn't just the physicality at play. They've got that eerie ability to read each other, speak for each other. It's strange: their habits, the way their eyebrows arch, the set of their shoulders. It all syncs right up, matches seamlessly.

It's really fucking uncanny.

"Um." Sana twists one slim wrist back and forth until the key turns in the lock. "So, is it, like, wrong of me that I kinda just wanna skip the dinner part of this and watch my roommate get wrecked in the middle of our living room?"

"Depends," you answer, before you can let yourself dwell too much.

“Just a complete and utter carpet dive,” Sana says, shouldering the door open and flipping on the lights. “It’d serve her right. She’s being annoying.”

Miyeon scoffs, sticks out a bare, pale leg - it ends in a nail polished fire engine red, the strap of a stiletto sandal - and blocks your way inside. "Hey," she protests, lightly. You are not the only object in the equation - you are merely an item to be held against them; it's not about you, not in its most abstract shape. Miyeon and Sana are competing - vaguely for your affection, but more so just for affection in general. It's an ego thing, if nothing else.

"I'm an angel. I'm precious."

"Get your pretty feet out of his face," warns Sana.

"Ugh," says Miyeon. And then, "so short-tempered when you're not getting away with everything."

"Whatever, princess." Sana gestures, airy and flippant. "In any case: fuck off, or go get fucked."

This has become some kind of weird custom, admittedly. Miyeon does exactly as her best friend requests. She floats down the hallway and toward her room.

"Can't get good service around here anymore anyway," is what she tosses over her shoulder. Her fingers run up the door frame to her room and hang there, briefly, before she glances sideways back. You and Sana, now giving her your deservedly undivided attention. There is no split focus, no point of overlap. Her hair falls loose past her shoulders; her shirt clings a little to the muscles of her arms, her ribs. The point of contact between her skirt and her upper thighs. Those impossibly big eyes. She's gorgeous. You rarely ever let yourself forget that. There's something devastating about the set of her face, about how her body is absolutely fucking perfect, all curving lines and smooth planes - tits that fit right in your palm, the dip of her stomach, the pretty shape of her ass - she’s tiny, and in a way, that means you can do anything to her and manage to get away with it. She’ll let you. She’ll ask you to do it all again. 

"You two are more than welcome to follow along, if you feel so inclined,” Miyeon adds before she opens the door to her room, steps through, and lets it shut behind her.

"Yeah." Sana runs her tongue over her top lip, staring you straight in the eye. Her smile is slightly predatory, all sharp teeth. "If you’re so inclined."

-

(For anyone wondering about things like premise or backstory, here’s a useful memory:

Sana has a new roommate. They've been living together for two, three months. She's still not over the fact you didn’t ask her to move in, and you're still not ready for it. Your answer hasn’t changed. You like your apartment the way it is; the two of you need space; it's what the kids call cohabital parity and no, the ring's not in your wallet and it's not even bought yet; stop nagging me. It'll happen when it happens. 

Anyway,

It's one of those plainly beautiful evenings in early July or August - a weekend probably: the living room is bathed in the sort of low, radiant sunset that can go on forever, all of summer stretched out, leisure and sunshine. Sana had talked her way into getting you to take her somewhere highbrow and a little out of your budget. She can talk her way into just about anything; that's her brand, her bad habit, her good fortune.

"We're not going to be able to get our tickets," you're explaining into the loud blare of a hair dryer. And to paraphrase, "what the fuck is the point of making reservations if we’re going to be so reprehensively late?"

Sana's juggling the curling iron while fumbling with an eyelash curler and applying mascara and rearranging earrings all at the same time, and you think about reminding her, again, that it doesn't matter what she looks like if you never actually, you know, leave - but then the hair dryer switches off.

“Hey.” Sana ignores the concern and swivels to ask which earrings match which necklace - two pairs are laid across the countertop; they look exactly the same; you love her, desperately, but for the record, you've never been any good at telling jewelry apart. Neither the knowledge-set nor the motivation; she looks fucking gorgeous in everything regardless-

The front door clicks then, and Miyeon bursts through with the force of an entire hurricane - and promptly stops, dead. You forget what the hell she said, but the story was: she'd just gotten back from the worst date in her life. She's in tears, sobbing. It's a mess. She's a mess. You can't leave.

She falls right into Sana's arms. Then Sana throws a pointed, triumphant grin your way, and says to Miyeon - and you remember this, word for word, verbatim - "Aw, baby. Don't worry. Let us take care of you. We'll make you forget all about him, okay?"

This is the long and short of it: Miyeon arrives, in tears. You never make it to dinner and a show. And the night ends more or less how it started - with Miyeon still pretty much crying, but only because you two won't stop. With your fingers, your mouths. Sana knows what her tongue's doing; Miyeon is loud - and responsive. She's gorgeous too. She's so into it. She needs someone who is genuinely in love with her, who isn't going to try and push her around. You slip your cock into her and that's pretty much it, a different kind of curtain call; Miyeon gets Sana's thumb rolling at her clit and, yeah - she's fucking gone. She cums on your cock like she’s dying, like you’re killing her. It's as simple as that.

Now, there are several instances of which this is the case, in chronological order:

a.) The first time, in Sana's bed.

b.) The second time is in the back of Miyeon's hatchback. Tight fit for three people. It's a do-not-recommend.

c.) The third time, when they want to try blindfolding Miyeon while she rides your cock in the living room. The girl can't see shit, you break some IKEA furniture you can’t pronounce the name of, and the condom comes off during the whole process. There’s this unsettling, world-rocking possibility in which you get Miyeon fucking legitimately pregnant via oopsie-daisy. So, you and Sana wind up spooned up with Miyeon between you two and discuss the eventuality, should it arise - what you will all do in the future, the consequences, what Miyeon and Sana will say to Miyeon's and Sana's families - what the fuck you'll tell the rest of your friends, let alone the press - and then, deciding together: hey, well maybe this is actually a really bad idea.

d.) The fourth, fifth, sixth and every time after that where you realize that you're just gonna roll it all back and pretend like this is completely normal. Two's company, three's kind of a fever dream - but this is the platonic ideal of groupthink. It works. It just does; you know how to fit the pieces together now. How to read her body language: the one-two-one rhythm, Sana and Miyeon and then Miyeon-and-Sana; where their hands are, where they're moving; Miyeon's choked little sobs and the breathless gasps when your cock is deep inside her; all the unintelligible murmurs passing between the two of them that you can't understand - but none of them ever really matter. The important thing is that she's put her two front teeth in your left collarbone while you fuck into her slow and deliberate, in a way she can really feel. You cover Sana's mouth with your palm, your fingers pressed against the pulsing heat in her pussy, and you make them both cum over and over until they’re eyes are screwed shut and they’re counting stars.

That's about it. That's all the things.)

-

"I call it being spoiled for choice," Sana says, pausing only momentarily to decide in the mirror of Miyeon's makeup vanity whether or not to take off the bracelet on her wrist. 

The glint that strikes off the metal is gold in the bedroom lights, all warm yellow and sparkling silver. Sana narrows her fingers, pulls it off, on - like you've caught her trying on clothes, the latest fashion in a store front window. A stylistic consideration. It matches the rings on her third and fourth fingers. She decides that it suits her. 

"Lo and behold," Sana continues, "we have a real situation on our hands. In your hands. Whatever, you get my drift."

"Your cock," adds Miyeon, smiling like sunshine. She’s tracing you over your pants with her thumb, and she’s got her doe-eyed grin on, the one that promises something sugar-sweet, kneeling between your thighs at the edge of her bed - the slightest dishevel of her hair, kiss-swollen lips. God, what a picture. Her pupils flare when her fingers reach the top button of your pants. "And what's worse? I'm going to die if I can't have at least, you know. A couple minutes alone with it."

"You'd figure out a way to die either way," Sana muses. She leans backwards in Miyeon's desk chair, tugging idly at the hem of her skirt.

They're not usually dressed alike, and that's the weirdest part - Sana's never had Miyeon's particular taste for the tiny gauche dresses and white converse shoes and glossy nails, not unless it’s some matching outfit that she's being bullied into. Today's no different: the soft fabric of Miyeon's slip of dress barely stretches down to the line of her thigh. The hem starts just below the boundary of innocuous and everything else. She’d been hiking it up all evening. And the straps lay so thin across her shoulders that one little tug in the wrong spot would probably send it skidding all the way down to the floor.

That's the main thing on your mind when you get one in between your fingers.

Miyeon simply shoulders the other, rolling it down to hang loose, leaving the dress hanging off the gentle slope of her chest.

"Pretty," you say out loud.

"I know," she says, holding the grin.

She can make the world smile, it's infectious - and your gaze follows the path: from the blonde-shiny hair spilling over a collarbone, to the peeking line of her bra, to the flutter of the bottom of her dress at her hip. You catch the subtle lace trim, the little patterns embroidered into the waist, and decide her body's a gift - and wrapping it is something divine, something meant to be ripped right to shreds. If no one else is willing to volunteer, then it'll fall on you. Sure, sure, sure. You can be thanked later.

"Lose it," you request, quietly.

"Mr. Impatient," is what Sana sniffs out, scoffing. She's lounged back on the other side of Miyeon's makeup counter. Her heel taps away at empty air, bouncing off the end of her foot, that hot little fucking rhythm she's had going since her partner in crime got in your lap and kissed you right down into oblivion. "You want to get her naked and get inside of her, huh?"

"Is that not why you dragged me here?" you counter.

"Oh, don't put this on me." Her expression slides right into the mischievous smirk you're familiar with. Miyeon’s often sporting the same one.

"He wants to bend you over, princess," she tells Miyeon, and you hear the wistful sigh through her parted lips come out like permission. "Not that I can say I'd blame him. When's the last time you've taken cock again?"

"With him last week." She throws the response to Sana. They look, more than anyone, to be in sync in their one-upmanship.

"Hmm," says Sana, and she’s looking right at you. "Check how tight that dress fits over her hips, don't you just want to tear it right off of her?"

"He's not doing that," says Miyeon, but there's the lilting tease in her voice that signals precisely the opposite. She wants it: wants it like sugar and soda, salt water taffy; wants to be stripped like skin, bared to the bone. Her knees spread, just a little. "Not yet, anyway. Right now," she adds, hand fluttering towards the inside of her thigh, supplying touches right over the lace, "I want to suck his cock."

"Such a slut," Sana teases, tilting her head.

"You'll get yours," Miyeon insists, before pulling your cock out of your boxers with a small smile, curling her fingers around it, leaning forward. "God, this thing." She has the head under the palm of her other hand, and a wet-tipped promise on her lower lip.

You thread your hand into the hair aside Miyeon's temple, gentle and what will seem in a moment: paradoxically-tender. 

"Imagine what it'll do to your mascara when I fuck your mouth."

Miyeon licks her lips. You reckon she’s completely aware how it comes across - the wicked fantasy she is.

"I'm imagining what it'll do to you when she chokes," Sana retorts. 

“When he fills up my throat,” Miyeon says, hungry.

Sana sighs, sounding utterly wistful, and she fixes the same unrepentant look on you. "Poor Miyeon is just starved for cum tonight. Aww," she remarks, sweetly, "The poor thing. Do me a favor won't you? Fuck my pretty little friend in the face."

"Well," is all you get out before you look up at Sana. "Yours too, honey."

"Hardly, the same," Miyeon cuts in primly, glancing sideways at Sana. There is some snobbishness implied; there are ways Sana and Miyeon have always found to subtly measure themselves against one another, to best each other - all of these ridiculous acts and anecdotes. Like their voices aren’t replicas of one another - and in constant disagreement over whoever is currently claiming to be the original.

Miyeon prissily tilts her jaw up. "Your ego might actually be the worst part about you, Sana. That and your tits."

"Guess he just loves all the worst parts," Sana quips, rolling her eyes, "and every time you call it into question I fall in love with him a little more."

She's got one foot up now on the seat of the chair and she's running her fingers, delicate and teasing, around the press of her panties. It's not a voyeuristic thing, she's told you, it's less about watching Miyeon get fucked than it is about knowing exactly what it looks like when she herself gets spread out beneath you. She watches you and Miyeon, she watches her best friend and you, and she touches herself and it's perfect. There's a few seconds, long and warm, before she lifts her fingers away, then sucks them into her mouth with a grin. Just the slightest taste.

"But seriously," she says to Miyeon. "If you're gonna do something - then do it. Don't be a tease. We both know the answer, anyway."

Miyeon swallows. You hear her. You watch her lips wrap around the head of your cock and pop off, wet and shining, and her head rests in the curve of your palm.

"I’m working on it," Miyeon allows, lowly - she pumps her fist again around you, careful with the motion; this little twisting tug. "Fuck, it's not even the fact that it's fucking huge, or. Like, it’s not because I’m dying to get stuffed by this, or because I’m sitting here thinking: oh my fuck, I’m gonna feel so full with this thing inside me."

You have her hand under her chin, thumb stroking gently against her cheek. Her eyes return to yours when you put a little more pressure in your grip. She’s fantastically pretty, and the gleam of lust and want in her irises has you probably too eager to play along. 

“So then, what could it possibly be?”

"It's-" Her cheeks darken pink beneath her blush, stumbling through a mouthful of ums and uhs as her eyes make tiny departures back to your waist until she finally gives up and just stares again.

Sana sits up a little in her chair.

"Look, this is the prettiest cock I've ever seen.” 

You and Sana almost snort in unison.

“I’m serious.” Miyeon rubs a semi-circle over the head with her thumb, glancing up at you beneath her mascara, and then to the base, back up. It jerks, almost like reflex, in her grasp; she huffs in delight. "It’s, like, perfect in every way. And, god, everytime- I’d just about do anything to feel it inside me."

“You’d beg?” Sana asks, eyebrow raised.

“I’m about to get down on my knees and grovel, honey.”

"Should've just said," Sana laughs - Miyeon chews her lip, half-exasperated, and drops a kiss to the tip that makes Sana's expression simper - "you’re halfway there. Want him to cum in that sweet mouth?"

"Want him to tell me what he's going to do," says Miyeon, frilly. "Every last detail."

Lips stretching open, fingers splaying, curling around the weight - she dips her head to rest her cheek on your thigh and kisses the underside of your shaft. She’s practically like liquid. Flowing and easy and gorgeous, always gorgeous, too far gone to form a full thought. That much is obvious. And why shouldn't it be - your hand's already snagged up, your thumb's already wiping the hair out of her eyes. She turns to let it sit against the edge of her cheekbone. "You really need an incentive? Want you to fill me up so I can-"

"Swallow," you supply, simply. “Swallow everything.”

"Yeah," Miyeon presses into the curve of your cock. She doesn't wink, not really; she doesn’t need to. "I like you. You always know exactly what to say."

Her hair brushes a feather-light caress up the skin of your thigh, mouth a vision of sin and pretty red lipstick. "Open," you command, quietly, and she follows your orders exactly - mouth dropping, head tilting, eyes drifting closed - her lips glisten with saliva and you could shove your cock into that mouth, easy. Just push in and wreck the inside of her - spit on her chin, feel her throat clench up as she gags and struggles around your cock. God, if that isn't a thought that can do a number on the base of your spine.

"Easy," Sana supplies, like she can read your mind. That wouldn’t really surprise you. “Leave some of her make-up for me.”

There's the quick hiss of an inhale, Miyeon's mouth stretching open. Her jaw going slack. You feel the long, wet suck of skin and spit, and her eyelids flutter as she settles in. She slides her tongue and adjusts, makes soft, raspy, throaty noises while her lips slide down the first few inches of your cock. It’s funny - Sana had made the same sound earlier in the day - and it's really not like it's an awful comparison. They both let on gorgeous little noises when they're sucking cock and it makes sense because it's the same cock. Same skin. Same person.

You're not, however, about to do something so pedestrian as compare notes. Not on them. Not in the fucking slightest.

And Sana, god - Sana doesn't just watch. She knows better. She's not even the one taking your cock in her mouth but there's the insistent presence of her: a fingertip diving down past the crotch of her skirt, a quiet moan, her wrist jolting in a repetition of short, sharp strokes, the kind she likes to use on herself: precise. Deliberate.

"Miyeon," you whisper. "God, just - it's your fucking mouth, you-"

The hand on her face strokes the side of her head - a push-pull. A chance to break off - she doesn't - so she ends up with a rougher grip tangling through her hair and you guiding her head further down the length of your shaft.

Miyeon loves the pressure on her throat. You know that. And, yeah, she fucking hates choking on it but somehow in her mind, they're different. Opposites. Because with the way she's going, a little cough will burst free in a few seconds time. That’s your signal, you’ve learned, that she'll let you slide yourself to the hilt. Just keep the wet tip lodged there until she starts gasping around it. It'd only take a minute.

Two tops.

And well, that's the compromise: your patience for a throat fuck is infinite. She's staring up at you with upturned brows and that pretty-please pout on her slick-wet lips. She's making her best effort but, christ. Fuck.

Her eyelids flicker once.

Then close.

"There," you breathe down to her, your knuckles finding her cheek, smoothing over the sharp curve of bone there. Your cock is slotted right in her hot little mouth and you're starting to feel like maybe you really did hang the moon and stars in the sky after all. Her lips press around you. Sink, up, down. "Such a good girl, sucking my cock, looking up at me- god, all dolled up, it's not even fair, Miyeon."

Miyeon can be many things, and presently among them: a filthy, obedient angel.

She pulls up. "I try," Miyeon breathes right at the tip. Her tongue darts out. She swirls, and swirls, until it’s back under the tip of your cock again, soft.

You're too predictable, or you're too forthcoming, or here’s the thing about a woman's intuition; Miyeon wants to tell you something more, she wants to let you know how fucking unbelievably hard you are in her hands right now; she wants to laugh at you for getting caught up and dumb but she's not letting your cock slide free. This suckle of her lips, right at the crest where you're most sensitive and leaking precum right into her mouth - this press and pull is as close to conversation as she can get. So what. You love it. She loves it: the reward is in the ricochet. You look at her and her cheeks hollow and the flash of her pink tongue gets wet and warm under your head, the slit of her mouth stretching to take every ‘totally fucking perfect’ inch of your cock.

And then her lips tighten and she just-

"Christ, Miyeon-" You whimper it right down to her, your voice lost in the shiver of her throat, all tight and wet around your cock. It's like your vocal cords have been stolen right along with the air in your lungs and everything feels floaty, warped and red and blanketing you with Miyeon's hard-worked rhythm:

The scissoring flick of her tongue as she strokes the base with a firm fist. The other hand resting on your hip, feeling your hips jerk. She wants this, the part where you let go and stop thinking. The part where she opens her throat, lets her saliva flood to pool against her palm, and wet the tip of your cockhead before letting it slide right back in her throat. Your shaft flexing into her heat, the sound of those gags.

She just-

She just goes on like that, sucking your cock while the flat of her palm skates a little tighter. Up, up, down - up-

"Miyeon," Sana says, now on her feet and shadowing in closer, leaning. And that's it. Sana knows too. She kneels down next to her, gets a finger under her chin, and delivers in a uniquely cold tone: "hands behind your back, sweetheart. I want him to cum in your gorgeous little mouth."

You nearly choke, ironically. You're already grabbing so much of her hair: all those smooth silky strands threaded through your fingers.

You thrust and pull. She gags. She fucking chokes.

Spit collects, rolls down the corners of her mouth and gathers on her chin. You can see the mascara threaten to run tracks along her pretty cheeks, the way the makeup smudges so dangerously close to her bottom lid. "Yeah?" you say, so softly, but you can't - can't seem to look anywhere else, or take anything back - so, what, her jaw's just gonna go on being that perfect little shape, and she's gonna be a brat for it. Okay. That works. She looks good choking. You can see the slick glint of her pink mouth stretching taut on your cock, your cock jerking and bobbing on the pad of her tongue; it's not real - no, this is completely real. The ball of your foot slips along the floor.

It's instinct. You can't help yourself; a groan spills out of you, half-sighed

Sana's whispering right in her ear; not that you can make anything out of it over the noises from her mouth, her fist all wet, pumping. The tick-tock bob of her hair. Sana's hand is on the back of her head and then - pushing the last inch down, and down, her nose buries right into your skin.

“Mnnph.” Miyeon, gurgling: your cock pressed all the way down the line.

"Fuck," you spit, holding her jaw in place. "Fuck, Miyeon-"

She looks up at you, her eyebrows cinched, the graceful lines in her picture-perfect-face pulling around you - blissed out. She stutters in place while you dump a hot load of cum into her mouth.

And she adds a cough as you pump everything directly onto her fucking tongue. It’s more than she anticipated, judging by the leak. How your cum rolls down from the corner of her mouth.

Sana drops a kiss onto her temple as she takes you in and out of her mouth again, until she presses her lips firm and hollows her cheeks. Miyeon's fingers caress your balls like there's some part of you that isn't giving her fucking everything already.

"Come on, princess," says Sana, kissing her way along Miyeon's neck, the tops of her shoulders. There is not an angle to Miyeon's elegant features that she could take that could possibly be anything short of priceless. "Show him how you swallow."

The image is obscene, for one thing. The utter filth in that satiated hum; there’s another. 

It's your white-hot cum dribbling past her swollen, fucked mouth. Miyeon swallows like the good girl she is - takes a breath, stares, and then finishes, a gulp, an extra breath, her whole face now a shade more flushed. Sana kisses her on the cheek and suddenly it's perfect: they're both staring right at you. Your throat has to unclench, reboot and the air in the room just tastes so good and your chest is heaving; you just- fuck, you can't breathe-

"Shit," you exhale. It comes out like a small explosion. "Uh-"

The side of Sana's mouth slants and then Miyeon grins: it's her cheek, dimple; that crescent moon thing and oh, this is the point. Sana slides a hand over the gentle curve of her stomach, then sets her open mouth over Miyeon's still-lips, slipping in close and - kissing. Their mouths melt together like it's the most practiced thing, tongues a second later, and Sana is stroking your cock in her fingers; the expectations clear in every little coaxing flick of her slim wrist.

"Do you have any idea," Sana sighs against her lips. The two of them, blinking up at you, like good little things - sweet enough. "How fucking wet you both have me?"

And Miyeon, shameless as she is disastrously pretty, reads right between the lines. "Where do you want it?" Her mouth tilts up to the side. A wicked smile. "He can cum all over us, no? And I have this skirt with an awfully short, pretty lace. We don't even have to take our clothes off, really, I can just-"

Sana gets an eyeful - Miyeon - before cutting her off, silencing with the wet press of her mouth, and suddenly their kiss goes frantic and quick. They're rolling apart: hands tearing up their clothes. Off. Off. Off.

Your cock stirs. It throbs. Fuck. Sana’s barely intelligible in the space between their tongues. "I could lay flat,” she’s saying, “with my legs open, and-"

"-with him on top of you, pressing inside you - so he could hold me down, and then pull all the way back out, to leave a thick load on your clit-"

"-and when he has to pull out-"

"-probably cum all over you too, the best view-"

"-or all over the rest of me, while I touch myself-"

"-maybe-"

"-and you just have to imagine how good that'll feel, while my thighs shake and we ride it out, you and I-"

Their faces - both flushed and dampened with the strain, both breathtaking. Their eyes are hooded, lashes a-flutter. They'd made their own decision, didn't even bother with yours. A mutual vote of two-to-one: you're going to fuck them in turns. You’re going to fuck them together. You're going to edge yourself in one cunt and fill the other. They're both going to take it, and wear it, and then use each other to make you cum again. Good. Okay, any questions - and they want it rough? 

The answer’s a two-part chorus. Yes.

-

Not even an hour later, Miyeon is playing, of all fucking things, Candy Crush, legs draped lazily across Sana's lap, both of them kicked back on the couch, dressed again like the best girls you've ever seen. "The amount of money they make on this app-" Miyeon complains, waving a lazy hand. A long strand of blonde brushes against the corner of her mouth before she swipes it away again with an irritated sigh. She's just sitting there, knees folded, blithely bitching about a game of match three on her phone. "And they send these fucking blocks just to mess with me," - another swipe. Her hair sticks against the fresh gloss coating her lips. "It's literally just a waste of human-fucking-potential."

"It's a game for children," you offer.

"Then why is it marketed at adults, hm?" She's absolutely serious. "Sana plays it too."

"Mhmm," Sana agrees, not really agreeing at all. Her eyes are closed; you're sitting next to her, and she's taken up your leg as a makeshift pillow, lying down with her arm resting on her forehead, so casually disinterested in anything other than the quiet thrumming of your presence by her side.

It's insane that they're like this: like they're not constantly checking their phones for texts, like you don't all have lives. You're almost - dare you think - having a semi-regular conversation. Now If for a moment you could ignore how they both look like the human embodiment of sin-

"Miyeonie," Sana says.

"Sana," Miyeon returns, flat.

There's not even a movie playing on the living room TV - just the netflix menu; it's volume is at a sort of white noise. A subtle buzz clicks on in the air conditioner.

"You know how you're supposed to go out with that guy next weekend."

"You mean the date you set me up with." Miyeon pauses, tongue caught between her teeth. "Where I have to put on a pretty little dress. And smile. And laugh at all his jokes."

"You know the one."

Miyeon jumps on Sana's train of thought. "You want me to send you some pictures when it's over."

Sana turns it over in her head a few times. “Maybe,” she says, finally.

A genuine exchange perhaps. No fighting, no bullshit, no riptide of pure unbridled sexual frustration.

"Or," Sana adds, simply, "you skip the part where you sabotage the small talk and come back to our apartment." She blinks. "End up getting us both."

“You’re suggesting I’ve been ruining dates on purpose?” Miyeon, incredulous, runs her fingers through the hair at the top of her head, gentle, almost like an admission of guilt. "You're out of your mind. Why would I do that?"

The fragile peace never does last long. Sana looks at you again. Holds onto the eye roll. "Why, indeed."

"I don't follow," Miyeon says; something, a tic, a tell, causes the muscle in her brow to stutter.

"She's suggesting that you'd rather be in bed between us than on a date with some guy whose face we've only seen once," you cut in. Sana looks over. "It's come up a few times."

"Okay, so what?" Miyeon takes a breath. Her mouth a rictus twist. "You're trying to get me to admit it out loud? That I like to get fucked by my gorgeous bestfriend and her pinterest-board-of-a-boyfriend more than I'd like going to a mediocre concert downtown with some dipshit who just wants to see if I'll stick out this 'goddess' routine for a month or two and then bounce for someone else. Wow. Sherlock and Watson, coming through for the killshot. Take me straight to jail."

"We never got around to those cuffs," is what you make mention of. It's not particularly helpful.

"Don't pretend," Sana says instead, "you don’t like to play both sides. Or that the trad-wife fantasy of yours is somehow subtle."

“There's nothing shameful about knowing exactly who you are, or wanting something," Miyeon insists. She tilts her head towards the two of you. A different angle. Her words come out sharp and hot: "some of us have the decency to let our friends know exactly what they want."

“Okay.” You laugh out loud, half out of nervous habit. "Well obviously there’s some sort of rhythm here - I’m just not dumb enough to think I can put a finger on the pulse."

"Then this is, what, some sort of elaborate plot for my heart?" Miyeon's chuckling to herself, but in the space of a blink her voice is more tender. Her arms folding in close. "Is that the plan, finally catching me-"

"Next week." Sana sits up. "There's a trip coming up, something kind of international." She picks at the hem of her sweater, and looks at you.

“What the hell, exactly” - you card your hand through Sana’s hair - “does ‘kind of’ international entail?”

"Ms. Prada has a modeling campaign to attend," Miyeon intones. "She also needs someone to take care of the jetlag, is what I assume this is about."

Sana waves her hand in the air. "I'm saying we book you an extra ticket. Rent a room at a nice hotel. No work. No phones. Just us three, and the best sex you've ever had."

“I wasn’t even aware I was going to that,” you say - almost as an aside.

“You weren’t.” Sana leans more of herself into you. "You are now."

"Is this how you're going to woo me? The grand design?" Miyeon's hands are fiddling in her lap. Sana’s pressing in. Closer. "All the sex and leisure I could ever ask for?"

“It sounds ridiculous when you say out loud,” Sana answers, curling into her. “But, yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

Miyeon laughs like it’s a lost cause. Genuine, throaty - like music.

“Simplicity doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Miyeon.” Sana kisses her, slow. Quietly, "you could even pack a swimsuit," and there's this beat, the rise and fall of Miyeon's breathing that might lead anywhere: "though I doubt we touch the beach at all."

“You’re pulling on all my heartstrings, Sana.”

And there you are - etching your names onto the calendar. Reservations and bookings and promises of everything and anything and exactly where you all want to be.

It's Miyeon that finally admits, "you know part of me can’t resist the idea."

"Then, this weekend." Sana's fingertips trace circles on your hip, the tensing pull of muscle. You're aching and exhausted and content: drifting in the tide, a catch of the day, some soft, dreamy wave of consciousness, nothing specific, just the moment passing through all three of you.

But you do get it. There's this obvious snag in your heartbeat, too.

Because Sana is grinning; her fingertips, tapping. Your stomach's fluttering too. A little ghostly clutch of hope in your chest and it's such an embarrassing notion. You're getting swept away - pulled under - and it's Miyeon, splaying out beside Sana, her hand reaching out to you with her palm turned up. It's a promise, and the force of her can - and has - moved mountains.

"I pick the hotel," Miyeon's voice is deeply firm and sure. She’s got a fistful of Sana’s pajamas. "You two can sort out the lingerie."

Sana's mouth curves a perfect grin. She's kissing her again: wet. Heavy. It's not a no, if she was ever expecting one.

-

So that's your reality: what used to be two dalliances - separate but not distinct - now share one headspace, and there's enough rapport just in the group chat alone. You've all been messaging back-and-forth for weeks; Miyeon playing the game where she's the steady one in your life, the knot you're going to tie down when you can finally afford it (and in every way she can imagine). You find it entertaining. Sana seems mildly amused. And Miyeon will call you on the phone, sometimes. A chat-off. About nothing and everything. What you should bring on the trip. Where she's going to eat dinner before you meet her at the airport. Et cetera. Et cetera.

// Miyeon 1:21 AM > hey. I'm all finished packing. how's the bedroom looking?

// 1:26 AM > absolutely wrecked. no survivors

// Sana 1:27 AM > It’s fine. We stripped the sheets, got the box from the closet. Have the video you wanted as well. Call the laundry service in the morning and get the floor washed too. You know. So, nothing comes out of the security deposit.

// Miyeon 1:29 AM > a threesome that destroyed an apartment? say it isn't so

// Sana 1:34 AM > didn't hear you complain during.

// 1:38 AM > strict instructions, right?

And then sometimes, during those conversations, Miyeon will send an aside just for you:

// Miyeon 1:40 AM > strict? please. do whatever. I'm like so good at following instructions

That's Miyeon. The paradox of being submissive - you never, ever treat her gently. She never really wants you to. Sana's mid-reach over your chest to turn off the lights when she glances down at Miyeon's text, then promptly scoffs. The two of them don't always have the most conventional dialogue.

"She's one hundred percent serious by the way." Sana rolls on her side, away, but the nightlight beside the bed just manages to illuminate the slope of her ass - curved in the silk nightie she'd thrown on before bed. You want to crawl between the fabric.

"I never really doubted that. She's got a very specific... demeanor.”

“You’ve noticed.”

“Um,” you say. Sana’s turned over her shoulder to blink at you. “Kind of a dark streak. Like something in her is craving-"

"To be broken to pieces? Oh, it's fucking bliss for her when she's vulnerable and the tension cracks." 

“I was going to phrase it a little more indirectly than that, but yes, I suppose that’s the gist of it.”

Sana shrugs. 

"The girl lives to be chased is what it is.

It's just Sana and her perfect legs and smooth, creamy thighs right there, ready for you to touch, ready for you to fall apart over. They brush your calf, your thigh - so you are kind of distracted. 

“And she feels most wanted when she's choking, getting used, right at the point she can't decide if another inch is gonna kill her or drive her up the wall. No air in her lungs, nothing under her own control." Sana flops, presses against your side, one leg tossed on top, arms curled around your neck. "Pretty obvious, all things considered."

"Sounds a bit familiar, no?" you tease, and reach back to draw her against the front of your body. 

She curves, twists into your embrace. Her hair is half up, half down - wide eyed like a fantasy made manifest. You're always gonna give in, even when Sana doesn't deserve it. 

"You get me. It’s the best. Please, go nuts with the idea."

“Huh, birds of a feather.”

“Sure, whatever,” Sana brushes a kiss against your cheek, presses back into your hips to feel your hard length strain between your boxers and her ass, softening only because, god, she's a real human fucking treasure, "so maybe Miyeon and I have a certain… similar temperment to us, maybe that's true."

"Yeah," you breathe. Your arms wrap around her, the heat in her core now evident from the outside. "That's what I've been saying."

Sana doesn't respond to that, not directly; her palms drag, smooth, over your fingers. "Fuck me to sleep," she suggests instead. "We've got an early flight."

And so you do. You'd pulled your cock from your shorts the second she pressed her ass into your waist and claimed her place as your other half, the little spoon. There's a few beats, a few breaths, where you'd rocked against her clumsily, lining yourself up, and she'd braced the two of you:

She'd arched her back, got an arm over her head to tangle a hand into your hair and keep you right where you were - your lips against her neck. Until it's just this soft-rhythm, all easy thrusts; one arm underneath her, the other around her hip, finding and spreading and - easily - gliding into her cunt.

Sana sighs a lovely sound right next to your ear: your name, some hushed curse. Her hand is wrenched back into whatever group of muscles she can find. And you listen to the gorgeous little tritone of oh shit, oh god, oh fuck when you make her cum. The displays of indulgent affection in her throat, then the ruddy mess of you working her to a wreck of pleasured exhaustion until she collapses into a hot-faced, sleepy daze. All cozy between the sheets, the duvet - you’d fucked her from the outside in; made her relieved and relaxed, all loose and calm. Sana curls into you with her moans still staining the cool side of her pillow and the snugness of her cunt wrapped around your cock.

You drift off just like that, snug inside her. Sana is, as always, impossibly warm.

-

On your phone, there are some choice text messages:

// Miyeon 2:18 AM > jesus

// Miyeon 2:18 AM > can you guys like please

// Miyeon 2:18 AM > PLEASE

// Miyeon 2:18 AM > fuck any quieter

Okay, so it's not perfect. But you're about ninety-percent sure Miyeon had used every fiber of her willpower not to float across the hall and take her spot between the both of you. And it's probably for the best. You feel pretty rough when the alarm starts blaring as it is.

-

The room Miyeon picks out isn’t exactly small, nor was she minding the purse strings. There's a wide expanse of living area, a massive bed in the back; the ensuite and bath beyond that has a walk-in shower large enough for all three of you and room left over. On the walls is gentrification-colored paint, a gray laminate flooring to match; there is not one speck of dust. It feels every bit the palace it is on the outside - the gables and mansard roofs and the Juliette balconies - gothic, or neoclassical. Something vaguely European, with all its rich furnishings and pristine fixtures to boot.

Sana and Miyeon step into the space with all the familiarity of royalty.

"Warm in here," says Sana, appraising; her black chiffon, nearly translucent, fans about her hips with each tiny sway. In her white pumps, she's already a perfect tease and she hasn't even touched herself yet. "Smells good, though."

Miyeon's heels echo behind her like gunshots against the floor, and it's really not ever fair the way a skirt wears her. "The listing said something about a hospitality kit, and essential oils - there should be a basket of things. Do you want me to start the water?"

"Let's settle in a little first," Sana suggests, and without any fanfare, the first thing she does is draw the gauzy curtain closed.

There's an itinerary; it's an ongoing event. Technically it all started in the airport terminal when Sana slung her arm around Miyeon's waist and her hand went straight down to her ass. She just gave it a little squeeze. In the moment, nothing terribly remarkable, but then again, Miyeon didn't tell her not to. They walked through security like that and picked out drinks together from a terminal cafe before doing a circuit, fingers linked. The way Sana looks at her now - Miyeon sees - is how she's always looked at her. That is maybe, the whole point.

"Come here."

Sana's tone is smooth as silk, her mouth an inviting pucker, gloss-dewy and delicious. The bow is even tied at the back: Sana's collar is fitted snug. It sits tight at the base of her neck with the silvery cord loose across her shoulder, knotted down near the apex of her spine. It's simple, classic. All soft fabric and no frill, with an absence that invites eyes and wandering fingertips: she hasn't worn a bra. No strap lines. Her body has the sweetest outline and the warmest curves and god, the skin she's not showing is as good as what she is.

"So," you say out loud. It hits you: there's no cameras, no urgency. No obligations. "We came all the way here just so Sana could have sex, huh."

It's really always about the two of them.

"Good sex," Sana corrects. The table next to her catches the flat of her palm as she settles herself against the surface, one leg crossing in front. The slit in her dress rises in the movement: enough of a hint at the soft thigh underneath. You see her do this every once in a while and her body doesn't lie; this is an implicit act of seduction. But when she looks back up, her smile goes shy and her voice follows suit: "I promised our princess that we'd spoil her a little."

You say, "she's right there," at the same time Sana adds- "which is kind of impossible when she's still wearing her clothes."

Miyeon makes a big, showy production of crossing her arms in a huff. You could do anything; flip a switch; knock her flat against the wall, and Sana would hold her down with a hand at her throat and a kiss her like fire and gasoline on her tongue and no one would have a single word to say to complain.

You could have. Would have. But Miyeon finds her fingertips on the ridge of her clavicle, the barest swipe. She pulls at the top button of her shirt and the seam unlatches: a single reveal, a gradual, fluid movement in the dip and fall of a one inch gap. Just enough skin to make you and Sana swallow.

"Oh?" Miyeon grins. She stares at you with that coy smirk, biting her lip; an invitation for a kiss. For a fuck. You cross the gap, with every intention of making good on it; only, Sana slips in behind her - stops her midway in undoing the next button - and places a hand on the nape of Miyeon's neck, cool.

"She really can be a brat, can't she."

"Only because she gets rewarded for it," you admit, and as soon as Sana touches her, Miyeon is looking up with that same face she gives you when she gets on her knees, ready to be just your little pet, your desperate, whimpering thing.

Sana leans into her ear: "maybe because she knows she can't stop thinking about you bending her over, every chance she gets. Isn’t that right, pretty girl?"

They've always been like this, you think. Growing up with money and cars and ski vacations in the Alps: that sort of thing. It's been a long, slow, build-up and this was always the payoff. It is, without a doubt, just the slightest taste of luxury. Sana pushes, and Miyeon turns up to her mouth with a slow, dangerous whisper. "Isn't it kinder to say it as it is, instead of dancing around it for weeks-"

"For months," corrects Sana, and then sliding into a far more generous tone, "mouths, fingers- or his cock?"

"Maybe," Miyeon lifts her chin like she's readying to kiss, "all three."

Her voice drips - purses her lips, and you're there again: at that fateful exchange. Everything about Miyeon has the power to sink its claws deep. Those heels on her dainty little feet, the stockings climbing along her thighs. Everything.

"Miyeon." That comes out harsher than you'd have thought.

"What can I say? I'm not a patient person." She's got that wild, starry-eyed look to her. You could tame her. You could dominate her - your throat is so dry. The room has the faint scent of citrus, like lemon rind and verbena - a kind of lightheadedness settling over you all. "So, why don't you..." She's blushing, holding her arm up as she skims a finger down this slow path along your torso, finally hooking it into the top of your pants. And now, it's very, very clear she isn't wearing a bra either. "Make things a bit easier."

There's an entire lexicon of everything you'd like to do, so it's best, maybe, that you settle for: "Sana, be a doll."

"Anything," she says; she doesn't hesitate. You like the easy give.

And it's kind of amazing. All three of you together and, sure, the way her fingertips tighten, sliding under the curve of Miyeon's chin and then pulling the linen shirt down from the backs of her shoulders - this is a choice you can all agree on. One that pulls on the elastic band hugging the cut of Miyeon's waist, makes the material drag and ride up the front of her legs. Her belly. Sana has the gift of being able to kiss so perfectly on the back of someone's neck that you could easily forget she can get a little mean, too.

"What is it, baby." Sana asks; a challenge, not a question. "Come on, love. You know it's true. Why don't you let me show him how sweetly you moan with just a pair of fingers in your cunt."

"Please do."

"You're practically wet just saying it. You want it that much." Her voice goes thin, then deep again: a stark contrast. "Show him the mess you've made."

Miyeon's hand is in all the way in your pants; you feel hot. Like the room's air conditioning should've kicked on a lifetime ago - you're trying not to think too much on the way her slender fingers start to wrap themselves around the shape of your cock and your mouth falls open, because she can just - fuck - do that-

They turn to each other like mirror images over the slope of Miyeon’s shoulder, exchanging some secretive wordlessness in the privacy of their smiles and soft, muted laughter. Miyeon's on the toes of those pretty pumps to lean in, closer, further, and Sana lets her.

Which is exactly how it happens: Miyeon kissing you. And she really kisses you, sweet, delicate - and somehow all-consuming. It sets off this chain reaction, a wildfire of unbridled desire: that thread in Sana that can be almost violent, and one that Miyeon always manages to bring to the surface of her skin. Because now Miyeon's gripped and pinned, and Sana, bless her, pulls the fabric of her own dress up over her head until she's naked alongside her. Working towards a common goal. Here's two hands. Here's two more. They're helping you out of your shirt. It's pretty easy from there. You're all unraveling together, just falling apart - Sana and you, working in tandem to unclasp the pearl snap buttons trailing up and down the sides of Miyeon's sinfully short skirt, peeling back the cotton. Miyeon holds the swell of your cock tight in one hand, pumping, while Sana rakes her nails over Miyeon's breasts; both girls taking off the final scraps until every article of clothing is tossed to the floor.

And Miyeon here is simply unbelievable. Your hands are all over her. Her razor-fine waist, her thighs. Her lips. Those soft tits, and that cute mole above her nipple. Because even her imperfections deserve the same lavish attention.

You kiss her, and kiss her, and you can't help thinking how filthy it feels. This wet mouth and tongue, everything you could want in the slide of her mouth - just, messy-perfect and a bit sloppy; how her whimpers leak out in soft, a tight inhale. You cup the side of her jaw as your hips grind into her and a low, uneven sound escapes you. Sana's small fingers wrap her ribs to grip a breast, knead the supple curve and supply her thumb to the indent. It's really, so soft, and warm, and then wet: your precum dribbling over her knuckles, rolling down. Miyeon has her head tilted to let her jaw lean into your palm - she smiles, and laughs like it's nothing - like you're not there, towering over her lithe little frame. Like the head of your cock isn't brushing into her bottom rib under all the twists and jerks of her wrist.

"Your cock is so hard," Miyeon threads into a sigh, in that throaty, almost melodic voice. And then she laughs because she knows exactly what it’ll fucking do to her. "And fucking heavy. I thought I was going to get a real good look earlier in the airport," she confesses.

"Let me guess." Sana presses a kiss to her temple from behind; a lull in the scene. You fuck yourself gently into the curl of her fist. "You've been thinking about it this whole time. About getting him inside you. With that naughty little mind of yours running at a million miles an hour. God, that must've been such a tease, getting stuck with just the thought while we sat through lunch, and the flight-"

"Don’t forget right now-" Miyeon presses in. Her breath is hot against your neck. "While we're talking."

"Princess," Sana says into her ear, and it makes her tip her head - until she’s revealing the pale skin of her neck. God, yeah; maybe she really is nobility. "I'd be hard-pressed to leave you wanting. Your body's all wound up for us."

"She's fucking soaked," you confirm, like you aren't pointing out the most obvious thing in the room.

Miyeon bites her lip; you're gripping your shaft, urging her wrist to go faster. "This is the part where you turn me inside-out, no?" Miyeon is a walking fucking cliche and she knows it, smiling all slyly with her teeth. She says it so damn casually: "so why isn’t my pussy getting any attention, really. I wonder, I wonder-"

"Trust me, neither of us are interested in teasing," Sana assures her. "We're going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name. And then we'll fuck you some more."

You push down hard on her collarbone, and in that same instant Sana drops her free hand below and runs the flats of her fingertips along the plane of Miyeon’s tummy - until Miyeon tilts her hips - everything else still, almost lazy. Her feet leave the floor and then come back down again. The momentum of the fall ends up being enough to jostle the three of you towards the nearest wall where Sana's back is kissing the cold drywall. And you're already there - pressed into both: Miyeon's palms flat against your chest as you haul her thighs around your waist.

Hoisted, lifted, cradled between you and your girlfriend - who by the way is inching two fingertips under the top of a lacy-banded thong, slipping beneath the white trim, to finally (oh, god) pull her hand away and slip it into Miyeon's parted mouth. "Look at you." A hum in her chest. "The most beautiful, perfect-"

(You push your cock into her, and hand to god, you swear Miyeon's voice breaks like a bottle over pavement.)

"And all for us- your slutty little pussy is already so wet- Miyeonie, we've barely even started.”

Just think. The code word system you've been employing for months - "We were actually thinking... if you're not doing anything else... what's the harm in the two of us getting more familiar with you." - has proved exceptionally reliable in getting Miyeon out of her clothes and into your lap, but here's where it all vanishes into thin air. Sana's mouth is hovering over Miyeon's shoulder; her body, caught between the two of you. And she's trading in on the implied permission to tell you more directly:

"She needs to cum all over that cock, babe. Fuck her pussy until she’s creaming, won't you."

"Right." You groan in tacit approval, hands holding firm onto the firm swell of her hips - that round little ass, the dimples you can feel the dip of, just under your thumbs. She's already thrown her arms up around the back of your neck when your cock slips inside her, to tug you in; this wordless begging: need, need, need.

It's not even a totally new sensation. Nor is it even the first you've ever been inside her, but god - Miyeon takes one deep breath, and on the second inhale, you sink another thick inch of your cock into her slippery slit: she's completely, gloriously bare, just this slick heat that only opens more and more and more. You draw back, thrust in, and there's this sopping sound, all wet press, into the soft muscle - you don't even remember pulling her panties to the side. But they're bunched into the crease of her thigh and that's rather convenient.

Her breath hitches as she slots down onto your shaft, again - in rhythm - like a total dream. "Fuck, that's so tight," she grates, her voice rough and gutted; something like, 'I cannot believe you feel this good.'

-and they groan in unison when you pick up speed. All of it. Together.

Because it's not just Miyeon's perfect cunt wrapping you up tight, squeezing and pulsing, even better on the backstroke - but it's the way Sana is catching your lips in the space over Miyeon’s shoulder. That you three can play each other with the promise that every last moan or gasp or the single, resounding thrill of pleasure will find a perfect partner: one for your mouth and one for Sana's fingers at Miyeon's collar bone, a tickle along her hip, pressing an insistent fingertip around and around in small circles, dipping into the give.

Her body's shaking so much through every push and pull. Fuck. She's so small - and you're the one filling her. Fucking her. Breaking her. Pressing two girls into the wall like you've earned the right. You're splitting Miyeon apart so that Sana can fill the spaces you leave empty and vice versa: and she's so, so desperate, the little noises she's making, "Please," like it hurts. "Fuck," like it's the best feeling. "Keep going, please, fuck- don't stop."

"See, baby? It feels better when you just give up, doesn't it?" Sana's got her fingers down further between Miyeon's thighs; you can see her swipe upwards. Hear the wet sound. She says, "there," into her ear. "Nice and slow, while he fucks that cunt, and I rub you like this, we want to keep making you feel good. So take what you need, hm. I don't hear you-"

"Oh my god," Miyeon moans. And she means it - feels herself dripping all over you. "I need it. I need it, I-"

"Come on, darling," Sana chuckles, soft and low in her ear.

"N-need," Miyeon chokes.

And what kind of idiot wouldn't take their palm off her breast, or undig their fingers from the round of her ass for even a second. It's having her in the palm of your hand. With one foot dangling against your thigh and the other tangled up above you, the stretch in Miyeon's body is entirely for the convenience of letting you fuck her to pieces.

"There it is," Sana is murmuring into your mouth again, and that’s a reward of its own, her wet, full kiss at the junction between Miyeon’s neck and shoulder as her thumb digs deeper into the curve of the girl’s thigh. You listen to Miyeon moan your own name, uttered like it was written by god and meant to form on her lips as it tumbles down through the ragged mess of pants and gasps.

“Fuck, baby-” You press harder. “Your pussy feels incredible- how you suck me right up like you're the good girl you love to pretend you are- like a perfect toy," you breathe, "-all nice and hot. Licking, swallowing around my cock, getting dicked out for my enjoyment-"

"Yeah, yes," she pants out, the total capitulation. "It feels so fucking good."

You feel the mindless, blissful roll. A rhythm in the give of her thighs as you slide home again and again. There's a clink from the bracelets on her wrists; her hair falling into her eyes; there's the sheer ecstasy written all over her pretty face when Sana reaches one hand to start drawing slow circles on her clit. 

"You're just fucking me so god-damn-good." She’s breathless; you’re taking everything from her. The poise, the finesse, the dignity.

"Of course we are," Sana supplies, and it's fitting. You're both holding her up. You'll be the ones tearing her down.

Miyeon's arms tighten around the back of your head, arching, squeezing, and there's that feeling that always accompanies Miyeon: like she's completely melting you to her core and turning your brains into fucking mush. Everything from her tight little pussy to her breathtakingly pretty eyes to the way her spine flexes to meet the pitch of her voice - it's fucking ridiculous, that she's even real in the first place - let alone that your cock is buried so deep in her cunt you think you can hear her sob. Or that all five-foot-two of her is making these tiny desperate noises as you use the width of her hips to bounce her harder onto your cock. 

Sana's long fingers slip and press - they're not touching anything except the swell of her pussy, just this ghostly brush of a light, almost chaste graze. It's enough: a touch like that, and fuck, another-

Miyeon cries out.

“I'm going to cum-"

"Say it again," Sana's whispering, "tell us what you need," and in a sort of coup-de-grace-style-of-climax, she bites at the skin over the top of Miyeon's jaw and slips a fingertip right onto her aching clit. Presses down. "You're such a fucking slut, Miyeon, such a gorgeous cocksleeve-"

"I-"

She's actually whimpering, the poor thing. Eyes squeezed shut, toes clenching; everything is trembling, tense with release. You’re fucking her into a puddle of a person, and she’s holding her lip between her teeth like it might do a goddamn thing. It makes sense; the tightness, and wet and heat is what she knows.

"Go on," Sana answers her, and it's like her words slice the voice in Miyeon’s throat to shreds, "cum all over his cock. So. Fucking. Good, baby," a hard push through every syllable as her teeth snag into the shell of her ear. She rides the boundary of degradation and downright debasement because she knows that’s how Miyeon will absolutely cum for her. For you, for both of you. "Do what you're fucking made for, and just take it, pretty, lovely, you can’t live a second without having his fat cock and my fingers in you, can you? You look like a filthy little angel like this, I swear."

You’re both on the same page, telling her over and over - shh, shh, you take that cock so well, feel that cock fuck you apart, baby, and all you have to do is cum - only, you’re paying homage to the title: you call her princess. Sana takes the opposite approach. Tells her, "you want everyone to know, don't you, what a goddamn fucking slut you are. You filthy, dirty little thing-"

It works. They both work, and so does everything else.

Your blood has gone totally hot. Like molten lava. Boiling over and about to spill.

The last thing Miyeon says: "Oh god - I'll be good, I'll do anything, I'll be your slut - Sana - anything-"

And it's one of the best lines to ever leave her mouth.

"-for this beautiful cock and these fucking perfect fingers, shit - fuck! Right there, right there, right-fucking-there-"

You fuck deeper, harder. The orgasm ripping through her muscles lets you leave marks and bruises you’ll be coming back to all weekend. Miyeon's face falls against the crook of your neck, mouth pressed there - you can feel every gasping inhale, the open-mouthed warmth of her body. It's you that whispers a shudder, half-voweled - "Miyeon," and she’s already there, so ready - it's kind of crazy how everything about this girl works so intricately and precise, like her very design was to take you to the hilt and melt all over your cock, because Miyeon's response comes as a mind-blanking:

"You can," a muffled whine in her throat. "Do it. Cum inside me. I want to-"

Sana’s eyes flare like she can feel that cable snapping, too. How your mind is all white noise. The torque of blood rushing through your head. You're thrusting deep into her well-fucked cunt with all the strength you can muster, your hips stuttering in the follow-through. When you catch the smile in her lips - the curl in her lips like she knows you’re about to spill everything, like the perfect siren’s call- you hear Sana over her shoulder: "fuck her. Use her. I think she wants to feel it in her fucking stomach - you know, the whole reason we’re here-"

You cum inside her - there’s no question - filling her tight hole up. Shit. You actually cum all over her too.

In fact, you manage to drag yourself all the way out from Miyeon, the wet quivers and hot aftershocks, all so Sana can get a good visual of how you’re fucking ruining her: the loose rope of white that streaks up her tummy, splaying out beneath her breasts. The absolute debauchery; it’s even more pornographic when your fist pumps another splatter of cum right onto the swollen lips of her pussy. Miyeon moaning on impact.

Sana supplies her own soft gasp, scraping the air past her teeth, tension hanging in the silence - and then you bury the rest of your load back inside her cunt.

And here's a feeling that's going to stick with you for a while. Beyond the fireworks in your pulse - the shake-ripple that leaves you with nothing, no muscles, no brain matter - you slide your cock through her cunt again, and again - just to feel how your cum pushes back out. And she's watching, she’s letting you watch: how messy she's become. Her tits. Her sweat-dewed thighs. How every second seems to bring its own unique ache. 

Really, you’re left only with a near mental blank. “God, Miyeon-”

You have just the barest capacity to consider the way Miyeon's trembling frame clings hard - pulling her ass cheeks down flush against your hips - your thick cock completely seated, stuffing her fucking cunt as she goes weak and submissive. You hold her there, suspended as your orgasm softens inside her and Sana hums along your lips, the soft coos spilling into Miyeon's ear: "what a messy, nasty girl. Princess needs to be full and leaking everywhere, doesn't she. How many creampies do you think you're going to ask for?” Sana laughs. “How many will ever be enough? I hope he gave you something worth begging for."

It's not really surprising how a feeling can hook its teeth into you when you're cumming like that. Subjugating the deepest reach of her sopping cunt to fulfill your own filthy fantasy. 

And look: Miyeon is soaked - soaked and wrecked and pliant. You kiss her and kiss her, and Sana kisses you, kisses her too, all of it muddled up - and your mouths are a mess. Your hands go into her hair, onto her ass; there's cum down her thighs and all over the floor. The smell of you three: her slicked arousal and your sweat and Sana's expensive perfume. 

Here, come come - Sana is a flurry of activity; she's helping Miyeon out of her second heel after you'd fucked the first one off her foot without bothering to get the strap unhooked. There's her careful proclamation of, "thank god the walls aren't paper," as you practically carry Miyeon to the edge of the sofa, this dreamy vision of messy hair and a royally-befit-blush. In the whole world, not once has Miyeon looked like anything less than nobility.

And now's no different, really.

You sink down onto the plush, tufted fabric - a chair whose shape might confuse you if Sana hadn’t told you earlier it was explicitly built for fucking, or whatever it is you're doing. She's smiling at you, settling her face right onto your shoulder and peering up.

"Sana," she says wistfully, but looks right at you. "My legs are still a noodly-mess. Could you turn on the jets in the tub?"

"And leave the two of you unsupervised?" She jokes. "Never."

Miyeon sticks out her lip. Pouts, almost: "it'd just be a second."

"She's only asking for a minute," you add in.

Sana rolls her eyes. "And since you've suddenly turned into two hopeless idiots, it can't be trusted. If I'm drawing a bath," a flick of the gaze, "the least you can do is join me. A chance to recover if nothing else."

Miyeon, being Miyeon, has already dropped her face down to your lap, curling up with your cock at her lips. When she gets her first, tantalizing, almost chaste little swipe at the tip, she smiles all impressed with herself. With those big brown eyes, her fingertips skating delicately along your stomach, and her dark lashes beating slow - all of Miyeon, right now, is on purpose, calculated. Precise. 

Her voice is even worse: "she wants her own go first, don't you think?"

Sana watches where your fingers thread into the ends of Miyeon's silky hair, just the gentlest twist and tug. How you have her mouth ready and open, waiting; how Miyeon glances over for approval.

"Well," Sana turns a cheek, "he's already so worked up." Her dark eyes look towards you - a mock frown. "I don't know if we can convince him otherwise."

Miyeon's throat clicks - she's not choking yet, but left to her own devices, she will be. Her expression melts into an almost-gasp as your cock fills the empty space in her mouth. There's that plush little gag as she opens, lips wet. You rock your hips, and then you get to watch her nose kiss the trail leading up the smooth plane of your belly.

"I could go for a soak," you admit, with Miyeon drooling on your cock.

Because Sana's doing that thing where she turns around, has the smug look over her shoulder. Makes a slow, teasing movement that leads your eyes from her pretty face all the way down the cut of her back, until finally she's pushing the soft waves of her hair into one hand so that her ass is perfectly presented-

And jesus, sure: the sloping hips, the inviting lines - the sharp points and soft edges, where she is and isn't; her cupped fingers come up to her own chest, just to show off the heft of her tits, hanging heavy. Everything is sensually posed. You're only a little bit mesmerized. Her figure has always had the cut of a pinup model. Curves like a siren. Her waist to hip ratio is - oh-fucking-kay, maybe you could do it right now - bend her in half - get her fucking sobbing until you kiss her quiet and cum so deep in her cunt it's all she can think about for days-

You realize then you're pulling too hard on Miyeon’s hair.

Not meaning to, or maybe too eager.

Hey, you have a pretty girl sucking life back into your cock and one more giving you bedroom eyes from across the room all ready to sit on it; you never said you weren't trying your best.

"Careful, honey. I'm getting impatient." Sana's hand traces the wallpaper trim in the hall, a sweeping path; a vague reminder as she disappears down and around the corner. You hear the squeak of the faucet and then the sound of her light footsteps. And then it's just an echoey and unapologetic, "one day I might not let you have all the fun," followed by, "my goodness-"

Sana, appraising her reflection in all likelihood. All bright smiles

You turn back to find a second set of eyes staring back, full of hunger, as a wet, messy heat wraps around the base of your shaft and follows to the top with the flutter of her tongue - and then all the way to the back of that tempting throat. Miyeon's moving at the tempo you'd put her at. You appreciate that. But you lift her jaw and hold the side of her face so she's looking straight at you - and as soon as you pop yourself out from between her lips, you say, "you'll let me taste Sana, too, won't you, baby?"

(Miyeon's never been good at saying no - to anything. That doesn't change here in the slightest.)

The way you laugh is easy and sweet. You kiss the space over her temple. "We've always been in this together, Miyeon," a soft tease. "Go ask her nicely, and I bet she lets you clean me up," before adding, "maybe, after you lick all the cum out of my girlfriend's tight ass."

And Miyeon simply grins. The promise of that sloppy fucking mess. She's ruined herself time and time again over far less.

"Oh," she says, "you know how good I look with cum dripping down my chin.”

It's kind of impressive how shameless she can be. So fucking blase - what are friends for, anyway.

“Shall we?"

You scoop Miyeon right up into your arms and, upon standing, swing her little body around in front of you. And she knows that's the sort of thing she shouldn't enjoy: being manhandled, told what to do, having someone lift the choice off her shoulders like that - but that doesn't stop her from tangling herself up around your neck and tilting her hips back into you in that playful-fake, overly innocent-cute mien - where she says in this tiny whisper, "are we, you think?"

Your mouth lands on her ear, nips the softness there, "behave yourself, sweetheart."

And then a low, breathless laugh escapes her: "when's the last time that was even an option."

-

(For the record, the answer is never, and you're probably actually so fucked - it's kind of hilarious to look back at it, and think, because how could any two people who have spent as many weeks (months) as you, putting all the right pieces into the right places, get all the stars align at once? The idea that the three of you are hooking up and nobody's getting hurt, murdered or hung out to dry is statistically improbable; and the likelihood that anyone in this presidential suite will survive the weekend without breaking at least four limbs in various places is rapidly dropping with each passing hour. You've been taking the old adage and clutching it against your chest - 

It can't be a sin, if it makes you happy.)

-

Past the door, the first thing you notice is that Sana's hair is all pinned up. Always pretty like that.

However it doesn't change the picture a whole lot. A few inches more bare skin isn't exactly a big difference when there's the whole, naked, porcelain expanse that spans the soft length of her shoulders, along her hips and waist, and runs to her feet. It's still kind of incredible. The hourglass shaped silhouette. All the natural curves finding relief in the right places. Model-esque, that sort of thing. And, yes: her tits, the absolute heaven-sent frame of her ass and those amazing legs.

It goes without saying.

She's there with her back arched, an arm perched on the granite of the counter. So relaxed. An elegance only afforded to the very lucky or the very rich. She lets her head fall back, the fine curve of her chin canting above a neck that you would've been biting kisses into just moments ago if she hadn't put herself in full profile to take your breath away.

"Show off," Miyeon mumbles, and then whispers to you, "sorry. My body can't do that, like-" she indicates - with a weird wobbly hand gesture, about the height of Sana's pelvis. "Whatever that is."

Sana tilts her head forward and meets the glance you give her reflection.

"Hmm," is her eloquent contribution to the airy room, woven into the pitter-patter of bathwater, lapping at the surface. "Now why am I left to wonder why there's no one making good on my requests, huh."

You cross the space; get close. And Miyeon stays curled up against you, doesn't let you slip away as you walk over, doesn't let go. She kisses the front of your shoulder, hums softly.

"My bad," You say. It's very believable. You sound a bit winded; kind of a wreck, but your sincerity shines through in that sort of 'I'll fuck it better' kind of way.

"Excuses, excuses." A dismissive shrug. "The water's perfect. But if you insist," and the sultry drop of Sana's eyelashes is deliberate, an invitation. Her breath is caught as your mouth finds the space between her neck and shoulder blade - the place where she's gone all pink, "I'd hardly pass up the chance for you both to eat my pussy first."

And look: it's not a lie, per se, but the natural instinct for Miyeon-logic is just to provide the justification, "the faster we get you a cumming, squirming, desperate mess-" her hand slips to cup the junction of her jaw and the crook of her throat. "-the sooner it'll be 'til he fucks me senseless again."

"We have a long way to go to get even, sweetie," argues Sana. "Last time, you were both pretty self-absorbed."

"We'd never ignore you on purpose," you whisper into the crook of her neck, and Sana turns to let you follow that deep, velvety mouth as the kiss flows across her lips. "You're absolutely necessary."

"Only by accident, then. That's a little bit worse," snarks Sana. The reprimand dies down into something soft as Miyeon lets her tongue trail flat over a nipple. She shudders.

"If I keep going, maybe you can forgive us?" You watch her eyelids flutter open, a haze of ecstasy passing behind her eyes. You keep an arm at her hip, wrap around and press flat until her whole flat tummy is pinned against your cock.

"Mmm," Sana hums. It's that sultry note she likes to let trail from the very end of her throat. "Ask me again after you get me off. But slowly: I want to savor every detail."

Miyeon traces kisses across Sana's rib until your girlfriend presses two wet fingers to her mouth. Easy.

"Then you should probably do something about her," you say, and - as if in agreement - Sana twists her hand into the cascades of her Miyeon's hair. You lean into her shoulder. She sighs; exhales, deeply, while her back is shimmying further backwards into the countertop.

"And you should help her make it up to me," Sana chimes, her voice clear and melodic, every inflection playing right at home in her vocal cords. "Two mouths are better than one, and I have so many other places you should be kissing."

Sana has a verifiable gravitas, for one, and when she's not hiding in plain sight behind the bubbly-bright act she likes to put on, it's nearly impossible not to fall in line behind her. This isn't to say you couldn't win her over either; it's a pretty small crowd here. But you choose one direction and watch her skin pink up and turn to red; you grab a wrist and it goes cold and white. Every last part of her is so damn expressive. The point is that she doesn't need you to make a fool out of yourself to know you're into her - or vice versa.

(Or. You're such a goddamn sucker, as Miyeon likes to remind you with a scoff, a little eye-roll, and then her hands on your belt. At least, before everything else: the knowing smirk, the dangerous suggestion).

You let your fingers find the backs of Sana's thighs as she spreads her knees apart, and there, you're reminded of the one thing. That of all the ways these two girls are identical, you've never found a comparison that really works. Not by any useful measure.

Miyeon has all the softer features: a bit dainty, the doe eyes and the lone dimple, like a doll with an aw-so-cute factor, whereas Sana is all sharp, clean angles; the sculpted muscle in her calves and thighs, the firmness and muscle underneath - which, yeah, definitely not the worst trade off. Don't get it confused, both girls crave your approval; both prefer when things get rough and sloppy. Describing either as anything but the most submissive holy-shit-take-me-now-I-need-you type, when put under the slightest pressure is laughable.

Not when Miyeon lets you use her like a toy. Or when Sana tells you exactly what you need to do to fuck a baby into her (hypothetically speaking; she gets a little silly and dumb around the edges whenever she's about to cum and her brain starts tripping over her tongue). Neither will hesitate when given the option of having your hand on the side of their throat, pinning their wrists to the headboard or the shower wall, fucking them until they go liquid and collapse in your arms, shivering, whimpering and begging, their pussies pulsing around your cock. In fact, there's really no hard or fast rule at all. But here, you recognize, is a great point of difference -

"Baby," you murmur into the inside of Sana's thigh. You leave a mark with your lips that you’ll come back to. "So. Fucking. Gorgeous-" right as Miyeon starts pressing her mouth against her cunt. "Aren't you, baby? The most beautiful girl. And all of this is just mine?"

Listen - the praise kink your girl has is actually pretty textbook: Sana wants to be called sweet, she wants to be complimented, rewarded, and all that good stuff; she wants you to talk to her the way everyone who sees a flash of her skin or a sway of her hips wants to - the best parts of adulation, arousal, love, without any of the side-eye of it being totally obscured in a crowded venue.

Direct.

To the point. 

She wants to hear each and every you're sexy, you look hot, your ass drives me crazy. She wants it on the gruff in your voice, how it gets a little rough at the edges. Tell me you're mine. You make me so hard. This is just the very essence of who Sana is, and you have learned that you need to give as well as take: feed her a tiny ego boosting here and there, and she will completely throw herself at you in return.

Miyeon watches you run your tongue over her cunt like she’s taking notes, and it’s clear you’re more than prepared to give it all up to her. There's always been this veneration, this reverence for every inch of her, a pull towards her - her eyes, her mouth, her wrists, her long beautiful legs, the place where the skin of her thighs meets - you've always had this insane fascination with Sana, this need to know what she'd taste like or sound like. At any given moment.

"Oh," Sana pushes Miyeon closer, moaning. "Yours. So yours, baby."

The moment you both have your tongues working at her - tasting, the sweetness of her dripping down onto both of your faces, making you lick your lips and kiss each other so Sana gets to watch - Miyeon hums approvingly. Lets out this very performative, "isn't she just the best?"

And it isn’t that you can't find the right word - divine, wonderful, heaven, incredible, without any flaw - there just isn't much room to read into the fact that you and Miyeon are both sunk to your knees on the bathmat, kneeling in worship, in adoration - sucking on Sana's clit. The imagery sells itself.

"We'd never forget the important things," Miyeon continues, dreamily.

She's trading with you the folds of Sana's dripping pussy and the outline of her lips for her thigh. You pick up where she leaves off, and that earns you Sana's hand raking through the back of your hair, pressing you so close you can hear her heartbeat in her pulse; her blood burning through the very spot.

“That's how you make me feel, baby: so fucking good. Amazing." You taste it. You chase it. There is nothing like her cum filling your mouth. "Pretty. Mine. All mine."

“Yeah, okay - sure - that feels really fucking good.” 

Sana's orgasms always start slow; a slight adjustment of her hips, the rub of one calf against the other, she's never been the quiet type but there's not quite the screaming or yelling just yet. Her jaw is set.

"You're, uh-," she adds, failing at anything else.

Miyeon tries for it. That edge of danger; not in pain or frustration, but, "there you go, sweetie: you sound so fucking pretty when you're worked up. Just tell us - the words, we need the words to make it good, baby."

"Fine," says Sana, tilting her head down, breathing deeply, and she makes a sound that's neither a whimper nor a laugh, but a crossroads of both. "Right there, oh my god, you are so fucking dangerous, holy shit. Oh, please. Please. You two- just, please, don't you dare- just a little bit - mmm. Why do you have to be so good at that?"

"Right?" Miyeon laughs out loud - like you're the one missing a vital point, like it's your fault your face is buried in her folds. “I used to think guys just didn’t like doing it. And then, well-"

And you drag your tongue flat and up over her pussy, right through that whole slicked up slit, your fingers still pumping in and out, and then you flick it just hard enough to-

"-yeah," she huffs, panting.

Miyeon presses her thumb into the mess of Sana's cunt, and it causes Sana's whole body to shudder apart - you lift your face to breathe, or to promise, "we can go for hours if you want, taking turns making you cum," before pressing into her again, and Sana's only got so much patience and stamina when you're two steps ahead of the curve, because her legs are practically going to wobble off her body.

"Poor, pretty baby," Miyeon murmurs against her, and she's talking like she’s taken all the control now. Operating in that cycle of push and pull.

And to her point: Sana is whining, gasping - every bit as hot and bothered and needy. She's whispering please and not giving up her requests.

"Fuck. Okay, sorry-” she apologizes. For some reason.

Your nose keeps getting bumped, her cunt is grinding down into your chin. That is fine. If it keeps on like this, your whole face will be soaking wet.

"I'm going to just- going to go ahead and cum, I think- so fucking. Yeah, keep on going just like, shit, please: my pussy is fucking throbbing."

This is the easy part, if you've read the rest right. If the hours and the minutes, and all the passing days: you know which direction the pieces are about to fall.

Sana arches her spine, rolls her hips into your face, and when you swirl your tongue all over the wet heat at her core, the sound she makes is music: low, throaty and delicate. Your mouth is attached to her clit still when you look up over the hand you have steadying each tremble in her diaphragm. And possibly as a sort of vengeful maneuver, Miyeon is shoving two fingers under your jaw and far enough into Sana's pussy that each curl of a knuckle is all that’s left to find Sana cumming right onto your mouth, your chin. 

She wants to scream, to cry out, but her mouth joins her face, in that frozen expression of anguish, of an absolute that perfect pleasure.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Miyeon consoles, standing up, leaning in - close, really, impossibly close; she presses their foreheads together, murmuring against Sana's ear, whispering what-do-you-need, there you go. Baby, that was perfect. They each know the song and dance. They can shamelessly recite each other's lines. Miyeon slides an arm to the small of Sana's back, one across her shoulders, and Sana leans against her with this gorgeous look of a perfect, mind-numbing orgasm on her face, her eyes bright, her lashes fluttering - a sheen of sweat across her forehead; your stomach falls and bottoms out; you can't not be fucking attracted to these two. Miyeon smooths down her hair, reassuring her. Her hand reaches lower, wraps around her, pulls.

The bath is well filled at this point, water near overflowing, and Sana is equally fucking soaked. This storm of wet and hot beneath your lips. You clean her off with the broad stroke of your tongue and don't spill a drop, because the noise she's making - it sounds like rapture, ecstasy. She's half-delirious, panting, with her hands gripping the sides of your head.

"Where," she gasps, trying her damnedest. You have the best girls in the world, you really fucking do. Miyeon rubs the heel of her palm against the soaked, red hood of her cunt. Sana lets out a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan; the arch of her hips chasing Miyeon's touch; "you, are you two - god damn, if I hadn't already-"

"Shhh. My poor girl. You're not thinking about his cock just yet," and those are Miyeon's slender fingers coaxing your jaw free from Sana's cunt, prying her free from you so she can sit alone at her throne. "They always keep lube in these kind of places," Miyeon reaches into a drawer, fumbling about. It takes a moment for it to register that she's actually talking to you. "It usually looks like some body oil, you know the nice massage kind, in these tiny bottles. Help me look, will you?"

It does not take long - hotel management understands what these rooms are for. The scandal and the romance and everything in between. Because Miyeon finds what she’s looking for in the next drawer down: a sample-sized container of massage oil, something slippery and organic. It smells vaguely of lavender.

"Look at me," Miyeon tells you, and Sana is absolutely listening along too. It's all very seamless: Sana and then Miyeon. All the synchronized parts. Their signals have some sort of feedback even if you're not always actively aware of the things they pass back and forth.

Miyeon guides Sana onto her shaky legs, turns her toward you - So you swallow, hard, and run your thumbs into the crease of her ass - you're kneeling, still, still totally naked and wet all around the jaw. "Eat her ass, and I'll keep her cumming until she can't feel anything else."

You shift your weight and run a kiss along the tender skin at the back of Sana’s thigh. The contact has her bracing a hand on the counter for support.

“And then-” Miyeon says, with a gleam in her eyes like she knows what the fuck she wants. She slides back down to the floor until Sana is pinned between a rock and a hard place. Her two favorite people in the world: namely, your hands gripping Sana's hips, and Miyeon's tongue all over the aching little clit you'd just had your mouth wrapped around moments ago.

"And then?" you provide, hovering a kiss onto the beautiful round of Sana's ass. Her fucking cheek. You have to slap it. Just a little. And when you watch it ripple back and forth with your handprint there, a spot of pink already blooming, well, she has to be giving you a sultry look that demands to know when it is exactly that you are going to stick your cock inside of her, and it is absolutely just impossible to look anywhere else.

"And then," Miyeon supplies, "we're going get that beautiful cock in her ass so you can fuck her brains to mush."

"Thanks I guess, for the explicit permission," you scoff, and here you drop your lips, trail them into the crack of Sana's ass, up and down, teasing the taut stretch of her hole with the tip of your tongue.

"Someone has to take responsibility for-," she pulls on Sana's leg and stretches it forward, repositions her ever so slightly. She sucks Sana's clit into her mouth with an exaggerated sort of satisfaction.

You wait for Miyeon to continue, and then realize with the unshakeable notion: she isn't going to, because it's too damn much trouble. There is no reason to pull apart the premise and not the girl straddled between your faces. The only option is to follow her lead, and to worship Sana. To trace every crevice of her, lick between her ass and the sensitive, clenching heat of her pussy.

"Can we, like, take a timeout-" Sana's mouth is slurring into the skin of her forearm. Her upper thighs are quaking, quivering as you sink your teeth in. Her head's gone all heavy as a slutty little moan rings out and straight down her lungs.

And maybe the realization is setting in. You and Miyeon are going to fuck her until you all can't think - until you're nothing but primal urges, nothing but bodies with beating, pounding hearts; and every thought in Sana's head will be to the two of you; to Miyeon, whose hand finds the front of Sana's stomach and guides her pelvis into rolling forward and grinding into her mouth, to you, with your tongue lathering and lapping at her asshole, and running your hands around her hips until her whole body's shaking, "oh fuck, my god-" 

(The writing is on the wall. You and Miyeon are going to fuck her until none of you know where you end, where the other begins.)

Sana tries again, and the question ends in a deep, rumbling, "don't you want, Miyeon, wouldn't you rather just really, fucking love, having his thick cock stretch you apart," - she swallows - and when she glances behind her back and finds you watching her, there is just pure, unadulterated arousal burning through her eyelashes, over the flare of her ass.

You catch the fucking bow of her lower lip wobbling as she adds, a little more pointed and a lot more determined, "when you're, fuck, begging and screaming for his load? To be his cumdump, his little bitch," it's like she's got her heart set, and her mouth can't stop moving fast enough, and "to do whatever he wants just because it makes you look and feel so damn hot?"

You can hear Miyeon's mouth smacking with the way it works, the way she is swallowing, gasping. You can hear the sound she makes when her mouth goes loose, and says, agreeing, "you're going to love it Sana, every god-damn-inch, you always do" and Sana is falling apart again into your grip, moaning, and then "it's so much better. All the stretch, that tightness. But she needs your fingers first.

You can hear Sana gasping too, dripping a mess into the place where her pussy and ass meet. Miyeon licks a wide strip from her core all the way up and kisses it. Lick. Kiss, lick - her hands pulling Sana closer by the hip - kiss, kiss, lick - pulling her mouth around your girl's clit. So close to the place in Sana's bubbly cheeks, where your mouth supplies long sucks and soft kisses - so close you can practically taste the scented flavor in Miyeon's lip gloss.

"I can't- shit. Hold on, guys," Sana whispers. It's her nails scraping against the granite. "You need to-" and then the loud, dull thwap of her knee knocking into the cabinet. 

She's cumming again - this time, loud and guttural, but another really beautiful sound - her cunt pulsing hard into nothing while the air hangs in limbo, Miyeon's tongue circling her clit, your palms around Sana's beautiful, round ass. You're half convinced they'd be fine with being locked away in some tower. Forget the world and its obligations. Or, rather: let the world stop spinning; leave only this.

There is not much talking from then on. 

Mostly whining, whimpers and pleas to: not stop, yes, there, yes, please, fuck, and Miyeon wraps her fingers around you - almost the same thing she did when you were pumping your cum into her quivering cunt earlier, asking, please, may I-?

Sana bends herself over the counter, like something instinctual. The perfect bend and arch in her spine, the bow of her knees and the press of her thighs. Inviting, pleading. You can feel the tingle, the stiff tension in the muscles, when you reach out and lift her ass; it gives so easily to your touch. Your palm, her cheeks. There's a beautiful flush as the pink starts to run, fade, and reappear along her back, and - fuck, okay, seriously-

Miyeon's there, kneeling next to you: stroking her fingers up your length. She’s kissing you too. It’s hard to think.

But the sound of the cap coming off the bottle comes like an alarm clock, pulling you out of a dream.

Miyeon sits on her heels, smiling into the press of your lips as the bottle she procured tips out. Clear, viscous and smooth into her palm. When it becomes a lot of dripping; she swirls it against your cock - her knuckles wrapped around you, running and twisting into every curve, sliding her whole grip with long, calculated strokes.

"I don't think she's in any condition to keep a tally," Miyeon announces, "so, why don't you decide?"

"Meaning?" you're panting; your brain keeps working to formulate complete thoughts.

"Meaning," she slips her tongue against yours, slides her teeth and draws into your lower lip, "you should totally pound her gorgeously tight little ass" - another kiss, mostly on your lower lip; almost a bite - "and then you should dump that massive load of yours" - a shudder rolls through her shoulder and leaves a whisper in her wake - "right inside mine."

There are about eight thousand words in the English language but what you say is, "fuck."

Because she's right: Sana is blathering the moment you stand up and let your hands reach around, grab hold of her full, rounded hips. She’s not in any state to protest or complain about matters of equality or correspondence. Her lips and tongue are barely even fit to say anything but yes-yes-please-anything, oh god.

Which, okay, whatever: of course, whatever the fuck she needs - whatever they need - you pull at her hips until it's there, your cock sandwiched between those full, warm ass-cheeks, the perfect amount of pressure to get you so fucking hot, and Sana's not shy about rolling her hips to keep you pressed to the surface, rocking into your balls until her cunt's making slick, wet, hungry noises and she's just one endless, groaning moan.

"Love feeling your cock," Sana mutters; and there is a, "please, fuck me, baby- please?" thrown in for good measure.

"Please do, you're like - you're like ridiculously gifted," Miyeon adds, always the right touch of caustic.

"-please."

Sana's eloquence is short lived, because the second you give her ass a squeeze and Miyeon presses her thumb against Sana's cunt, her voice catches on her throat.

She sounds perfectly winded, completely out of breath, a tiny, sexed-up growl running through the notes as she speaks to her reflection in the mirror. Miyeon laughs. She can hardly get her own shit together when you lean up and grab a breast in hand, or start leaving slow-but-steady bite marks along the back of her shoulder blades; like it's all-too funny when you pin Sana to the counter until she starts to beg in that please, please, please tone: when every syllable and gasp is hitched and short.

"She doesn't want gentle," Miyeon tuts, finding her place next to Sana, holding her chin in her hands and catching the expression on her face. She presses a thumb into Sana's mouth for no reason other than: they're so soft. Wet. Pink and full, parted around her fingertip. "Isn't that right, baby?"

Your gaze follows their hips, swaying. And from this angle: identical. The hair, the jawline, the arch of the throat and shoulders, the elegant twist and fold of their limbs, the eyes, the blush, the smile, and the legs. They don't have to look exactly the same: their presence is near identical - Miyeon's the cuter one, sure. It's been established, but fuck, the look on Sana's face as you spread her asshole with just a finger is fucking dangerous. You're going to lose your mind. Both the flat tummies and the beautiful breasts and their matching hard nipples - and the fucking two best asses the world has ever seen. A line up over the counter: Miyeon and Sana, side by side; their reflections looking at you in tandem, wearing these same expressions. The eyes begging, asking and insisting, the pouting lower-lip and the glassy sheen of their eyelashes.

You tell them: "how am I supposed to" - you run the thick-glistening head of your cock along the pucker of Sana’s tight ass, grind your hips into the friction - "focus when you two look at me like that?”

"Um, just give up," says Miyeon, grinning; and then, when your jaw snaps closed and there's the obvious shift of your hips as your length strains through your body's need and pulls you closer to that incredible, tight, dark hole: "god, there you go. That is so fucking hot."

So, it's just like this:

They watch each other. The mirror is right there; every want, every motion. 

And then, yeah, a low and throaty, "is that it?" - Sana nods into Miyeon's hand and smiles, with just the slightest hint of something that could resemble a blush - "why we always come back to him? Because, really-"

"Mmm." Sana hums agreement, dazed and drunk in her words, the slow breath of air you push out of her chest as your cock starts to sink in; the deeper the intrusion, the lower your names become - just murmurs and sighs and sounds: "god, yes, god-"

Her pussy starts to drip onto the tiles, her slick collecting at Miyeon's knees as Sana takes you all the way: and you hold, once you're all the way in; once that gorgeous little puckered rim has stretched around your entire width; there's just the smell of the room; lavender and rose and citrus - Sana's endless arousal - and you hold, and hold on tight - and your muscles shiver as Sana draws the first rocking motion of her hips.

The smallest, lightest grind.

"Jesus fucking christ," you curse, because the heat around your cock is excruciatingly tight. A slow-burning, tingling-aching pleasure as the flesh inside Sana's ass moves up and down the length, drawing out inch by inch of skin - until your entire cock is nearly pulled out.

You're the one that drives all the way back in.

Sana gasps. She runs her hand through her hair. She tries her damndest to remember what words are, clearly coming up empty.

"Baby." Miyeon is kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips, and coos praises in her ear. She sinks her fingers into the curve of Sana's immaculate ass, pulling on the soft cheek, showing-

You are speechless. It's just: that next stroke. And another. Your cock slipping in and out with each pass, so easy once Sana sighs, licks her lips and leans into your rhythm, there, all at once and then faster. And she looks in the mirror, because of course; of course she watches Miyeon run her hand all over her front, the perfect tits and a pretty stomach - your thrusting keeps up until every thrust has her hips rolling forward and snapping back, chasing her own momentum; chasing that thick, hard, stretch of cock and that beautiful pleasure-pain as the force and pace rocks her, pounds her so her entire body has to curl against Miyeon's chest for support, so that she's going a little weak in the knees.

"How is he?" Miyeon's tone gets wicked in these situations, a lot less innocent. She gets excited, giddy. "Pretty, handsome, stupidly attractive," her voice picks up a playful lilt, and she gets you grinning - it's only the start. "And he's all yours. But how's the cock, huh? He's gaping your ass so pretty. Your hole is so fucking open around him. It looks incredible, doesn't it?"

Sana reaches for the side of her ass, presses her fingertips to her skin: pulls and splits a fingernail into the tender flesh where her ass and thigh meet - right above her cunt. You snap your hips into hers and watch your cock disappear. Every motion gives, slurps and sucks until you're hilted inside her.

"Feels, mmmm - fuck." Her chest is fluttering, every part of her so fucking flushed, her blood running beneath the surface so every single inch of her skin is saturated with her own need, her want.

"Feels so good," you growl, your vision gone dark around the edges. Miyeon's there, vaguely, smirking into Sana's jaw, licking at the sweat, scraping her teeth along the skin to bite down, pull- "she's so fucking tight. Gripping the hell out of my cock. Like, it feels unbelievable, you know."

"Babe," she cries, though you give her no respite - you use that little sliver of slack and pull out far enough that she'll know it when your cock is hammering into her ass, a little more aggressive, and you start with quick, hard pumps that echo throughout the room - not for your pleasure or hers: just to hear it, listen, you're driving up so far into that perfect, gorgeous ass that it sends her tits rocking and rolling with every bounce of her chest; her moans, her babbling incoherence, are, again - it's like a drug - and Miyeon's smiling. And also, getting herself off.

"So pretty," Miyeon says into her temple, "with his cock fucking open your ass." And she has her fingers swirling, swirling, in little patterns around her cunt, grazing over a wet clit, like the way you're pounding Sana's ass and dismantling her whole consciousness is absolutely the most arousing thing ever, like Miyeon could stay and watch forever, like Sana's the most beautiful person in the world, and Miyeon would be right here with her every second - whispering praise in her ears - "god, babe, if I could, I would never pull his cock out. You take him so well, don't you? You're just made for it. He could stretch you out over and over and we could, you know - be fucked silly - no thinking - for, like, forever. All day long."

Sana's fingers claw, gripping at the bowl of the sink, while Miyeon has her hand glued to her clit, playing herself.

Miyeon doesn't wait - but she asks anyway - and of course: she's leaning up, in, nuzzling Sana and saying: "yes?"

"So," is all Sana gets out before gasping, because the sight, it's too much to not let yourself feel a little power drunk, and there is a sudden thrust that practically turns the poor girl's voice into a croak. "Yes. Fuck - fuck-"

You don't really have any clue where this is coming from but: "Miyeon, here, take this cock. Come get what's yours you fucking cocktease," and, whatever - who needs thoughts? Your girlfriend's already bent over the bathroom counter, your fingers holding the smooth curves of her ass apart, her beautiful body opened all up and pink.

Miyeon ruffles her hair as she finds the perfect angle, knees knocked up against the drawers, and she's got more oil spread onto her own puckered rim.

You know your girls: Sana is desperate for your cock, Miyeon lives to be used.

"I love how fucking cock-drunk she gets," Miyeon laughs, and then - the moment you've shifted from one gorgeous hole to the other - her mouth slackens, her eyelashes flutter: "shit. Holy - didn't really realize- oh wow."

"Kinda distracting?" you tease, knowing full well you're just going to lose your own words; watching a gorgeous ass swallow your cock; being told to keep giving and take, just as much: the warmth in your own core, your cunt, clenching hard - an aching pulse - the excitement coursing through your veins and this, this whole sensation of being connected: your bodies, all-encompassing and present, three whole units, joining at the hips, being forced back together-

"-you feel fucking, so tight. That's how the fucking joke goes, right?" Miyeon manages: to talk, still, even with a cock in her ass and your teeth and tongue painting pretty marks up the ridges of her spine.

Sana is catching her breath, brushing her fingers through her hair staring wistfully.

"Gives you two so much to talk about."

"Now don't even start- I really like it, alright."

Sana gives her ass the worst slap but your balls hit her cunt on the following thrust. Miyeon's so fucking tight you can barely breath. And her laughter tinkers off into a very pretty string of obscene moans from the way your cock spears into her, all at once: the flat, wet, throbbing sounds of a tight ass taking a thick cock without stopping, stretching and sliding with an increasing ease the longer it goes on for, until you're snapping your hips so far forward they're slapping Miyeon's ass and gripping, squeezing the round shape of her waist; until the movements are just you, the heavy weight of your balls against the hot wet skin between her legs.

And god damn it, she's got to start with:

"Forgot how much you stretch me, Jesus - baby, it is a really gorgeous cock you've got," - and that is when it hits, and her hands fist up, trying to grab at something, anything: "oh my god."

"You are such a whore," Sana laughs, but not unkind, because Miyeon can only grin in response, with your cock pounding out into the red-hot, clenched walls of her asshole. And then: a nice, hearty sigh.

You find yourself asking, almost by impulse, "isn't she, uh, tight. God."

And, fuck: you were thinking how insane it is you two ever managed without the third party. How now, not fucking Sana and Miyeon's glorious, matching asses side-by-side would drive you fucking crazy, and maybe that's why it's really the best news. How when your cock slips out of one ass, and slowly nuzzles into the other - how when you all three watch the pretty faces in the mirror twist and turn into a look of such pure fucking bliss - you just sort of-

"Oh."

That's Sana: with Miyeon pressed chest-first over the marble counter, Miyeon's cheek and nose flush against her face, their arms twisted, bodies crossed at the wrist and wrist - their skin shiny-red with exertion. They're the closest possible position: mirror images of the other, and - with the slightest push -

And it's pretty. It's fucking, you know.

"Perfect," you groan. "This is it. Look at you, the both of you - god - it's like. It's not normal to be as beautiful as the two of you are. Right. So, you know-"

"Hey," Sana is a little faster on the uptake when you're fucking Miyeon and her ass within an inch of dying, "your face. You look like you're close, are you close baby?"

The blood's starting to sing in your ears. Miyeon's forehead keeps bouncing into Sana's - their sweat, mixing, her skin peppered and blotchy pink from where she's gotten a little bit lost in her own head, her hips moving of their own accord, her body tensing, relaxing. You can read all of her movements, recognize her signals: the way she moans louder than usual, the way her cunt trembles against you, the way her ass squeezes, holds, lets go-

You pull out. Just to keep yourself from blowing, just to pull on your balls, to look and watch the perfect view. And Sana reaches back - a warm hand wrapped around you.

You feel her palm wrap around your cock, coaxing another serving of oil - like she knows just how rough it's going to be to start again.

"Just," she pants, leaning into Miyeon so you have to rut around to find your way back, "until the end."

There's something so pleasantly mind-numbing about the moment when you ease your cock into the sweet-soft ring of muscles again and she's just stretching and pulsing and grabbing all around you. The way you keep going: she's holding herself, giving her asshole a squeeze, a stretch - her lips kiss a sound onto the side of Miyeon's shoulder and she nods, gasps, breathes out heavy and pained, like the rest: a total fucking rush.

You watch Miyeon lean further, a beautiful shift of balance between the two. Her hands clamp around the sides of Sana's thighs for support, and the longer you pound into her, the deeper your cock sinks, the closer the pressure becomes as their heads turn in, looking to the same place, their foreheads knocking, and-

"Knees," you growl. You're holding your cock in your first - demanding: "Get on your fucking knees."

Sana smiles first. Then Miyeon. And when the lipstick smears against their cheeks, you don't have it in you anymore to think clearly. The line between your imagination and your fantasy is so blurred: you want their mouths moaning into eachother. You want Miyeon to clean the taste from Sana's lips. You want those cunts grinding, their clits making contact, and for one of them - fuck-

So: "I need the both of you."

And it's your name falling off of Sana's tongue when the tops of her shins hit the tile floor - she's kneeling, she's pulling Miyeon by her waist until the three of you have converged into this beautiful, glistening, open-mouthed trio. Sana kisses Miyeon hard while you cum all over the image: the contrast of their soft, wet, hot tongues against one another while your harsh grip pumps along your slick, throbbing length. It feels like a knot unraveling, a tension snapping loose, your cum landing on their cheekbones, their temples, between their lips - It's a long, slow roll through the valley of your abs - Miyeon licking into Sana's panting mouth and swiping through the streak of white you just pumped out into her fucking hair; the messy collision of lips, swallows, tongues; the faint, slow sounds, the slickness-

"Look," she breathes. You can hear the way their words hitch when their fingers hook eachother, guiding through the mess across their skin, dipping through the sticky cum, circling the plush pout of their bottom lips; and it's Sana that grabs Miyeon by the wrist, bringing her hand forward; sucking, running her mouth in a lazy path all across the width, "that's all, fuck, I need to. Wanna taste all of it."

You just groan.

Miyeon is slumped into the lacework of Sana's limbs, swapping the tastes between her tongue and the space of their breath; while her own thumb caresses the raw, stretched opening of her ass. Sana whispers things, incoherencies, into Miyeon's hair: kisses at her temple, strokes the muscles of Miyeon's back. Feeling how they shiver, they heave, they fall - exhausted and flushed in the heat of one-another's embrace. She licks the words across Miyeon's cheek and follows with her nose trailing Miyeon's jaw, and your cum's smearing a streak onto Miyeon's bottom lip, before their tongues have tangled themselves into another messy, well-fucked kind of collision.

"Good girls," you mumble, kissing Miyeon's knuckles, and helping Sana to her feet.

Your legs are a lot less shaky than either the two of theirs, but it's okay, you pick Miyeon up and set her on the sink; and then turn on the tap for the both of them, since they'd need a wash and some salve.

"Now, what?" says Sana. She's smiling; a washcloth at the ready; some dribble of soap from the bottle.

Miyeon gives her a smirk from over her shoulder, turning away just enough to flip her hair; the ends brush across her jaw. It's a cute little quirk of the eyebrow; the upward twinge to the corner of the lip; it's a motion that knows every muscle, every detail.

"Depends," says Miyeon, sharpening up her tone just the littlest bit, "the bath looks like a tight fit for all three of us but," and there it is - the mischievous glint; the curve in her hips, her mouth, and, of course - you notice the way her eyes drop to the stiffness of your cock. The way her voice purrs, all light, but a lot more intent: "Did you see the shower? It's absolutely gigantic."

"I saw the detachable head," Sana throws out. A teasing little comment, one you remember - that sends a pretty deep shudder down your stomach and thighs. Your cock twitches, hard and - okay, good thing Miyeon booked the room for a week and then some. The view is pretty great: watching your cock get rock-solid in under five seconds. Watching them kiss the same knowing look, sharing the private joke. Watching their hips swing, watching them slide the glass door: Miyeon in front and Sana from behind.

It's in unison that they both turn over their shoulder and ask, "won't you help us test it out?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be right there." You shake your head, "so thirsty," even though, you know you're equally to blame.

-

It's that tiny whisper of "don't look at me like you don't have cum in weird places either, hm?" that Sana gives you, while Miyeon is washing her hair, rubbing and sliding along the locks. "I'll help you with the spots that are hard to reach, come here."

It's that little, meaningful, mischievous curl in Miyeon's lip when the water's pouring, and your breath falls across her skin. The way her hands reach out for you, even when Sana takes her chin and plants a firm, messy kiss across her mouth. It's the same gesture Miyeon's making, using Sana's forearm for support. How she runs the palm of her other hand along the back of Sana's thighs, slipping and pressing forward to guide, nudge. She pulls Sana onto her toes, aligning their bodies. It's in the little laughs they share, the wet smacks of lips, the soft little hums they make when tongues slip over, into the open.

It's here too, that you first ever get them confused, just a momentary slip up of "Sana, could you grab the towel-" or some equivalent, when you glance away at the perfect wrong moment and you're left just a little puzzled, still mostly entranced by the sight of the steam on the glass and their fingertips drawing patterns into it as they lean in for another kiss, or a moan-

"Oh," Miyeon says, delighted, "I'm supposed to be her, right?"

They're fucking-

Sana is less enthused. "Stop. I do not. Am not."

- identical.

"Look, I didn't mean-"

Miyeon laughs to cut you off and skips the argument. She winks, and somehow that makes it worse.

It's there too, the look of regret when your fingertips curl into the skin of her breast, your thumbs a tease against the rigid nubs of her nipples and the texture of her pretty stomach. They don't realize how much you really love their matching expressions. So, they don't mind the mixup, and besides: you just follow Sana's guiding hands and let your lips ghost-kiss, so gently across Miyeon's thigh. It's impossible to imagine a version that isn't one and the other, the two of them, here, with you: sharing kisses, offering the gentlest, slowest exploration, teasing and tugging a gasp of a response.

"Hey," Miyeon muses, "does that mean you'll keep your cock warm in me once we go to bed and feed me a steady stream of ice cubes between all the sessions, mm?"

Sana raises her head in faux offense and drops back into the comfort of Miyeon's thighs. "Jeez-us christ," Sana huffs; "one day with him and she thinks she's me. Have mercy."

"She isn't?" you ask.

Sana sighs. "Um. Not even close."

Miyeon beams at the both of you. She even runs her fingers through Sana's hair, doting - affectionate. "She'll come around to the idea eventually, don't worry. Until then I'm more than happy to take on the role. It can't be that hard, yeah? Just to be all - naughty-sexy-sweet-oh, look, a surprise, i’m actually ready to get fucked six ways to sunday-"

-you get an eyeful of whatever they are doing, this time just, fucking-

Sana only says, "it'll have to take an exceptional amount of patience on both your parts."

-gorgeous, lewd, completely fucking filthy.

"I got a lot, babe."

The second Sana opens her mouth, it's followed with: "pfffht."

It's just, who wouldn't give them whatever they want? Whatever they ask? There's a list out there: no doubt the both of them, gagging. Throat-deep. In their little skirts. Panties. Naked and straddled, just, across their hands. One, maybe. Or both all the same, or still a different preference. One behind the other and taking turns. Something - and this is important, here:

"Look," they say, eyes wide up at you and blinking - on the same fucking beat no less, "you can trust us, okay?"

(Gentleman and distinguished scholars: the list, by the way, only ever gets longer.)

[capslocked]

PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

It goes without saying that Karina’s reputation is flawless. 

Irene’s is remarkably not.

You're not even staunchly a romantic or anything. You just can’t be assed to manage the distinction between desire and distance. So when the dust settles, the best case scenario is the three of you going around telling people, "all of this is actually a true story by the way."

-

You don't need the extra helping of moody and foreboding, but the wind picks up enough to chill you to the spot.

It blows some of the longer, darker strands of Irene's hair into her eyes and she shivers, too, against the cold as she tucks it behind her ears. You’ve got both hands balled into your coat pockets, watching her pretend like she isn't about to say something you absolutely do not want to hear. Then, a sigh - the length of which is probably unwarranted. You can feel the frost on the air burning through your teeth as you face back out toward the taxi stand. 

It’s gotten late and you're still waiting on an empty cab - you’re realizing there was never a conversation to be had in the first place.

“For what it’s worth,” Irene says, and there’s an indecent proposal just in the way she glances at you. “I had my eyes on her first.”

It’s all on account of some sort of moral quandary, or whatever nonsense Irene pretends to believe every time it comes up. A gross power imbalance; an issue of innocence and entitlement; a threat of abuse. Something, another thing, patriarchal expectations, blah, blah - she fudges around the details, but never ever cares who gets hurt. Not really.

And it’s doubtful Irene believes what she says, not to mention she’s skeptical anyone is even capable of zipping their way down Karina’s denim, working a pair of hands up the contour of her long legs, and making her pant and gasp hard enough that she forgets to breathe.

Well, supposedly - that is anyone, save the two of you. Nevermind the fact she’s always, always been off-limits.

The bottom line is she's a whole decade younger than either of you. This just for starters - only legal for alcohol by some narrow margin. Because between you and your fiancée there are all these rules: no coworkers, no labelmates, no close mutual friends, no personal assistants, no jealous ex-lovers, and absolutely none of her juniors. It’s in poor taste, among other things.

Also, just as straightforward: crossing any number of those lines has its own kind of appeal.

"Okay,” you say, “then maybe you should be the one to tell her we’re taking her home."

Irene's arching her eyebrows at you like a silent rebuttal. She smiles after a laugh, quick and easy, because it's what she's good at. It's what she knows. “Like you weren’t hoping she’d be here, too."

The ash Irene taps off the end of her cigarette falls to the ground like snow. Hitting the pavement as if it might punctuate the thought. That's a rare first mistake from someone like you, and then a second one from her: she thinks she’ll need to defend herself with an explanation, like she’d ever need to justify anything to you.

“Besides, she’s not waiting for me to ask.” There’s a curl to her mouth - and then, she adds, for your benefit, "she'd follow you anywhere."

The twisted irony is that the two of you could pick up any woman, anyone at all.

"I think it’s a discussion for another day," you tell her, serious. She laughs out loud.

"Which one? Who Karina wants, or that you're aching every bit as much as I am to spread her out on our bed and fuck her? Because I'm pretty sure we can both agree that at this point-"

Your palm curls around the nape of her neck with a touch of on-your-feet-thinking: one of these moments that lets Irene sit with the knowledge of how small she really is against you, her head against the collar of your coat, chin angled just so to look up at your face. And there's only a beat that passes between your fingers in her hair, tugging gently as her hand releases to your waist, her teeth clipping against the press of your lips, before a cab pulls up right next to you. You kiss her hard. It probably looks cinematic.

If for nothing other than to give Karina one less thing to overhear when she comes back outside to join you.

"Really not the time," you whisper right into the subtle twist of her grin. Her cigarette's gone out in the snowy mess, but Irene smirks deeper in response before throwing it onto the wet concrete. She grinds it beneath her boot like a reminder, her hand still firm on your hip.

"What, you don't think it’d make her day? Don’t think she'd want to hear all those kinds of thoughts running together through our heads?"

You pull Irene in closer. “She’s not you.”

-

For context - only so you’re aware how it all starts - it wasn’t actually New Year’s Eve, even though everyone had been drinking like it were.

Also for context, it’s not something you were strictly invited to either. Irene’s company holds this holiday party at the end of every year where all of their employees show up (read: idols; Irene likes to argue about work sometimes - to which you have never contested the value of her labor - but your brain tends to fuzz out in the middle, and instead you mostly just watch her pretty mouth in motion). All of the high-up executives and department heads bring their uptight wives and girlfriends to some restaurant ballroom for a cocktail reception that only really functions for name dropping, or influencing the media, or placing side bets on who is sleeping with the CFO - or whose mistress might show up unexpectedly and meet someone's wife face-to-face for the very first time.

It happens to someone Irene knows, once. You pray every year it will happen again.

Be that as it may, there are a plethora of other terrible ways to spend an evening and a half, but it’s all laid bare in Irene's contract - attendance being mandatory; enjoyment excessively optional.

And sure, it’s taken time, but you have gotten used to it: the industry, all of its excess, the inevitable display, the million and one things required of Irene that you, on the other hand, will simply never be able to relate to.

The machine’s so fine-tuned and tightly wound, like clockwork.

"Yeah, whatever," she had said, leaning her hip against your bathroom sink earlier in the day. Her dress laid out neatly across your bed, already pressed, set with her heels and jewelry, everything set on schedule to the point of absurdity.

And so it goes.

You can hear her brushing her teeth through the open door - and see her profile through the hand-swiped-fog on the mirror. She drags the toothbrush to the corner of her mouth: "And before you even ask, yes, you have to come. That's the deal. That's always been the deal - bored, or busy, or trapped talking to some social climbing board member who’s realized the liquor flows fast and free - I don’t wanna hear about it. You’ll be there."

"Uh-huh," you say, eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror.

"Look, I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she adds, spits, and lets the faucet run, “but this one’s shaping up to be a really long night.” 

You watch the meticulous effort to pull her dark hair back into a low, neat bun as she turns and comes back into the bedroom, tossing her hair clip onto the bed to reclaim later. 

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

"Ever the salesman, Irene," you say, facetious.

"Um, saleswoman, thank you." Her words are slightly muffled by a silk tank top pulled on over her head, then down the flat length of her body until it hits the tops of her thighs. 

It’s not a matter of opinion that she'll look gorgeous in the stilettos, the dress - those earrings that catch light wherever it dares touch her. She'll smile her practiced grin. It'll probably taste sour after the hundredth person asks how long it's been and she tells them she can't remember. But then look - Irene here, still perfectly disheveled: her damp-darkened hair sticking to the porcelain skin of her neck, skin washed free of makeup. She’s beautiful. In a plain and simple way, simple-but-good. Even with the tight little scowl she shoots your direction. It’s a look she has to know could launch a thousand ships; could start a real, actual war; though you're far too charming to know how to fight - you’ve never seen the appeal.

Irene's teeth tug at the corner of her lip like she knows you'd probably end up dying in it. She puts forward this unassuming, nonchalant, “hey.”

She muses it right into a laugh. Covers her genuine smile with her fingers.

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

You’re noticing, now, the strap of her top has fallen just down the petite slope of her shoulder. You want to get your fingers beneath it. Maybe get her back in the shower. You’re never too picky.

And here: an unspoken demand, the thing that always gets you about her - while Irene stands in front of you, her finger looped between the top buttons of your shirt to draw you close. The bow of her lip perked ever-so-slightly, this soft pucker - all pretty in pink. "Before I slip into this dress, you’re going to push me against something sturdy and kiss me until I'm dizzy," she instructs, calm and methodical.

"A lot," you continue for her. You nod seriously, for a moment. "Dizzying."

She closes her eyes and leans in, and you lean into her, too. "Yeah, exactly," she ends up murmuring under a hot breath. "So, get to it.”

And so it goes, and so it goes.

-

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

As a matter of fact, they all do: four shots together - or one old-fashioned, or two vodka seltzers, or three of these mystery concoctions that come in a tall-stemmed glass you didn’t actually catch the name of, and jesus, it fucking reeks of prosecco. You pace yourself, within reason. You really do.

Irene gets elusive under the surface, which is to say, she doesn't change at all - not even at the edges.

And though everyone is here to be seen, only a few actually do any of the talking. Irene has it covered - you do your time.

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

-

She tastes like everything sweet, strong on her heels and sharper on her tongue - and sometimes, it’s not the best mix, given all you can manage is the touch and scent of Irene without actually getting at the insides of her thighs or that tempting stretch of skin under her ear, her neck, down to her chest.

This much, and she has no complaint - hardly seems surprised or inconvenienced - to you stepping her into the wall like it's a matter of instinct.

She just sighs, a short huff. "Don't miss these kinds of parties," she then confesses, right into your mouth, her warm exhale filling you whole. The sounds of people laughing and champagne glasses clicking nearby, a new song starting up, it's all an unnecessary backdrop, and Irene isn't distracted by a single bit of it.

Character, setting, scene; it’s all rather textbook, no? 

You know what the sounds mean, the soft hums, the lingering touches, the firm press of your palm into the dip of her waist or the slender line of her back. She knows where all the cameras are because she knows everything that anyone could possibly ever want to know, such as the fact that this empty stairwell is a perfect place to start, that there isn't a real plan as to where this might go - or when it should end.

And you should know where not to press - or bite or grab or leave a mark - not in some liminal space, nor some vacant practice-room, not beneath a desk, not behind a curtain. No, not here, cloaked in shadow and secrecy, another scandal in the making. Not that the knowledge stops you from testing out the lines, from drawing little patterns up Irene's waist, slipping one hand along the barest skin where her dress has hitched up along her thigh. To a boundary, the low pitch of her voice, some suggestion like, "not here, are you serious?" mumbled across your lips like it really doesn't matter what gets said or does not.

She’s pinned so properly, so precisely, that the discord between her gentle coaxing, and your hard, bruising edge - that sheer incongruity between what you should do and what you should not - can make the adrenaline spike.

She kisses you harder - and harder, and harder. She catches the small sigh you let out. She kisses you breathless.

You can’t shake the feeling that you’re wasting an opportunity, given that you’re both dressed to the nines and are usually more homebody than anything else. Isn’t that the irony of fame? You sign up for an escape, and spend your life running away.

Irene eventually sinks back into the soles of her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, and she smiles so easy. She tugs at the cuffs of your jacket, sets your collar flat and proper.

"I'm thinking," you hear her say, taking stock for herself, the flush high in her cheeks, the tousled sort-of-curls now bared, "in half an hour, if you feel like leaving early, we could, oh, I don't know - escape?"

Escape to a bed with a door that locks, you assume she means. Irene wants; you deliver - however she'd like.

“Sounds tempting,” you tell her. She laughs against your shoulder. "Are you waiting on someone else to sweep you off your feet, maybe? Another offer?"

"Uh, always," she scoffs. It's the little things, confidence, and certainty, the honest-in-practice; how her palms sit soft and secure, cupping the angle of your jaw, one hand, now, toying with the knot of your tie like she's contemplating just how it might fall off of you later. Irene shrugs, leaning her weight back against the wall.

She taps a finger to her lips. Ends up saying, very solemn: "Thirty minutes."

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

-

Irene holds true to her word - she catches you on the second to last pass around the banquet room. Some executive with a slack mouth is just launching into what sounds to be a spiel about a merger - it's unimportant, not well-versed, so Irene sidles up to you, and immediately steals your attention. It doesn't bother you in the least. She curls her finger into the cuff of your jacket sleeve, and without really being prompted or asked - and only, probably, due to the clear discomfort she has being there with anyone else - she begins dragging you out of the room; you, her ticket out of hell.

"I'm so sorry," Irene dons the industry smile and is probably charming. It's difficult for you to tell. You follow her blindly. "So sorry," she tells someone else as you exit, just before you both disappear entirely, "We're leaving. But, we'll see you next year, promise!"

A real celebrity.

The two of you suddenly a duo - and for everyone’s safety, the way it should probably always ought to be - here’s how it’s all supposed to go:

You, standing almost amidst a bank of snow gathered at the curb, your coat fanned out around Irene, shivers racking up her slight frame. All hidden just enough that if anyone were to notice where your hand ends up arriving at the narrow of her waist, they might think: 'it's not really any of my business,' and look away.

Her, curled beneath your touch - even the single press of your fingers over the small of her back as a stranger pulls a car up to the curb; or, the pull of you that ensures the driver can't actually see what you're both up to, what you're hiding; the little reach she makes into your pocket for a lighter, smiling appreciatively as she presses her cold face to the crook of your arm, your jaw, the juncture of your neck; a safe space.

“So.” Irene will look up at you, pale moonlight gathered in her lashes. She’ll make another face: this thousand kilowatt grin or her brow raising - sharp, quick, there-then-gone. She'll turn the lighter over in her hand once, twice, and say, “how long has it been since we’ve done anything social?”

You’ll know it’s not what she means, but you’ll offer her the out anyway: "could go downtown - there's a place you've probably never been to. Might even play your style of music, if you're really lucky."

Irene will arch her eyebrow as she raises the cigarette to her mouth, lit up before you know it.

"Is that right?" she'll say, dismissive, a smoky tendril curling up over city neon and catching starlight.

You're no stranger to what’s actually being suggested - an unspoken sort of arrangement. All because Irene sees herself as being above, hiding her intentions in euphemism, tact; in long, slow drags; in lilting lashes - while she's fully and shamelessly aware there's nothing virtuous about it.

Who the hell else could make it sound dignified, pretty even: ménage à trois.

Then, you’ll do your part. You’ll help interpret: another girl, gorgeous and probably unclothed, another bad decision, or two, the three of you finding yourselves back in your apartment where Irene will not hesitate to run her tongue up the side of a sweat-glistened neck, to tilt her head and whisper out a mantra of, honey, sweetie, anybody ever tell you how good you look between a woman’s legs? Or, fuck, let’s get you out of those jeans, let me take you all in, how the fuck have we not gotten our hands on you before?

Which means the question you really ought to be asking sounds more like, “maybe we can invite someone over?”

You’ll meet her eyes as they flick up - a lazy expression, easy to read. "Bingo," she’ll say, blowing smoke and even more caution to the wind.

Almost to a fault, everything she does draws attention. Every fool with a blog and a camera posted outside of an event will have her labeled on-sight. You can already see the headline - because the only thing worse than everyone thinking you're the antagonist is looking the part. The imagery, red carpet, sexy evening dress, sultry, regal. The caption, Bae Joohyun - they use her government name like they really know her - sulking in smoke, or thirty flirty and thriving? below a thumbnail of her holding the cigarette, with your suit jacket draped over her shoulders. She's a total tabloid darling. Irene the temptress, or Irene, ice in her veins, or Irene - "How does she look so fucking gorgeous without makeup?!" or "Do I wanna hate her, or wanna be her? @RedFlavor_ROYAL," or "In every shot I feel like Irene has me staring into her soul."

Add that to the fact the girl’s utterly shrouded in myth.

Everyone running amuck with speculation; she's the girl-next-door, she’s the fantasy-in-real-life, she's someone everyone could see themselves fucking - she’s the heroine they say, the villain, the perfect wife, the one-that-got-away. They never do decide.

Though there’s only one opinion she’ll concern herself with, and only on occasion: yours.

Her fingers will come in the dark to trail feather-light from your collarbone, between the rise and fall of your shirt buttons, before pressing open palmed to your chest to still right there, and she's such a pretty thing in the plain black dress, all yours and very much in the mood - which you'll already have reason to know, in part from having felt your way around her no more than a hour prior, but also just the way Irene's been looking at you from beneath her dark lashes all evening, that subtle predatory gleam in her eyes.

You’ll hold her close. Irene will have the audacity to comment, “love you,” in this delicate little whisper, quiet like it could go either way - affection or gratitude. Maybe a touch of both.

A car will shortly arrive, pulling up to the curb with snow melting under its tires, headlights in your eyes, and then finally, in no particular order, your heart hammering: the click of the lighter, the falling ash, the sweet easy laugh, the crunch of ice under foot as she steps down beside you, the soft sweep of your arm.

You have no complaints about the proposal. A lack of argument or dispute is basically the same thing as consent, isn't it? For all intents and purposes, as a whole, it's really kind of a win-win:

Irene needs variety, which you're well aware of. It's only natural for someone who can have anything they want. And, sure, you happen to be a willing participant when it comes to satisfying the occasional whim.

So - the conversation will follow you right into the backseat of the cab, simply to iron out the details. 

“Tall. Beautiful. Soft, soft, soft - like cashmere, a luxury brand," Irene will have one heel off and her knee braced up into the back seat while the other leg extends across your thighs, fingers running along your coat collar to make idle circles against the exposed skin there. "Or, at the very least, someone with a little more bend to their character - you know how those prim and proper types always get a bit lost in you.”

"And wouldn’t you know."

It’ll sound smooth, probably. Irene will roll her eyes.

“So, okay,” you'll return to her, right after instructing the cabbie how to get to Irene's place. None of the implications here are lost on you. “You have anyone particular in mind?”

"Hm, I’m thinking."

You can picture it, roughly: Irene's whole body sunk into the dark corner of the seat - one leg idling over the other. Her foot bouncing at your thigh. She has her heels in one hand, earrings in the other.

She’ll look wistfully out the window; the intermittent flashes of city lights casting her face in different hues. The curve of her jaw; the stately line of her nose; her thick black lashes - composition and subject. It's this kind of attention to detail that the cameras scramble to pick up. It’d be better if they got it for the right reasons.

You’ll pull out your phone. Start the usual scroll from the top of your contacts. The girls you know, the girls you don't, the ones who might be awake or who definitely are, regardless of time of day or night.

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

Someone cute, she might say, only because she'd rather not admit, someone like me. There's limits to her vanity insofar as her taste - in all sorts of things.

But she does like the idea of it. Someone young and pretty and impressionable; someone naive, or tiny and helpless; it's never difficult to find the girl who will fawn over her - all wide-eyed and doe-faced the instant Irene floats her fingers across her collarbone, smirking - when she starts at the zipper at the back of her neckline and says, "we’re going to see how wet I can get you," without missing a beat. Someone who will eventually say please when Irene gets a little stern and tells her, "ask me what I'm gonna do to you," in a rasp so smoky that it would make the cigarette seem blasé.

But that, you suppose, is the nature of Irene. A touch domineering. A little more than just a pretty face.

She always takes, but she takes gently - a push here, a pull there, she knows people will give her anything.

It will be more obvious when there's a small voice trembling between the two of you, twisted up in your sheets and simpering with the gentle sort of affection that Irene deals so expertly: two fingers sliding up, pressing down. Curling, beckoning. Slow and tender, without giving up that she's looking for any soft spot; a weak point. Some vulnerability to exploit.

It'll be right after whichever plaything of the hour pulls her lips off yours, off the length of your fingers - or when she unfastens her mouth from the hard shape of your cock with an obnoxiously loud pop: "do you guys do this kind of thing often?"

And Irene, without even an ounce of hesitation, will rip right into the sheer of her stockings, letting out an aggressively casual laugh. She’ll plant a kiss somewhere deep. Say, "oh, honey," as she nuzzles into the crease of her thigh. "We're pretty new to this too."

Everyone, just - believes her. For the same reason you suppose they believe she's perfect. She’s good, really good at all this.

In the taxi, Irene's foot will continue to tap against your leg, until you're stopping her by covering her knee with your hand. As for now, the evening will remain all but written in stone. You'll run a hand through your hair, you’ll lean an elbow against the window - the whole while, ignoring the sudden itch between your shoulder blades at the thought of something else. At the thought of all the other girls who'll take an instant liking to her. Who wouldn't. 

The light will change. The intersection will empty. The radio will turn to static.

You'll eventually offer up a name like, "Jennie Kim," among others. Moving alphabetically down your contacts list. Taking you a long while to make it through the 'K's.

"Hm." Irene's soft hum of disapproval, non-committal. "Are you asking, or telling?"

The difference won't matter. "I'm suggesting," you'll say.

You’ll watch how Irene turns the name over in her mouth a few times before smiling - how she knows, there's the smallest part of you that has her held in a certain light. "Maybe," she'll say, tapping her phone against her cheek in the contemplation of whether or not this is a tentative no or a provisional yes - when really what she'll avoid an answer with is, "aren’t we a little tired of Jen?"

Tough to say.

Good, sweet, and just naive enough to get twisted up between you, in her case. Oh, Jennie’s the type of girl - you'll stuff your cock in her pretty little cunt while leaning into her, taking her arms and pinning them to the base of her spine, so she can't reach and can't claw and can't make an utter fucking wreck of herself. The two of you have known Jennie for too long, is what will strike you then. And a moment later, the idea of sinking into her ass from behind with your palm flat and warm against her hip and your voice husky and deep in the way she likes, and saying, god, fuck, Jen, you’d let me do anything wouldn’t you, you’d let me cum in here too.

And - she would, really.

She wouldn't even complain. Her face would be pressed so firmly against Irene's thighs, and she would whimper, not beg. Even though you know it’s what Irene might prefer; how it makes her look real cute - cheeks stained crimson as the syllables roll around her tongue before being forced out into the open.

"I think she's great," you might say out loud, lowkey.

And in a voice that is louder than strictly necessary, Irene will cut in: "she lets you finish in her ass, and then not even three minutes later she'll say it was the best lay of her life, of course you do."

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

Irene will frown, thoughtful, but not conceding anything - perhaps she means hold onto that thought for now. If nothing else sounds particularly enticing, we'll call it a maybe. "I’m saying: Jennie is. I don't know."

You can hear the end of her sentence: not quite good enough. Not this time around, but someday, sure, someday soon.

"And for the record," Irene will follow, casual, with a dismissive hand wave. "Just because you got to her first doesn't mean she's ever liked you more."

The few that fall afterwards will never make the cut. Irene will turn them all down. Jisoo - no, sorry, look, she's so, so pretty, Irene will be trying to explain, gesturing in a way that's hard to interpret. "But a little too stuck up for my tastes."

You've been speaking in code for years. She means: way, way, way too straight.

"The blonde though," Irene will try right after that. “Daisy, or Lily, oh god something or another, what was her name-”

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

“Yeah.” Irene will sink back into the leather, sipping down a memory or two and shifting her skirt up the top of her thighs.

You'll consider the angle. Your options: Rosé on her knees right inside the foyer of your apartment, Irene's hands wrapped tightly in her hair, controlling the rhythm. The way she gets her fingers spread under Irene's knees and draws her forward, pushing up with her eager, prying mouth - licks and licks, nosing against the heat of Irene's pussy until she’s gasping and locking her hands around the younger girl's head to steady the jerk of her hips.

Then, you'll laugh out loud. Because you know, Rosie isn’t anywhere close to straight enough. 

And the back-and-forth of what-ifs and could-bes will follow. An endless string, a laundry list. Where Irene makes a face for every name, every suggestion: too messy, or too innocent, or too sweet, or too boring, or not nearly shy or gullible enough, or whatever other bizarre caveat she finds to slot between all of her impassioned criticisms. The cabbie will be shaking his head at some point too, because the question hangs over the taxi at large: 

What exact criteria could possibly be good enough for the distinguished tastes and sensibilities of Bae Irene?

-

(The truth is: it doesn’t go like that at all.)

-

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

The run-in starts there, downstairs, out standing in a pool of warm, yellow light. The snow flurrying about in the glow of a street lamp - melting into where her smoothed curtain of jet-black hair spills over her shoulder and trickles down her sleeve. She looks a little cold, but not noticeably shivering. There's a red flush to the exposed length of her legs, between a pair of knee-high boots and the short hem of the coat itself. The stockings underneath offer little in the way of wintery protection - nor do the little bows that rest at the the bands of elastic around her soft, pale thighs - though it's obvious to anyone who's looking why she'd choose to wear them.

An assay into form over function. She's never cared for pragmatism.

But the lines around her are pristine, a clean-cut of shadow and substance; you take a step onto the curb, feeling yourself fall right into the foreground.

Look: you know Karina. You both do. Enough to recognize where it’s calmest before a storm.

Irene eventually calls out her name into the silence, and there is a split-second where her fingers reflexively wrap around the crook of your elbow. Almost possessive.

A car rushes by. Karina turns with her ungloved hand holding her cellphone to her ear and she's fucking gorgeous as can be, always pinning you with these big, unapologetic eyes - strikingly and somewhat deceptively innocent beneath her sharp brows. A breathy huff in response; she's otherwise unaffected.

Her shoulders shrug in easy dismissal; a quirk of the corners of her mouth. She slips her phone back in the pocket of her pea-coat. "Oh, how we all doing?"

Not for long, the question lingers.

"Fine," Irene finally replies, though her voice doesn't rise above a disinterested murmur.

"Easier, right? To fight for breath down here than it is up there," she says, pointing her gaze up high into the rafters of the building, and in a lot of ways, you realize, she's just like Irene - sweet, charming, this uncanny ability to make you think she's close, when she isn't actually looking to share anything. When she hasn't exactly decided that she likes you or anything at all.

You squint slightly. Take in where her silhouette appears darker against the backdrop of city lights, blending with the velvety black, bleeding into the ink-smudged night sky.

"There's certainly something to be said for flying under the radar at these things," she continues, taking one step closer towards you as if for comfort. Or privacy - to guard against anyone who might walk by.

"You've still got it easy," Irene says, "that, and everyone thinks you're too pretty to go after. No one even seems to consider the idea, it’s insufferable."

"Jealous?" Her tone is playful. There’s a smirk she’s suppressing - until she can’t hold it in: an unexpected, stunning smile, dimple and all. This incongruously kind face.

Oh, and listen, no one gets it better than Irene.

"No," Irene exhales, hot. “Not at all.” You can see where the thin plume of her breath hangs over her like a cloud for a moment, thinking, before dissipating against the harshness of a frigid December breeze.

"Really." She smiles at you again. Makes a sound that could be a laugh, you don’t know, the wind takes it, far away.

"Are you out here waiting for someone?" you have to ask. 

"Loaded question." Karina purses her lips for a moment. Her long eyelashes blink once, twice. "Because, I dunno, aren't we all?"

"Some of us more than others." Irene speaks quietly, moreso to herself than anyone else - but somehow her voice carries.

"Cheeky," Karina says, and this time she does laugh. "No. I'm waiting for a cab. I've had one hell of a night, and no interest in spending the rest of it in some rising socialite's bed, doubters excluded, because - look, I'm happy for you guys, I guess? You're gonna get married," she claps slowly, slow and mocking, slow enough that Irene rolls her eyes, "-or, the two of you will make a statement saying that you are - either way it sounds fucking exhausting - congratulations to you both. But seriously, congrats."

This is sorta how you've always known her. 

Faintly-hinted secrets, flirty half-truths. Her love life is an utter wreck, but that’s not something you’re supposed to know. So that's all she gives, which is more or less how everyone knows her. It's the only way to survive, probably, in a world of glitter and glamour, when everyone's vying to look, to feel, to take, and take, and take. Irene knows how suffocating it can be - she doesn’t lie about it, not to you, which is the only reason you're so well-versed.

Point being, no one wants to admit to any cracks in the fantasy; the gold too shiny, the surface too slick, the mirror too smooth for that illusion to slip.

"So go grab a guy with a half-decent smile and get him to buy you a drink about it," Irene suggests, derisive, "arch your back, push your tits out, get creative. I doubt it'll be much trouble at all."

Karina looks down, back up - with a slight chew of her lip, saying, "you just have me beat in all the important ways, I suppose. You got it in the bag, no real competition."

Irene is smiling, but her expression is unimpressed; it doesn’t mean much, really, to be her friend, her colleague, or worse, her opponent. Irene is calm like an evening in July, a low, cool, languid feeling. "I don't mean to be a prick, but, aren't you a little young to be so jaded?"

"Gosh," Karina’s grin doesn’t change, but does turn a touch wicked, like she's biting back. "I'd hate to be around when you do mean to be a prick, but maybe we'll find out - you know, down the line, someday.”

Irene tuts softly. It sounds patronizing. "Please, you'll have to forgive me - for mistaking you for someone more aware of how the rest of us work."

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

"Right." The way the word rolls off Irene's tongue, slow, thick, bitter, like molasses; like the coffee she has when she's tired, like the cigarette she swears left and right she’s cutting out and the vodka she needs you to reach for in the upper cabinets, like the person she is after midnight when you've let her keep drinking to find the limits to her inhibition. You understand Irene too well. And no matter what anyone says, you will not have the facts wrong.

There's no kindness to the way she laughs. None.

She tilts her head to you, grinning: an honest grin, her favorite thing - inimitable, unique, and hers alone; her version of cruelty is what will always have them doubting. You hold her gaze as she adds, "of all things, right now - wouldn’t you just love to set her straight?"

-

Depending on who you ask, you’ll get different results.

Irene insists you kissed Karina first, probably out there in the snow - god knows how cliche would that be.

She also insists that it was you who suggested that “there’s a lot more sense in splitting a cab,” and then minutes later, “please, it'd be no trouble, just let us pay. Our place is five blocks that way," and Irene - being Irene - mentioning it's actually quite a bit further, but hey, it isn’t worth splitting hairs over. And it's not worth explaining - she shuts you up with another kiss, pressing her weight hard up against you, the arm she slings around your neck.

Then in a sort of mythologized version of the timeline, it's you who makes the proposition - invites Karina upstairs, with the charm that Irene knows is usually reserved for her benefit alone: that slight tick of the brow, the delicate slant of your mouth, the confidence you seem to have in thinking no one will ever say no, no matter how brusque the invitation-

"You two are unbelievable. Is this really your standard procedure?" Karina asks, once you're through the door, or maybe during a bout of smalltalk in the kitchen. Something flirtatious; and suggestive, and maybe a little offhand. A pointed glance downwards, back up. All it really will take. "You get some girl into your home and they're just so overwhelmed and dazzled and in love, they can't even make eye contact for longer than a second? Because that's quite a line," a soft huff, the exhale that seems to carry the faintest note of a sigh. You could call it wistful. Just this side of romantic; very attractive.

“That’s more or less the gist of it,” you offer.

“You’d be surprised.” Irene is lingering on it, back against the counter beside you, laughing. "Some people are more than happy to be swept off their feet."

"Imagine that. If that's how this is meant to go, then tell me," and Karina lifts her chin, a breath drawn slow and deliberate, "what exactly do prince and princess charming do next?"

Consider that Karina’s interpretation of events is closer to reality: no pretense. She is not drunk, and in this story, she never will be.

But it's the slow-burn thing, the rivals-to-lovers thing, the sexual-tension-through-conflict thing, the white-hot-blistering-rage matter gone awry. Not a series of happy accidents, but a result of intentional circumstance - this slow arc of descent. She knows exactly how Irene is tightly wound, and which thread to pull to make everything start to unravel. She'd flirt with you right under her nose - say things in this obnoxiously girlish tone, pout a lot, lean into so much innuendo it becomes impossible to miss the meaning, or the sincerity behind it.

If you had to guess - Karina’s been pining since forever, since Irene accidentally etched her DNA into the girl upon saying, carelessly, that she’d always seen some part of herself in Karina. Probably around the time Irene wrapped a palm over an expanse of bare thigh, just beneath the hem of her skirt, telling her, you're getting way too pretty for your own good.

Doesn’t matter who you are, that’ll fuck you up for real.

And it's not just how she looks at Irene when she thinks no one is watching either; swings and roundabouts, Karina probably can’t keep the thought of you sprawled out over Irene’s petite little frame, or Irene kissing you hard while wrapped around you tight. Your hand, her hand, intertwined and picturesque, sliding down Irene's stomach. Together - and so very without her - fingertips stroking lightly over Irene’s clit, gently dipping inside her.

Irene is not stupid. She picks up on everything, and there's a lot to unpack:

"Can you believe it? Minjeong just asked me if I've ever kissed a girl before," Karina had said to you once, ages ago, between a workout or dance practice, something or another - she was wearing a loose-fit tank top and very intent on showing off. She seemed then to be taking mental note of the face Irene put on, the look of someone trying to hold in an aneurysm.

“Well,” you played along, because you’re not really without blame here either. "Have you?"

"Oh my god." Karina knew what she awas doing, the playful slap to the chest, the lingering touches she’d have on you every chance she could get - total fucking coquette - anything to get a rise out of you, your fiancée. She hushed her voice down to this strategic whisper that Irene could just overhear: "of course not."

You better believe Irene broke her composure not soon afterwards, after Karina made her exit. 

"Do not fuck her," she demanded, firm, "I don't care how good you think she might be in bed, or what she would probably let you get away with."

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

You’re sighing, profoundly. The memory - not to mention its shocking clarity - has put a smug sort of satisfaction into your bones, indulging. The nip to Karina's jaw, a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder. A hand tracing down the curve of her hips, under the guise of helping her settle between the cushions of the couch. You feel like you catch the color flooding her cheeks. Then, Irene, her pretty little shadow: the steady presence over her other shoulder.

"What." Karina sounds defensive when Irene pulls her lips away, but the hand she has buried in Irene's hair doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. "Are we going to pretend for a minute I don't see the way you're both looking at me right now?"

"Don't be stupid, darling, of course not." Irene leans up close again. Kisses up her neck, behind her ear, and coos, "the two of us, you just seemed like you were needing someone, that's all," and then whispers the words, barely audible: "I mean look, who wouldn't want the three of us right now?"

Karina hums. "Ah, so - you think I deserve to have a little fun."

"Maybe," she draws it out a little longer.

Your hands dip below her knees, running over the silk-slick surface, tugging at the frills lining her thighs - feeling up over the outline of where her body curves under her dress. Over the dark pattern printed across the front.

Karina swallows visibly, her head dropping back against the armrest, the couch cushion; by the way she shudders slightly and starts breathing, you realize that it's probably been a while since she's had much experience being in a position this helpless. You draw your fingers lightly across the bareness of her skin, right as Irene finds that sensitive spot just where her neck slopes to her collarbone. You trace along the fabric until you have her squirming beneath you both.

She sucks in a breath as Irene drags a touch right over the obvious seam, across the expanse of her hip, and despite your fiancée being a tad forward -

"Both of you should know I'm not that type of girl. Who puts out so easily-"

"Likewise," Irene practically sneers, not missing a beat and threading her fingers beneath her jaw, feeling her pulse against the pad of her thumb.

"Yeah, well. If this isn't a setup, then, what-"

“A setup.” Irene breathes the word out, contemptuous, which is almost as if she says yes, you figured it out, and she starts to lean in closer - the distance between the two of them now negligible as her mouth tightens with her derision. "That is awfully conceited of you."

"Ha."

You choose right there to run your palm between her thighs and cup at the front of her pussy through the skirt of her dress, squeezing tightly. There has to be an element of good cop, bad cop to this whole routine, and you'd be remiss not to participate in the former. Irene's glare is starting to become pretty intimidating.

"The way I see it," you begin, and it's so gentle. Easy to slip through, but easy enough to grip - no threat, or indication that she should stop rocking forward to the motion of your fingers, toying idly. "There's no catch. Only: Irene calls the shots. If you end up with a crush, or worse, think you're in love," a light squeeze to illustrate the point, the dig of nails, not too rough, but definitely drawing attention. "You've gotta walk it off.”

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

“No strings attached, no special treatment. Or anything."

"Oh." Karina is looking straight at you, dazed - as your fingers work harder, picking up where her hips started rolling a second before. She licks her lips. "You're telling me that I'm going to get fucked so thoroughly here, that it's gonna be a problem."

"Actually," you pull away, pushing her dress up so you can touch up ever higher this time. Rooting between her soft thighs. "I can't make any guarantees. You'll need to convince us first."

There's a laugh, from a spot inside her diaphragm - and yeah, there's no denying the reality here. She's nervous; or excited; or nervous-excited. Karina just lets it pass, an exaggerated sound in her throat, before gasping on an exhale of breath: "convince you to fuck me?"

"Between us, we've kissed our fair share of pretty girls in the heat of the moment," Irene supplies.

Karina laughs. Starts saying, "in that case, can I start by confessing that this whole exchange has left me pretty fucking wet-" 

You slip one finger down the rise of her panties, this lacy little number she probably picked out with sordid fantasy in mind. 

"Oh god," she says, voice drowned in her throat, husky, and sultry - it’s really hard not to appreciate the girl, like this - and then she closes her eyes, saying it again, "oh, yeah, like - like that. Okay, thank you."

Irene puts a hot kiss into her lips, and a subjugating silence stills over the living room, softening around her small voice, her breathing. Everything comes together so seamlessly, so effortlessly: 

The click of Irene’s heels against hardwood, these soft sounds of wet tongues twisting and bodies grinding, Karina's face, buried somewhere under Irene's chin, letting out the cutest moan. Irene's helping the rest of the dress up over Karina's ass, then up past her waist, pulling down the scalloped elastic of her stockings. She grabs hold of her hips, feeling the draw of her curves there - you watch how your other half does the thing she does best, the thing where she strips a girl down to nothing like she's doing them a favor.

"Pretty," Irene appraises her naked body - not her face, not her mind, not her ambition or the strength of her determination, or god forbid, something banal like her personality, but, "fuck, look at you, look at this figure," her palm skates along the plane of her stomach, "so pretty."

It could be the insinuation: Irene is ready to reduce the girl down to a heap of jumbled nerves; to tears, probably - given half the chance. Like she's telling her a body as flawless and well-manicured and sweetly receptive to being toyed with as hers needs to get absolutely wrecked, among other things.

(Fucked so deeply, and to the point of utter exhaustion - the point is that she forgets her own name.) 

Irene knows just by looking, her eyes tracing down each and every one of Karina’s curves like they’re taking inventory. It could be as simple as a handprint seared into her ass, a stinging red stain etched into her soft, creamy white skin, marking the insides of her thighs, her beautiful fucking tits - oh, the things the two of you could do.

"How do you want it, exactly?" Irene's eyes are dancing around her face, in her stare, darting down, then back up. "How, baby."

Karina smiles against Irene’s lips like she knows the answer, the perfect one. She must already have the script prepared. It's no stretch of the imagination: "anything, as long as it means you both keep looking at me."

Because maybe it's down to the pure physicality of it all. Something Karina's been waiting to feel, desperate to have, for some time - as you set into action, dismantling any pretense that you weren’t about to devour the heat of her aching cunt, from running touches all over her slick pussy. It’s a strong theory, you figure, from the visceral response you get when you get start to fuck her, when you slide a finger inside: tight and snug, and so unbelievably wet. 

“Oh,” she breathes out, and it sounds sated and needy all at once.

You make sure to glance at her face before pressing another into her. All the way past the knuckles. She looks lost to the feeling, the pleasure; her expression gone hazy-eyed as you start fucking into her with a few steady pumps of your wrist - slow and then faster, then faster again - fucking into her with increasing urgency.

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

"God," Irene kisses softly into her mouth. Her hand tangled in Karina's hair, twisting strands between her fingers and tugging just shy of something painful, "you're really sensitive, aren't you?"

Karina nods, slightly. It’s all she can manage.

You have a soft spot for girls who will spread themselves open like they can't wait, but still end up flustered over how your lips ghost across aching flesh. Who can't even form the words - asking for this, and that, and a million little things; and look at Karina - blushing, her eyes fluttering closed, and digging her nails into the couch the moment you finally put your hot mouth on her. Her entire body is drawn taut like a live wire.

"Relax," you coax, speaking more to the muscle - her legs tensed, and knees pulled tightly together. You know just where to place your lips to make her go to pieces, but it's worth suspending pleasure - your own, and Irene's, who won't admit that this sorta turns her on too - so Karina's face might open up, so the tilt of her brow can slack, and the twist of her expression can soften. Like it's the only chance she'll ever get.

When you place your palm across Karina's stomach to steady her and look up, Irene has started peeling off her own clothes, down to nothing but the little panties underneath. That garter-belt thing that makes her ass look like she was sculpted straight out of clay - a reminder she's always worth your time, no matter what mood she's in, or whether or not she'll eventually let you take the lead. She's lifting herself on the couch to throw off the little slip of a dress, the high heels. “Baby," she purrs, teasing, maybe to distract from how she’s gone from dragging circles with her fingernails across Karina’s collarbones to kneading roughly at her tits. And she might even insert something she's never actually had a chance to confess out loud, or even consider much, like: she's been dying to know what Karina's face will scrunch up into, or what her eyes will look like, tears stained across her lashes while you fuck her within an inch of her life. The image you’ll find when you find all those spots that drive a girl wild.

Your mouth drags over the slick, her lips, her clit, and down again - as if to illustrate the point.

"That feels - so," she starts, and bites off the rest of the words.

Irene grabs hold of Karina's hands. Presses their mouths back together, and bites Karina's bottom lip. Kissing the words out of her, the sentences that start in half measures and stifled gasps:

"- so, good, oh. Do - ah, fuck. Oh, god-"

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

"-oh, do that again. Oh my god. There. Just - lick- please, keep fucking, exactly that-"

And pay close attention, because here now is how she slips: from the image she maintains for the cameras, the audiences, her admirers, her competition, her detractors, the ones who mean it, the ones who don't mean a damn thing; the girl who shies away from anything overtly sexual, or sensual, or remotely hedonistic; and doesn't act as though she too, just as much as anyone else, needs someone to fuck her stupid - as if it's an eventuality of her own humanity, instead of a concept she's learned to scorn.

Irene picks up on the distinction, all too familiar with the look filling out across Karina’s angelic features.

She ghosts her thumbnail across Karina’s nipple. Tries out: "why don't you make her cum, baby, right here, on the couch.” A look at you, a quick tilt of the chin. Then, her tongue peeking from behind her teeth, and her voice dropping, "just so you can tell Minjeong, or whoever ends up asking - 'you have no idea how good they fuck.'"

And just like that - with Karina’s body laid out beneath Irene’s hands, your mouth - you simply fucking ruin her. 

You both do. 

Until it's only a mess of whines and shuddering limbs and that lovely look: pure agony. So helpless. So utterly exposed.

Karina hiccups something incoherent - you’re doubling down. You’re working your touches through the torrid mess between her legs. Her pussy is shimmering wet and hot and every bit as pretty as she is. Then, the motion of your tongue, the slow, heavy flick back and forth, relentless and constant - dragging back and forth, keeping her right up, riding the wave. Back and forth, back and forth. 

"Oh my fucking god." Karina can only gasp, jaw-slacked open. 

Overwhelmed and blissed-out and suddenly awash in this searing and wondrous sensation that the only real way she's able to make sense of is by twisting her hands in your hair and pulling you flush against her cunt while she cums on your lips.

"Ah - you're fucking kidding me. Please, don't stop, please don't-" Karina has her head turned. Voice pitched right into Irene's shoulder. You fuck her on two fingers until she’s got the heel of her palm pressed firm into her forehead, and she’s starting to jerk her hips into your face. Stutter her breathing, her words: “I, I, I- fucking - what the fuck, you’re making me - jesus fucking christ."

Like some delicate and intricate piece of her had just been irreparably snapped. Broken. You hear her expletive-laden screams - and think, better her, than either of you.

And all the way through every last part of it, cresting, waning, quivering, the tremble of her thighs snapped shut against your ears, the grind of her teeth, and each little choked out gasp-

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

Karina spends the entirety of her first orgasm between the two of you, heaving.

The look on her face alone, just from what parts you can see, has your lower gut clenched - it goes from anguished pleasure, mouth pulled wide and brows wound high and tight, all the way to calm and cathartic, the pretty bow of her lips settling into something manic. Eyes softening with a luster, half-closed. A mask, the afterglow: blissed-out and smiling dreamily.

How anyone could say no to a picture like this, you're unsure. Though not particularly willing to test the theory, naturally.

"That was mean," Karina finally huffs, letting a moment pass to even out her breaths. "Both of you, so mean."

"You said to," is all Irene says, amused. 

Karina looks down; lifts her head just slightly - as you bring your own mouth off her, catching her glance. Not even your palm and your fingers covered with the evidence - it's her lips that give her away, the swollen, pouting, bright pink lips of her pussy, still radiant with her climax.

She breathes, "god. Irene."

It sounds an awful lot like she's begging for mercy.

Irene hums softly. Leans in for a kiss, with her slender hands cupping Karina's face. Manages to say: "you just look so fucking hot when you're struggling. Can’t fault us for that." She reaches down, and digs her fingernail into the line of Karina's cheek - near the center, just short of the outer curve where her dimple naturally settles. She works her lips to a very soft, "ow."

"Listen," Irene says, "is there anywhere else you've been considering going? Because in the event you're looking to stay for the night-"

Karina replies, "only everywhere I still haven't gone."

Her smile looks honest. Her cunt seeping and slick - there's abundant honesty there, too. And you manage to catch the wicked glint in Irene's eye, like she's a bit obsessed with all that glisten, and what it means - that Karina hasn't felt a real, good dicking in ages. Maybe, probably, never. That she's slept with everyone and filled her quota of playing pretend: of someone just going through the motions, dragging their mouth or tongue or cunt along the most obvious, conventional routes.

It’s written all over her face: the girl between you needs to be touched everywhere, and by someone who knows how. Needs it deeper, more. Has to feel the pressure everywhere all over.

Irene asks her, plainly, “how might we get you moaning like that again, hm? We're both dying to know."

She puts her hand under Karina’s chin, tilts her face towards hers, and kisses her long and deep. Until the both of them are having trouble catching any breath. Until they have to break, only so one can take another in: inhale, exhale, and back in her mouth.

"Maybe." Karina lets go of Irene's lower lip. She sounds almost bashful, "you'll need to let me get my hands on that cock of his. Let me get it inside, want it real fucking deep inside. Tell you if I'm just, you know. Really fucking horny. Or maybe I have some hangups about sex I've never told anyone - and we have to work past that," she takes Irene's mouth into her own again.

It's the short consideration of sure, mm, why not? until the next suggestion is: "he should be on his knees, in bed, those hands around my waist, behind the small of my back and pulling me into every stroke."

“Oh,” Irene agrees, “I love that. Should I play with myself while I watch him fuck you senseless? So hard and rough - you'll start seeing stars. I wanna see him completely railing into your dripping pussy from behind, fucking you so goddamn well until you're screaming so loud it’ll wake the neighbors."

Karina sighs. “Well I’d hate to get all the way here and half-ass it.”

You barely catch it, but there's a lovely note in Karina's voice. It’s saying, and don't you dare treat me like glass, like I’m fragile.

All in all, a filthy, filthy way for a girl with virtually no ill-reputation or ill-gotten gains - no record whatsoever - to describe how she wants you to fuck her, until she’s biting down on the consonants in your name, moaning loud and unmistakably clear, and-

“-sorry, whose cock?” Irene has no intention of letting her off easy.

You draw away from the meat of her thigh, licking your lips clean, and insert mid-conversation with a husky-voiced, "hmm?"

Karina just shoots you a sharp-eyed look. "You heard."

"Only," you play dumb. You run a hand between her legs, using your palm as you go, so you can pull more sound out of her throat; the pleased sighs, a hum. Another. "The part where you want it 'real fucking deep inside,' I think I heard."

"I mean, wouldn't you?" Karina looks satisfied with that. Lets out an easy laugh and turns to Irene. "Besides, I need to know if it’s more than just pretty eyes and a handsome smile that you’ve gotten yourself so hung up on."

The tilt of your fiancée’s brow above her is noticeable and apparent. Not a twinge of surprise; more like recognition. It's Irene looking haughty - beyond the usual - wrapped up in the afterglow. It's the confidence, and not at all humbled by the reality that she is no stranger to fucking a girl this downright gorgeous, knowing the danger inherent in allowing that kind of damage, but if Irene has you figured - she's figured Karina even better: someone willing to push through the burn. Someone, she’s betting, with the capacity to handle pain like it's an artform.

“Karina,” Irene says, and she's really leaning into it, "you really ought to be more careful with that smart-mouth of yours.”

It's the absolute worst way to proposition someone; maybe second only to what Irene whispers straight into her ear:

"If I had to guess, it’s your sweet, pretty face that has everyone bending over backward just to let you fuck them, hmm?” 

You’d anticipated this much. You watch how your beautiful wife-to-be eases forward and leaves a slow kiss into Karina's throat, before adding the worst, most awful thing she can manage, “they're eating up this adorable, innocent facade of yours just as soon as you let it slip - letting you straddle their waist, and slide right on, and chase some clout out of oh, she must have this tight little cunt, or how good it would fucking feel to ruin a load just slamming these perfect tits, or. The best of the best, when it comes to pretty things with brains and mouths on 'em: 'fuck, I bet Karina has a face like an angel, she's the kind of girl who probably really, really loves taking it raw - filled and fucked as deep as she can manage'."

“She’s insinuating you’re a slut,” you offer on the next beat, down from between Karina’s knees. “Or something.”

"I put that much together." Karina has that teasingly pragmatic tone in her voice, matching Irene's level. "Your point?"

The joke is that even Irene - after she has the chance to drag her thumb across Karina's lips - looks mildly impressed.

"Sweetheart," the corner of Irene's mouth quips, as if the reason is so, so very obvious, "let’s say you’re just like me, total hypothetical. You're going to have to let us know which part feels better: the praise, or the degradation. I know it’s what makes you tick: all the attention. I know you need it. The same way I know that I could eat this perfect pussy out for hours just to get it slick, and wet, and wanting, and the thing I’m still not sure you’d be ready to learn," she tells her, a light in her stare that flicks upwards, eyes going from Karina's cunt and back to her eyes, her own mouth, and then hers, "the really good sex? Isn’t always pretty."

There isn't room for misunderstanding, let alone any mercy in it. Irene's face is dark; dangerous. Like, seriously. Karina knows better. Everyone does. You know exactly what she's doing. You know what comes next, but this time, you can't shake the feeling like-

Like Karina wants you to look.

She has her fingers on her cunt, spread, presenting - and a small shrug; her response is so fucking coy: "I guess I can't really help it. Besides, it’s common knowledge, isn’t it? The brattiest girls always turn out to be the best fucks. Honest, I get so wet sometimes, you know and then god, I can't think straight.” 

She laughs at the premise. 

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

You can feel the room starting to tighten up, just barely: Karina’s breath still heavy, her chest heaving, the way Irene holds her still, how her arm curls across her stomach, palm flat under her tits; that pose in particular, the power to entice.

And maybe it's the fact Irene is still making eyes at you from Karina's shoulder, the cruel bite to her upper-lip, showing how she's working at the soft skin of her neck - a smirk, before pressing into another kiss there. Your insides are running hot, a shudder racing up your spine. There’s no mistaking what she's getting off on, not just some pretty-as-paint newcomer. There’s your Irene, your fiancée - and her beautiful, adorable, awful little shadow.

-

So what if, by some pure hypothetical, this all spirals out of control?

You don't know the consequences of taking home what amounts to a coworker and screwing her with a certain reckless abandon. There’s power harassment, a toxic workplace environment, boundary issues, sexual-fraternization. So on, so forth. It's all relative, but watching Irene and Karina make their way up the stairs and admiring the things that only a woman's hips can do, swaying this way, and that - and, following the path from one tight little ass, the other, all the way up their spines - there are no such qualms to contend with, because there's absolutely zero chance that’s the thing that’ll be keeping you up all night.

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath. 

She has two pairs of panties in one hand, Karina’s fingers laced into the other, explaining with a quick squeeze, "don't tell me, baby, I already know," a wink, a laugh. She’s such a sweetheart when she means to be; charming, wooing, the coy girl Karina seems to have gotten so drunk off the idea of getting mixed up with. And yeah, when she drops them on the floor, and pushes Karina gently against the wall. Traces her finger up her jaw, then her cheek, and leans into the crook of her neck, into that same spot from earlier; yes, Karina can count herself lucky, or whatever.

"So, don't stop now, baby-" Karina's huffing - the line of her throat so taut and exposed. "You should really fucking try harder if you want me to beg."

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

There will come a point in their intimacy, in all things considered, where this act no longer plays itself: Irene, the seductress, and Karina, a deft and innocent prey; of course you, the hammer to a nail, pushed and pulled in one direction, the next. The moments in which her lips leave the crescent of Karina's mouth - hot, hazy, and half-wet with their own spit, their tongues twisting, the muted click, and the telltale wet drag of a body pushing and straining up against her own-

Maybe in her bones, she is begging for it. Maybe, Irene hopes, she'll have to: eyes turned up, watering, tears coming hot, streaming down her flushed cheeks as she cries it from her lungs.

"I wouldn't have you beg for anything."

It's true that Irene is ninety-nine percent grace, one percent child-like wonder; she's easy to read when the mood hits her. The lines of their bodies tousling, twisting and tangling in moon-lit-darkness. There's some irony to it, only a few steps away from the bedroom. At the base of the staircase. In front of the tall windows covered with frost that serve, now, primarily to remind Karina that she's in a part of town she could never afford, in an ostentatious apartment she could only dream of; but most importantly, that the woman in front of her - with her fingers dipping down between her thighs and up again, tracing over her navel and the rise of her hip and her cleavage - can have anyone she likes, without limitation.

Karina can't deny it's everything she wants.

"Karina, I'm curious." You're easing into that spot, where the two of them have coiled themselves up - you’ve got your cock in your hand and you’re stepping out of your pants - in the hallway, the frame of the door, a heavy, long shadow cast: Karina has Irene pinned now, a wrist over her head, against the other side of the wall where the white paintwork is starting to run thin. "Didn't you say something before about how hard you wanted it? Raw, deep, I believe was how you put it."

Irene smirks. It's just the slightest sneer, until she has her hands reaching over the curves of Karina's hips and pulling her fingers into her soft ass. Spreading her cheeks. Touching up, then down, back in the same groove, this slow rhythm that builds - like they were both expecting this exact sequence of events.

You watch Irene whisper something into the girl's ear, and - fuck - the light catches her expression at just the right moment, head lolled to the side.

"Hey," Karina drawls. She lets it come out breathy - on the note, the middle and upper registers of her voice, hitting something near a perfect alto. "How about instead of having some heart-to-heart, and making me out to be some naive-ass kid, you stop asking questions and get to fucking the life out of my little pussy."

She ends it so charming.

“Oh,” you tell her, feeling how fucking drenched she is right at the end of your cock - sliding her slick up and down the length of her cunt, and knowing the feeling will likely stick to your skin and drip to the floor, all of it - "well. If that's all."

Your hand arrives on the lithe stretch of muscle between her waist, right along the ridge of her hip bone, your cock pressing onto the heat of her cunt. Karina turns her head over her shoulder so you can see it all in profile: that pout. That look. That everything.

"There you have it." Irene squeezes the flesh she's got cupped in her palms, drawing circles. "If only everyone else got to hear that sweet, sharp edge you've got underneath, hm?"

Karina opens her mouth with some clear quip to needle, but stops herself, a catch in the center of her throat, her brows shooting up. The pull of her voice is somewhere out and over.

“God, fuck-” she can just manage to sputter. “You’re- ah, ah - your fucking cock-”

Oh, it has you cursing too. You're pushing so far into her tight little cunt - the soft airy moan, that pretty sound, riding back on every last stroke until you've filled her right to the hilt.

“I know, I know - that feels so good, right?” Irene coos.

You just pull her all the way back onto your cock, thrusting deep. Base to tip. So goddamn fucking deep.

Karina probably doesn’t even mean to whimper, but the press of your hips, slowly snapping in and in, has her lungs constricted, as the pressure slides through every hot, slippery inch inside of her - this glide of agonizing intensity.

“I bet you want to just cream all over that cock,” Irene says, fine eyebrows knitting into something like contentment. “All filled up and feeling full, and just fucking letting it go - he’ll take such good care of you. He’ll fuck you so good you won’t ever get that warm, hazy, blissed-out feeling out of your veins ever, ever again, if he has his way-”

All while the head of your cock works over every fucking sensitive part of her, dragging out to thrust all the way into her soft cunt, the round of her ass bouncing back to meet each stroke. Again, and again, until you've worked through that wet stretch of muscle. And the motion isn't exactly elegant. Karina's mouth hangs wide open, catching short breaths that curl inwards when you reach the line of her waist.

“It’s so fucking good,” Karina’s sighing out. She’s all fluster, no bite.

There’s no lack for juxtaposition in the way Irene dotes on her either - these small beguiling bits of praise like, baby, you’re doing so good, these tits of yours are just, you are - just gorgeous. Mouth quirked into a tight grin as her fingers pull and twist around her nipple. The sharp yelp that comes after. The fact that she's kissing the words into her mouth on the very next whimper: “a girl like you needs the time, and patience, and opportunity to have her insides completely, totally, catastrophically ruined.”

Irene had it exactly right on the first read. She’ll say, “I told you so,” when Karina’s washing the cum off her chest or out of her eyelashes in the shower. It’s the praise; it’s the degradation; it’s you leaning down, your hands finding her hair, curling in, and getting her right up against your lips to say it quiet, low, intimate - like a lover, like she hasn't already heard it before, “such a good little slut for me.”

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

You grip onto her hips. You pull her hair tight. Her throat bobs under your thumb and you can feel the anxiety start to throb, her pulse hot and heavy in her cunt. How it soaks the base of your cock. Jesus, you’ll fuck a load right into her. So easily. Her pussy is so snug, so unbelievably wet. Perfect enough to know if you fuck into her any faster, any harder - it’ll be just that: you'll paint right up to her cervix; you'll fill her to the fucking brim.

"Fuck, Karina, this pussy is such a fucking dream," is what you're making sure she knows, and at that, Karina just finds that bend. Arches more of herself to you, until her ass is slotted into the plane of your stomach, the head of your cock prodding, testing the limit where her cunt is hottest and wettest. "God, this has to feel incredible. Your ass bouncing on my cock" - Karina goes slack on the force, leaning forward - "as I rail your tight little cunt."

If anything, Irene is there to catch Karina's tearful, thankful gaze when she finally starts fucking crying, a litany of yes, fuck yes, yes-yes-right-there, please fuck, and a wet, dazed little "you're goddamn - you're ruining, fucking - fucking, ruining me," every other syllable broken by her shuddering breaths.

"Aw, you're going to cum again, huh? Baby-" Irene's got her head at an angle - their gazes locked, watching - and maybe Irene really gets it: how much of a big, bad crush this gorgeous fucking woman's had on the pair of you all this whole time, with all that faux-romance, and lust, and envy wrapped up inside her - but if she wasn't so obsessed with the shape of Irene's mouth, the contour of her jaw, the lean and sleek lines of her frame and the soft, round swell of her ass - she’d still be left with the shape of your cock, where it’s pounding her apart. Fucking her and fucking her up.

It's more than worth the breath to remind Karina what she came here for. Irene's fingertips brush the line of her lips, part them just so. 

“All over him, baby, let him make a mess of you. Just a total fucking mess. We'll fill you up, and fill you up, until your poor, aching pussy is full of cum," and it's probably as well: Karina does what comes most natural to her - with you three, the whole number. Her eyes flutter and go dreamy. There's not even a moment of hesitation:

"-until it's leaking down these fucking thighs-"

"You're doing so good, babe," is your supporting role in all this, murmuring encouragement straight into her ear as you fuck her to pieces. Your breath fans out against her cheek. And then, your hands make a grip under her thighs, holding her steady, making her mouth fall open - this keen, wobbly, vulnerable thing that exposes the naked girl she is, behind all the makeup, and the heels, and her seductive and all-consuming appeal, everything.

“Just so you know: it’s the best fucking part, Karina. I mean, the look on his face.” Irene laughs with her whole body, until the rich, raspy sound of it fills the hall. “The way he bites his lip when he's close, his eyes clenched - and god, I fucking love when he finally cums. It's so good, watching him. Letting him have his way. Feeling his cock throb and spill into you - hot, and still, and just pumping inside you - just so, so good.”

"Fuck, ah-" the little gasp is like she's starting to hyperventilate. 

"Because baby,” is the final nail in the coffin, hammering home, “he’s fucking you just like he’d fuck me.”

"Fucking, please, god-."

Irene's hands have her breasts in their grasp and are playing at where she’s sensitive, then pushing into the soft, delicate space beneath, thumbing the indents. "He's so fucking good, isn't he? Are you going to cream and cream all over his hard fucking cock?"

Then - and because it comes so instinctually to her. Because, actually, your Irene has a slight propensity for evil:

She slaps Karina, right across her tits. "Fucking cum on it."

One.

Tugs hard on a nipple. "I swear, every single bit of you is so goddamn beautiful-"

Two.

"That body is built, perfect. So easy to ruin. And god - what a perfect little pussy you've got-"

Three.

Karina struggles to breathe. Her voice is torn, frayed. She barely manages to utter out a very shaky, very desperate, "harder, fuck- you’re fucking making me so- you can, harder-"

Four.

The cruel contact of Irene’s palm pulls this deliciously hedonistic sound in Karina's throat, a loud moan; like she just hit the sweet spot inside that's all her nerves coming alight. Irene plants a quick peck in Karina's hair. Her temples, the ridge of her brows. Slides her thumb across her eyelashes, brushing them clean from whatever tears had sprung free. You don't even want to try, not at that moment, to try and endure the quiver of slippery muscle all over your cock as she shudders into her orgasm. It's simply too fucking much. She's too fucking tight.

"Aw, shh shh, shh," and then Irene's soft hushes are coming down from the other side of her head. Irene kisses her full, straight on her mouth. Karina is shaking, convulsing and caught and fucked from head to toe - and what she needed was someone like the two of you - to watch her cunt swallow your cock like some magnificent and unbelievable sight, taking the whole damn thing. Irene is telling her, "it's okay. You can let it go."

The silhouettes alone. From the end of the hall, and where the afterimage lingers: the smoke-frosted windows, the dim lights, their bare, beautiful forms - this picture that will stick in the center of your head, will probably haunt you-

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

"I'll cum again, it's too- I'm so-" Karina can only plead and sigh.

Irene shushes her one more time. "It's a lot. It's alright, baby. He's going to keep fucking you until he's ready to pull out, until he has a whole mess just painted onto your ass, and thighs, and I'm going to make sure that little pussy gets so wrecked, fucked, stretched on every last inch- until the thought of sex hurts, and then we're going to make you cum again, and again- over, and over-"

You're leaning over her, nose buried into the waves of Irene's hair, the curve of Karina's back, and the flush of skin in contrast. That's when you feel the coil in your chest come loose - unspooling, and bursting - when Karina's lids roll into the back of her head and her lips fall open with a pleasured gasp and a stammer, "y-you're, ah, both, you're so, both- oh god."

You're about to just pull her down and absolutely cream her, stuff her full - a mess.

And she wants you to-

"That feels so fucking good," she lets slip out on the cusp of a shiver, just as her inner muscles are spasming, milking your cock with the pressure from one pulse through the next, squeezing.

She’s right. It does. Her, coming undone. You, at wit’s end. 

Another breath, and Karina is managing out between these small hiccups - not as much out of breath, just dumbstruck - simply muttering, "I’m cumming, I- oh my god." 

You barely manage it; you unbury your cock from her cunt; you’re cumming all over her ass. 

A shot of white that streaks right down to her bare-slicked skin, before it gets painted down into the crease of her pussy, all swollen - wrecked and raw.

Just the way it feels on her skin is enough to earn another hushed moan from her, this sweet little whimper as she can hardly stand up straight. She lets her knees buckle, but Irene is right there, to catch. Her eyes are closed, eyelids clenching, as Irene tilts Karina's face her way, to lay one, two, three soft, adoring kisses on her mouth, the angle all wrong. 

“Mmm.” The smack of her lips. The pull of whatever breath she still has to give - right out of her heaving chest. "Sore, that, ahhh- um, thank you."

You fiancée wraps a slender hand right around Karina's wrist, and starts whispering to her, unbridled, "just had to. Had to see how you look-"

It’s wicked, for one thing. More than that, it's seamless:

While Irene still has the girl's voice caught in her throat, she reaches around the curve of Karina's hips and drags two fingertips through the puddle of warm cum that sits right at the base of her spine, glistening all over her ass cheeks and inner thighs, slipping and rolling off her cunt, down the center, running in rivulets. Your cum between her fingers is so filthy, so obscene - dripping hot - right off her reddened skin, and Irene can't possibly help it; not after a display as indulgent as that. The trembling that remains in Karina’s thighs does nothing to hide how her legs now jitter and shake under Irene's touch.

“That’s my good girl,” she whispers as her fingertips hover across the apex of her puffy lips. Over and over again, with more force, and more, until you're almost positive it's Karina that leans in a moment later, kissing the rest of her soft assurances right off her tongue.

Listen to her: this incoherent string of words pouring from her mouth, like they can't move fast enough, tripping over each consonant, "are you, oh, oh - oh, fuck."

No one else could make that kind of overstimulation feel so heavenly, you figure, the way she just properly melts. You take a step back, just to let Irene work. Just to watch. To appreciate the craft.

You absolutely get it. 

How to touch, how to tease. Firsthand experience has you know she'll ride your cock until you're throbbing and spilling cum and she'll just shh-shh, let you have it - it's okay, sweetie, just let go - until she's rolling her hips just right, or reaching a hand back to massage your balls, or stroking your inner thigh in that exact kind of spot; some method that keeps her all the way on the end of your cock, but not quite off the edge, and your cum leaking down your shaft, spent.

She’ll bite into her smirk. She’ll tie up her hair. She’ll get that serious look on her face because she knows: you’re all hers for the taking.

So she'll sink onto it, again and again, until she's fucking you with the slippery friction only your own spill might provide. "Just a little more," she'll tell you, which is absolutely a lie, "come on, just a bit harder, I'm so close." Irene does this thing - she's had years to refine and perfect - and her voice gets a husky edge to it as her teeth graze the shell of your ear; she makes a small, pained groan into the curl of your hair and breathily hums it: 'I'm almost there.'

Who stands any chance to resist?

And she's always asking you - the same way she's coaxing and promising Karina the world with just the movement of her fingers, this delectable in and out, in and out, pushing that filth up into the red-soaked lips of her pussy - "now, what did I ever do to deserve someone like you?"

Karina blinks, once - a sleepy-lidded draw that leaves her lashes, lush and long, and fanning her flushed cheeks. 

The sound between her legs is wet, squelching with your cum, with hers, the barest hint of slapping her tender skin. The beat of Irene's wrist against her thighs - like that's where she needs it most - a deep, primal rhythm, like the last thing she wants is to take a breath. It's fucking hot; her head is tilted, her jaw clenched, and Irene has the tips of her fingers twisted between Karina's legs, swirling your cum right back around in her slick cunt - those plump pussy lips that you've watched stretch out on the first press, the first and the second and the third, as Karina finds what gets her there fast, fast-fast-fastest-

"You can cum for me too, baby."

It’s not a suggestion. There’s nothing but expectation in Irene’s voice. 

“Just cum.”

You watch it knock the architecture right out of Karina's legs.

-

Indulgent, just isn’t quite the right word for it. Careless, reckless, clumsy even-

Look - the tumultuous tangle you three make is all over the fucking place.

One moment, you're at an angle, moreover twisted-limbed with Irene bent over her dresser, then propped up on top of yours the next, your forehead landing against hers, feeling the soft cradle of her shoulders, her legs around you. She has her hands wrapped in Karina's, in that muddled in between: it's a collision of sorts.

There's the chair in the corner of your bedroom that really has only ever known one purpose, a plush rug, all these surfaces, horizontal and vertical for you to take the two most breathtakingly beautiful people in the world on and let your bodies settle into the shape they've needed to ever since your fingertips met Irene's in the cab, ever since she blinked her heavy lashes at you with Karina in-tow, just shy of smiling.

And boy, do you learn that Karina likes to watch herself get fucked in front a mirror. Specifically, the tall one beside Irene’s closet. It's hard to blame her. When you hold her hips tight, and really, truly fuck her, you can’t keep your eyes off how her face twists with the pleasure; or, when you drill the length of your cock into her sopping wet cunt: the wide, glossy rim of her pretty lips pulling back into a wince - and your eyes dropping past the reflection of her shoulders, her collarbones, down to her perfect tits.

The back and forth, the up and down, the way they fucking wobble in their beautifully buxom blur.

Though the eventuality remains unchanged, spread out across your bed. Karina takes a moment, hand pressed to the mattress experimentally like it's all running through her head - this is where Irene gets all that fairy-tale-inspired romance from, really - a quick pause where your future-bride is up on her elbows and staring, watching - your finger sinks in slowly, between where she's soft and warm and wet. She's thinking, you can just read it off her face, 'oh. So that's what you'd do, huh?'

Just for demonstration’s sake, you fingerfuck her in all kinds of ways - show-off and performance and dirty and mind-blowing. Because even better than the whiny, gut-wrenching moan it gets out of Irene, Karina can't get enough of how it’s all presented.

"Ugh," she slides up next to you at the foot of the bed, helping you turn Irene on her side, "why does she have to be so pretty, it's annoying, she's- she's like, made it so fucking far by playing the girl everyone wants to wife, huh?" She's talking directly to you, even while Irene rolls her neck to press her head against the pillow. "Inspirational."

You're drawing circles into her clit. Thumbing the dip, circling in the opposite direction. Karina has her nails biting right into the crease where your knees touch. In tandem, you’ll help your fiancée reach the top of that first wave. 

Karina presses, all cheek - a very dry, "cute."

It’s so simple: you eat Irene’s cunt. You hold her down. And Karina slides her tongue lazily against the tight pucker of her ass.

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

“Oh, christ, you have no idea,” Irene is murmuring into the pillowcase, head tilted at an awkward angle, looking at the wall, almost distant; but her legs are split wide and her hands are reaching forward to rub a circle into your cheek, "you know how sensitive-? Yeah. Like, really, super. Super, super fucking sensitive, okay? So - if you'd keep doing, uh, oh- oh…”

Simultaneous, then slow, and easy - kisses landing right onto Irene's clit. So much so, you can't help but turn a little, smiling right up at your girl as she digs her toes into the duvet and threads a hand into Karina's hair.

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

Karina gets to measure that fact up close - where the details of Irene's composure are not only sharp, but also readily and openly and emphatically pound to dust by the time the last loose curl of Irene’s hair falls over her collarbone; she ends up on all fours, spread out over Karina - pressed along the length of her stomach, spread over your duvet and fitted sheets, your hand at the base of Irene's waist and tightening into the divots. She’s so small beneath you that when you bury your dick inside her- 

“Fuck.” Her cunt is so wet. Her breath uneven - and her words are starting to slur. There’s the gooseflesh on her back that lets you know it’s all already over for her. “Okay,” she tries to steady the ache in her stomach, “okay, okay, just- right there.” 

The drag through her pussy is fucking extraordinary. It knocks the wind out of both of you; so soft to the touch, like velvet - she’s unbelievably tight. You pull her hips into you and it opens her right up. Then when you end up balls deep inside your girl a second, third, fourth time:

She simply shudders apart.

Even though you fuck her so slow, so easy - her cunt clenches and squeezes on you like Irene detests the very idea of letting you go. You don’t even need to rail her lithe body to complete and utter ruin just to feel the familiar pent-up tremor starting to build in her muscles, how she rolls her hips back just so-so. How your hands fit that round and pert little ass of hers so well, and when your fingers finally sink in, you’re pulling it all apart to get a good look where your cock shimmers with her slick before disappearing right into her tiny cunt.

Karina mutters something in her ear. It pulls on some thread, somewhere - you feel her wind like a spring, further, and further; your cock edging her so close. The smirk Karina saves for you over your fiancée’s shoulder makes you think she’s figured her out- 

“Irene, look-” 

Well, at least she’s tuning in on all the right frequencies.

"Aren’t we all about being thorough?" Karina raises a perfectly trimmed brow. She drapes her arm across Irene's neck, their lips sliding together again, and that kiss is drawn-out and languid, albeit needy. "So, say," it gets muffled against the seam of their lips, and comes up, and comes out like a slurry, "are we gonna use everything else too? Your mouth, your perfectly tight ass?"

Irene can hardly muster out, "fuck- fuck- yes, fucking, god," as she takes it, so deep. There’s enough there to make both of you cum, you’re sure.

“Who could’ve guessed - like there’s ever been a more perfect cocktease than bae-fucking-Irene," Karina coos, all lips. She plants a row of kisses along Irene's exposed throat. The tilt of her hips, as she pushes closer - as you press the head of your cock as deep as it can go. "Go on. Cum, baby. Be a good girl, a good hole to fuck, just do it. All over his big fucking cock. Let him fucking have you."

Which is probably about the same time you realize that you, Irene and Karina are all well enroute - becoming this one mind, a single unit. This plurality you know there’s no coming back from.

You look down, with a little more focus, and Irene is being pulled apart in every which way - your cock stretching her out, over and over - Karina’s fingers right under her clit, every circle making her whimper. She’s all sharp edges and delicate angles, but manages to be soft for you in just the right places.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” you tell her, shifting your hips; pulling her ass flush and filling her completely. Your grip tightens on her waist and she doesn’t flinch a bit. "It's so goddamn easy to cum in this needy little pussy of yours. All wet and slick, and, hah- just pulsing-"

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

“Oh, right there, huh?” Karina asks. It’s not quite mean, but it’s getting there, fast. “Is that how he’s going to make you cum?”

You thrust on the same angle again, the same depth - you’re hitting all her nerve endings, all her sensitive spots. There isn't even room, now, for some imaginary head-to-head, some verbal volley, the banter; what comes forward is her tiny, broken moan.

How many times had Irene done the exact same, after all. Fucked you without holding back? Fucked you over? The flood of sweet-nothings as you started to approach: honey, you're so perfect, we can go slow, you just have to ask, and if you feel uncomfortable at any point, if you want me to stop-

“Just say please, doll,” Karina tells her.

If Irene told you a quarter of what made it out of the side of Karina’s mouth, you’d have never believed it. "I can't wait to feel what that arrogant mouth of yours will do when he cums inside this cute ass-"

You watch Karina spank her. Hard. There’s a red stain in the round of Irene’s cheek, and her skin is so pale that the imprint of all five fingertips looks stark, glaring.

"Just," Karina presses the rest of herself against Irene's skin and steals a quick glance at you - this half-coy smile pulling on one corner of her lips, "thought I'd do that in the name of-"

"Mmph," Irene’s groan is long, loud, "yes. Fuck, yes- please-"

Karina immediately looks away. An effort to hide the smug satisfaction. She fiddles with the auburn locks behind Irene's shoulder.

You’ll finish the sentiment: "-being thorough," and drive your cock to the hilt. Irene collapses forward onto Karina’s lap.

The sound she makes you swear is a sob. See - for Irene, it’s only about getting control in so far as it is about getting off; she’ll take whatever comes her way so long as it’s directly to her benefit - the theatrics of being pinned, the willingness for surrender, for subjugation, for the sake of telling you, yes, push my knees, spread me apart, hold me there; look at the things you do to me - it's the Irene everyone imagines, when they see the dresses, the gltiz, the glamour, just the brief flash of her grin, or the way she holds her fingernail between her teeth. Everyone wants to put her on her heel and feel a bit powerful. To have you watch the supple arc of her neckline bend, to hear the humility slip off her lips: the notion goes beyond simple kink-

It steps out into pure necessity.

She really, really needs it, and it's written into every muscle and tendon - it's on her breath as it shudders through her whole body. The beautiful, harrowing sound. "I love the way you two fuck me," she murmurs, head buried into the crook of Karina's neck. It's the sort of line, coming from someone like her, you know could raise a few blushes - if either of you was still in the business of such things.

"Honey," her voice wavers. Then, it falters: "please."

The desperation is thick, husky, almost. Karina seems like she's breathing her in, nose tucked against Irene's forehead.

You watch how she runs her nails up Irene's sides, a hot whisper sliding over her skin. You feel it, and so does Irene, this white hot pleasure singing up from the tip of her clit and spreading throughout the soft curves, the sensual lines of her body, this tangible current, a hum, a whine. You see her strain the lean stretch of muscle connecting her neck to her shoulder.

Until her face is tucked under Karina’s jaw, with a hand reaching back and hooked around your wrist and keeping you fucking, filling her, your hips drawn tight against hers, like a second home.

In and in and in.

Fucked-out and outright to the extent she goes completely silent. Almost completely still. The moment she cums all over your waist. Mouth hung open, like she’s in pure disbelief.

It doesn’t really matter, how often or how precisely Karina has imagined the whole thing. It's still a fucking revelation the first time she gets to watch Irene cum.

“No way,” she’s almost laughing, holding Irene’s jaw with both hands. “No fucking way. All the times you- what? No. Nuh-uh. You better fucking explain why this face, you- it’s not fair, the perfect face- I swear, even mid-fucking-orgasm, you are such a fucking doll-"

There's the sheer intimacy - Karina holding Irene's lips open, dragging her thumb down along the center. Quiet and sordid curses slipping from her mouth. And the obvious, her free hand already running down the curve of Irene's spine, her ass: all this sensitive-touching, admiring, appreciating-

"Hey," Karina says, voice raspy and drunk on the sex, the premise, "do me a favor, and tell me this feels as amazing as it looks. Or maybe, for once - just for the sake of fucking argument, is it actually better for the both of us, hm?

Her eyes are half-lidded, heavy, sultry. She's arching up into Irene's warmth - until her palms are spread out against her chest, thumb sliding right over everything sensitive, and she leans right to pull the other breast to her lips, and start all over again. It's clear what she means, spreading her legs as far as she can, pinned beneath the orgasm you're still fucking into Irene. As much as her petite frame will allow.

And in case you missed the point:

"So. What are we waiting for," is what she says a breath later, matter-of-fact, not at all expecting denial. “Or am I not as fuckable as our princess here?"

There's so much wet spill around the base of your cock, and the sound Irene's pussy makes when you finally draw free - all her creamy slick mixed into your mess just fucking leaking around your shaft. Karina holds herself open for you like that, spread wide. All your attention to her pink, raw cunt; you slip right inside. 

Karina lets her arms go slack on the mattress, her chest shivering, lips locked around Irene’s panting breath.

And so it goes, and so it goes, and so it goes.

-

(To anyone taking notes - chemistry, by definition, is the sum total of a certain process; where and when energy becomes matter becomes another.

More relevantly perhaps, it is that race and rise you feel inside your chest. 

Nothing about the sensation, it seems, is too exclusive either - Irene, and now Karina, the pair of them equally devastating, all over and again. It has you in communication with a different kind of contentment: to fall apart inside their embrace in particular, and kiss them with enough breath and time to waste until the morning.)

-

“Jesus,” Karina laughs out loud, “you really believe that? You corrupting me?" she makes another scoff, both hands buried somewhere in the pockets of the sweatshirt you've lent her. "At least do me a favor and cut it out with the solemn tone."

You're leaning over your apartment’s balcony, watching an emergency plow make the slowest grind of progress up the road. It's late. And cold. Or actually - it’s early. The sky is the kind of dark midnight navy you see after all the snow and stars have run through the horizon. Time ticks on, and Irene’s inside sound asleep. A woman that small has no right to snore like heavy machinery.

So,

You and Karina happen to be two things at once: very tired, and very awake.

"What I mean is: I'm sure your manager, or your parents - fuck, someone - would fly off the handle," you say, pulling a cigarette from the pack and offer it begrudgingly. She takes the end and slips it between her lips, a little unsure. You then draw a lighter and offer it, too, and Karina puffs with all her strength. She's no expert, but it looks like the end catches and turns bright. 

A bit of color.

"My parents?" Karina flouts, sucking at it, pulling deeply from her chest - smoke pours from her nose.

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

"Um. Your girlfriend had her fingers in my ass - your cock down my throat - and we're worrying what my parents might think?"

Well. She's got you on that count.

"Not to mention: who the fuck thinks they're so virtuous-" a small chuckle as she passes it back. The cigarette is lit, bright. You take a drag. Watch her tap her feet on the snow. "That they need to do that to begin with. It's more trouble, telling me what to think and feel, as if that hasn't just the opposite effect."

“Irene’s protective, albeit in her own sorta peculiar way. So, you know, by extension, she worries-" you pull, and exhale, the smoke blowing past Karina. It gets caught in her fringe, in the wisps. You offer it back when you see her shiver. "That some shit happens, after."

"Your concern is heartwarming, truly - if you want to let me think on it, I might go and write a nice little diary entry tonight. It'll have sparkles and glitter - if you're that worried." 

Karina reaches in. Lets her fingers graze yours. Her skin is cool. 

“Besides, I don’t need a lesson in image from Irene of all people. She’s her; I’m me.”

She holds onto the cigarette between two long acrylic fingernails, tapping the end so the ash flits out onto the ice. You're caught staring, probably - the dark hair framing her face, all messy and soft, falling about her cheekbones. How that pretty pink blush in her skin seems to never go away.

Your eyes drop to where her mouth is red, a bit swollen - well-kissed; it is snowing again, after all. And it’s easy to be kind of transfixed.

"You're not, I dunno, say embarrassed?" you ask, after a beat.

"Nope." Karina swallows. Brings the cigarette to the pucker of her lips again. You watch how she holds the inhale, holds her wrist up and slacked, head tilted back a little. This exaggerated fashion-model exhale follows, all smooth.

“Because I'm not the type.”

The heavy stream of smoke then blown right into your face.

"Really, I think - sorry, I have always wanted to do that. It felt like a movie. Look," she coughs on the next breath. "I get your dilemma. But also, um-"

There are some quiet moments too, here and there: the heat between your thighs, her pressed up close. She smells like Irene's shampoo and bodywash and that just confuses your head some.

"Who’s to say I’m not just looking out for you," you offer. Every good lie is rooted somewhere in the truth.

"Don't bother," her words hit you square on. "It's about getting off right? You invite me to your bed; I’m so starstruck and enchanted by the very concept of it - Irene and her charming, intoxicating husband. Fuck, I dunno - the way the two of you kiss, look, feel: the experience that you will let me be a part of," she stops and makes another face of amusement, so fucking confident, "you let me play, too, just once, and we're all just a little happier. My version."

“We’re not married,” you correct.

“That’s the part you’re hung up on?” Karina leans over, her upper half across the balcony, staring right up at the sky. “Same difference.”

The moon finds her smile bright like nothing else. It's something infectious. Immediately, it reminds you: of Irene.

"Trust me," she goes on to say. The cigarette slips back into the space where you are connected - the lines of her fingers, her knuckles. "I had a wonderful time, but the sun will rise here, and I'm not gonna stick around to blow you while Irene burns three omelets and finds a spot for me in her fucked up game of house or whatever."

She makes you laugh, free and easy, like a gust of cold air. Something genuine and natural. And as the laugh shakes, Karina makes it impossible not to crumble farther. Not to fucking simper there like an idiot.

“I really thought she was going to make me call her mommy or something, I swear-”

"Hey, I'm sure if you had asked." A spark catches you. The flash of her canine, and those eyelashes. “She’d have done you the favor.”

"Oh, shush." The touch of Karina's fingertip against your hand is delicate, careful - unassuming. But, god, everything with her is just the right amount of heat - it melts you; and when it stops, her touch: that feeling is so cold that you just chase her out of impulse.

"What about New Year's?" you ask. There are still boundaries you really shouldn't be crossing, but here you are, straddling yet one more.

Karina's grin cracks like an old fault line. "You're not allowed to ask me out like that," she insists, batting you away - trying her hardest not to lead with the obvious. You look out on the view, watching a guy in a parka trudge over to a garbage can, a handful of newspaper bundles, then a glance back-

The slightest flush has bloomed up Karina’s face, right underneath where the makeup's been rubbed bare. It's utterly irresistible. "Go wake up your fiancée and ask what her New Year's Eve looks like. Doubt it involves me and my dumb friends."

She’s probably right.

"Karina," you start, watching her push open the balcony door with her foot and walk slowly, lazily, back into the apartment. The window rattles, and she looks back over her shoulder. The bob of her ponytail, the sweeping lashes, that perfect slow-burn smile. That’s how you end up with a title as ridiculous and reductive as ‘original visual’ or ‘the human cg’.

"You’re really going to let them in on what we all got up to?"

"Oh," she makes this low, delighted hum - it sounds so dreamy, how her voice gets the richest sort of rasp, "every last detail."

-

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

There's a bunch of stuff on the to-do pile. A lot of loose ends you have to clean up, a ton to catch up on. Irene is judiciously ignoring all of it. She's wearing her glasses - the ones with the big round frames that should look entirely obnoxious - which means she's already decided she's not leaving the apartment; Karina's still wrapping the world at large around her finger and has everyone convinced that she's all femme, no fatale; and you - well, you're back to thinking about how to climb the ladder and maybe how to stay there.

You head downtown with a cup of coffee in one hand and a musing mood in the other.

On your phone, some more choice text messages arrive in the late AM: had a great time by the way, stay out of trouble, this sweatshirt is actually just mine now, duh. 

The selfie alongside it is pretty suggestive, but just vague enough to flirt with indecency.

She sends one more at lunch where she's gotten out of the shower, or a hot pool, or maybe a long workout - her breasts squeezed between a towel and an arm - she has the camera all zoomed in and framed tight, almost full body. If her intention is to mess with you, that's what she gets. The texts: ah, fuck off and did you have a nice date with your left hand then, thanks for reminding me, the hotel wifi is shit lmao.

The messages just keep on coming and there's really no better descriptor.

And Irene, later, in a way that's neither diplomatic nor nuanced: jesus, don't let her catch you by yourself. For simplicity’s sake. She interprets being alone with a handsome boy as carte blanche to do absolutely whatever she wants and she's vapid that way.

There’s a chance it fizzles out into nothing. An even greater chance it all goes sideways. You'll have to see what becomes of you three.

-

Okay, right - new year, new you. The resolution for the past couple remains unchanged, and unfulfilled - less takeaways and eating out; more meal prep, less calories, healthier decisions.

Irene has this cute little apron over her sweater that is fixed extra tight, the belt trailing down the tops of her jeans to accentuate her nice round hips and slim waist. She knows the nature of her charm, her sex appeal. How it occurs, almost, as if by accident.

You say something that will get right under her skin like, “looking real domestic, Joohyun,” as she slides a chopped onion from a cutting board to a bowl.

She presses her hips out just a smidge, just enough. Turns a bit as she opens up the fridge, and the smirk she has for you, that sidelong glance-

“Don’t you Joohyun me,” is her lightest rebuke. 

She twists her way onto her tiptoes to fetch at the highest shelf. The crochet corner of her sweater rides up a couple of inches, flashing a hint of the fair, bare curve of her lower back. "You can help me by grating the parmesan, hm? Into that," she gestures back at the table, pointing with the bottle of olive oil.

And so you're ten, fifteen minutes into helping with dishes, with the grunt work - with the realization that Irene is going to chop her fucking fingers off if you leave her to it unchecked.

"Actually, here," you say, "can I?"

She tilts her head, skeptical - still, a quick nod of permission - and her slender fingers surrender the knife and wooden chopping board to you. She's tapping away at her phone, finding the playlist you're both always secretly listening to.

"Wow," Irene says, low, as you start dicing mushrooms, a stalk of celery. "So brave. There’s no way I could do that. Is it safe? Are we, like, in nuptial bliss now, do you think? I fancy you, I fancy you-"

It's always this sorta-delicate dance with her: how much should you step up; how much should you put out of hand; how much she accepts versus how she pushes you aside and gets through you all the same. You're too proud, really - both of you - but fuck. She's adorable; the apron adds insult to injury; and it makes the switch in your head simple.

“I always forget how much I love this song,” she’s saying; the rolling pin she’s grabbed is a reasonable surrogate for a mic. When she’s through singing a verse, she shoves it in your face. You don’t know any of the lyrics. 

She doesn’t really care.

You have to laugh at everyone who's ever wasted the effort to theorycraft who she is behind the smoky lashes, the lowered chin, the downturned glance. All the characters and archetypes she'll wear and cast off as she needs.

"Here." She sidles up and tucks her hair behind her ear, the side of her hip grinding into your thigh until she’s pressed firm into the line of your leg. Because she needs to tell you that's way too much garlic, and she's not going to kiss you if your breath is trying to kill her first. She uses the word "pungent" a number of times, just for good measure. Go on - she’s murmuring - taste; right off her finger. If anyone caught this you’d be embarrassed for weeks

“I think, definitely, should open a bottle of wine-”

That’s how you earn all the responsibility for getting the both of you fed; she gets distracted looking through the recipe book.

But there's the way she looks up at you from the opposite of the kitchen island, face held up between her hands, fingers folded underneath her chin. "What?" she asks. 

She’s totally caught you staring.

The truth is: Irene only looks this gorgeous when it's just her. When she forgets that she's supposed to stick to a script.

You tell her as much when you end up fucking her right there on the counter.

It's so slow, atleast at the onset. Her panties pushed aside, jeans spilling off an ankle - the fucking apron managed to make it to the floor but her sweater got kinda stuck on the way up. So you're reaching through some overpriced fabric blend to pull down the wire of her bra and get your palm where she most prefers it.

"Say it again," Irene sighs into your neck, clutching to the back of your shirt - white-knuckled at the seam. "Come on, you can be so charming when you want something."

"I wouldn’t push your luck," is all you choose to tell her. 

You're hitting all the spots she wants you to hit anyway: her pretty pink cunt, slick, all wet for you already. Everything clenching as she arches her back, until she's hanging off the edge of the marble. You find it’s just enough leverage to fill her completely with your cock - stretching her out and open until her thighs bracket around your waist at the perfect angle.

"Or what?" Irene is out of breath, but hardly at a loss for words. "I know. You'll have to remind me how much smaller I am than you, right? So easy to keep pinned."

Well, if you really wanted: "Hah, ah - right." You get right next to her ear, muttering the words as deep as your chest can go - then take hold of her waist to put her in a spot she can't escape. And, by Irene's usual logic, once that happens, that's as much a victory for her as it is for you. You're being compliant, aren't you? The in and out: fucking her, filling her up, pulling your messy cock out of her pussy and slapping her clit just so she can hear how fucking soaked you make her, merely as a reminder-

"I wonder if she was even half as desperate," she moans against your jaw. "Her heart probably stopped the second you, ah - told her, what? About all of this?"

You stop fucking her, halfway.

"I’m sure you wouldn't be referring to Karina, right?" is where you glance at her. “I remember us both agreeing to chalk that up as a total absolute mistake. That was that.”

Irene just swallows, looks off somewhere over your shoulder. No one wears a blush better than her.

But she won't say it. Her honesty is such a privilege. The prodigy-type. Or at least, that's the word Irene chose. Then again, there’s you and your uncanny ability to turn a blind eye. 

To the vice, the virtue, and everything in-between.

"So, can I ask," you press your lips together, finding the point of her chin with a gentle tap - you have her looking you straight back at you. The moment could let you drive back inside and fuck her brains right out, right there, like that - right through, instead: you watch her try not to squirm. 

The tension in her upper chest, the rising heat that settles between her thighs, her weight struggling where you spread her knees, as far open as her body can allow. “How long exactly," you choose your words, careful and pointed, "are we going to pretend that she isn't texting both of us?"

You bury the question deep where she’s practically molten - hot and wet and so incredibly needy.

You do, again, and again. You pull her against you, watching that pretty brow scrunch and un-scrunch as your cock bathes in that soak. And hell, Karina had sent her a selfie today, is what she's explaining when you slow down enough - a bit of red, on her cheeks and her lips, and a lot of black, all the rest - the part about a midnight flight that's on hold until tomorrow morning. And then another, an hour later. To you both: her tits, the lace lingerie - so heavy, and soft, and easy to see yourself getting lost in-

Irene gasps at how fast you find all her favorite spots, then repeats - twice and again - hey, Karina said you're "such a cutie," and she sees her as the perfect mistress-material, don't you think? Wouldn’t it be ideal? The perfect fantasy? The perfect toy-

Obviously, that is morally bankrupt, even for the two of you. And you’re making sure she hears about it.

You ask her, point-blank: "are you really so selfish? So callous." It's ground out, slowly, against her hip, into her cunt. You've got Irene dripping wet, she's running everywhere, and you're telling her, "and this is your roundabout way of asking me to validate your twisted little ego?"

Don’t get it too confused: Irene lives for this shit; that sharp, hard-hitting tone - it drives her up the fucking wall. 

"Duh. Tell me - just a guess," she presses her hands further back, arching into each push. The slim curves of her chest are bouncing, just under her sweater. "You like to feel so guilty and morose but I bet-" she chokes off mid-sentence, you know exactly how, the exact motion that has her wanting. She gets a leg over your shoulder with no effort at all, and your fingers find their place, digging into her hips as she locks into your thrusts. 

Like fucking her is the only thing the two of you ever do.

Your whole body buzzes, it hums in resonance with where her gasps conflagrate to moans - you're pulling her slender frame down into every sloppy thrust and she takes you so fucking well.

"I bet it all sounds like, ah, the prettiest fucking music - in your head-"

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

Because the things she wants to hear never actually leave your lips - your girl, fucking relentless.

Because the line between you fucking her and her fucking you becomes less distinct every time she rocks back and takes you deeper. Or when her mouth catches your next kiss a bit lazily. She takes over to swivel and slide her cunt up and around your length. So good that you have to keep her there. Hand locked onto her throat, digging a bruise or two in her collarbones, fucking her senseless against the countertop-

"Irene, fuck.” Your voice comes out thick, like gravel, and practically as an aside, “you’re going to make me-.”

Irene cuts you off, nodding, shh-shh’ing you into silence. “I know, baby. I know.” This total sigh of agreement - a hushed yes, or maybe uttering something she knows will sink right into your core, two words that sound a lot like “good boy.”

What, is that tacit approval? Probably. It’s hard to think straight.

So you bury yourself inside her, instinctually. Irene tips her chin up when she feels you paint her fucking womb. Every throb - with a fistful of her ass and your face pressed against her chest, sucking and biting and marking her anywhere, everywhere - right through her sweater. Fucking her so full that your mess is dribbling out all over the fucking floor, drip, drip, drip, and-

"Hey, I want you to know that I" - she sounds so amused as she cards through your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead - "really couldn’t ever ask anyone except you."

(All is fair in love and war, is an adage Irene takes to its logical extreme, tangled in your sheets or with a dress puddled at her ankles. A silk stocking rolling down her leg, the crochet thrown into some dark corner.

You never say yes. You never really have to.)

This all before setting her down, off the edge, back onto her feet and taking another half-step forward and having the awareness not to completely flatten her under the full weight of your body, so she can run a hand down between the two of you and her fingertips can start gathering up all the cum you've pumped inside her. Irene tells you in her sweetest lilt to pay attention as she leans back up against the counter and gathers as much into her mouth as it will allow-

The sight alone.

When her head tips back, tongue passing over her knuckles, and she swallows-

"You are so," you sigh into her temple. Her cheek. You've settled the rest to the space in between. “Absolutely unbelievable."

She reaches out and trails the tips of her fingers lightly along the rise of your cock - her softness up against your hard lines. Her eyes flash when you twitch on the fucking spot. It's so tender all coming from her.

And there, a moment or two more. You can see it in the way she has her lips tilting, dreamy. You've always known what you were signing up for - how she's thumbing the nape of your neck - what her ideal outcome was, is. There's nothing and no one in front of either of you to bar the way.

You’ll make your vows like any other.

"Well, hey," she finally says, slow and husky and curling toward you with a smug self-satisfaction.

You push her hair behind her ears, the dark brown locks. Some part of you understands, unequivocally, that she is the absolute limit of how far you would go for any other person on the planet. No questions. In a heartbeat, without hesitation.

The kiss to the corner of your jaw is unironically chaste - before she’s telling you, "shouldn’t we get a move on it, chef? There’s food to eat, recipes to ignore; aren’t you fucking famished?"

-

The bolognese reduces down to a scorch in the cast iron. Too much heat, or too long, you got too preoccupied, who knows - there's a moral lesson to ignore here if you're so inclined. So it ends up being over a tray of sushi delivery that Irene explains to you her working theory like it's high-stakes political intrigue.

"Listen," she's got her chopsticks pointed at you, "for one, Karina, to her core, is a total seductress; and she's told me already, more or less to my face - she gets off on the chase, and hates the other shit. To be involved, or invested."

“Okay then why all the go-around; the wait-and-see; what’s her endgame?”

“What’s anyone’s endgame?” Irene shrugs. “Validation." She slips a tuna roll into her mouth.

"I think you might be projecting."

"Or, I'm simply an extremely empathetic person," her sarcasm hits harder through chewing - she almost gets you, and finishes swallowing to say, "look, she's like us if we were pretending to care, okay? Just more, like - explicit about her lack of intention. So. Doesn’t matter if it's to piss her manager off. Or it's like a revenge-slash-extortion-thing against someone she either had or is having an affair with."

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

"It's not like it’s an unheard-of workplace hazard, come on," and then the final confirmation: "she’s just into it because it sounds dirty and sexy, okay, like everything else-"

"And you figure we should be the ones to dole it out."

"What I figure," Irene says, doing that same mental calculus she did the first time: how, where, why - it's clear. A dozen different kinds of naked are an old, tired song by now. "I want us to fuck her. However she likes, whenever she likes, for however long she likes. Let her think she’s won something, or think she has you totally fucking hooked - I don't really care. Because it would be so much more satisfying to hear you tell me about it - because the idea of you two being like that for me. It's," her words pitch up a touch. 

"That's the fantasy."

And Irene dives into the details. She explains what it could look like, all the more raunchy and ridiculous. This very specific arrangement. It makes no real sense, the conversation alone, and that, you decide - what can't be rationalized - is how she'll take it: by fucking both of you. That's the objective fact. That's the demand.

You listen until it feels less and less like the decisions have already been made.

“Okay, babe,” she’s presenting her case. “Hear me out.”

And she keeps going until you both can see it materialize: "if Karina thinks she can handle both of us, then both of us it'll be." It’s how her fingers end up buried in your boxers and around the throb of your cock. You hear the gentlest laugh Irene has as you start fucking softly into her grip, and she runs her thumb over your weeping slit until she finds you that much more malleable to the suggestion. Effortless almost, she lures the primal part of you from its confines and teases and prods at its wants and desires. Which is also how some charged vocabulary gets thrown in for good measure. Because no, no, no - she's murmuring into your mouth, tipped back, plush lips right above yours - it's not a cuckquean situation, or an open relationship, or anything like freeuse or whatever else might justify the concern. It's not even cheating, Irene’s explaining, strictly speaking, because who said you and I wouldn’t be doing it together?

(Lying by omission is the story you both live - and the difference: she's pathological. You’re just now getting the hang of it.)

"Fuck," is what you exhale out as she opens her fingers, offering. Her thumb glides across the expanse of your head, a trail of pre-cum drawn underneath a nail. And you know all the things her nails can do - can rip your heartstrings. "I mean. God damn. There has to be, like, terms."

There's still sushi sitting on the coffee table, and Irene is placing these kisses into the slope of your shoulder, your sternum, making a show of the movement, how she's traveling down, downward - to her knees. Where she finds the seat between your thighs and tugs your shorts, the fabric gathered down your leg-

"Let me handle it," she tells you, and there goes the cut of your t-shirt, shoved up to your chest. Her grip runs flat, down from the rise of your hip, fingers wrapping around, touching - the flat of her tongue laving across the tip of your cock until she decides to lower her jaw.

"Just think right now. How I want to fuck her and how I'd want you to fuck her, too-" 

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

She has it gliding up, around and against the swell of the underside. Rolling to where you need it, the places she knows you’ve died before. Lapping up the mess she's already gotten out of you-

Like this, Irene's looking at the way that the idea strikes: you and you and you; the only person in the whole goddamn world that can handle her; you fucking know it too - it's the most perfect, hopeless kind of thing. Like the feeling that catches at the apex of your lungs. It burns in your stomach and grips in your gut. She's gone and cut out the nerves - there's the crown of your cock caught in a velvet grip between those pretty pink lips and her fingers twisting at the bottom. 

She breathes deep. Sinks her lips so slowly to the base. Anything, everything you want: to put your hands to the side of her head, to weave your fingers through her hair, and coax her, fuck her mouth like it belongs to you, all slow and hard and measured.

To hear all those wet sounds she makes as she chokes on the end of it. The gags as you force your cock into the back of her throat, holding her head tight, her hair pulled up into a fist, to have that mouth hanging around the length of you, tongue stuck to the bottom of her chin as you move her, your fiancée, your toy. To be looking her in the eye and watching her look the fuck back while she revels in every filthy second of it, not a single damn drop of hesitation or doubt.

"Really think," Irene urges, and she's all innocent when she tips her head to kiss her way up your cock.

She’s trying for some grace or finesse, or both - trying, you think, to make a point; instead, you end up watching her gulp and spit into her palm, just to obscure the sensual curl of her tongue with the sloppy-hard rhythmic stroke of her fist. "How hot it would be if you watched us both choke on your cum. Her face fucked stupid - the perfect little fuckdoll, is that not an image for the ages-"

You get a glimmer of that catlike grin - the one you would kill for a picture of. Something for the wallpaper, or the wallet; you've never met a boundary she hasn't challenged. The most depraved ideas in her head are just, as she is, a masterpiece. And so the answer has never changed - there has never been anything she's not been allowed-

"Trust me baby," she presses her cheek against your shaft. You feel her turn and run that mouth all over. The tip of her nose. Her eyelashes. The wet heat of her breath as she nuzzles the length. "Karina's all ours to share."

Her pout, right there, waiting.

You can't stop yourself from grabbing her face, the crook of her jaw, her neck and the tips of her shoulders. Until it all comes with a good, hard pull. The sound of her mouth on your cock, the blowjob she's been perfecting for years. It's starting to fill up the room, her lips wrapping your shaft - the sound of her being so obedient, the most receptive, sweet, pretty thing: letting you guide her pace until she has a steady motion going. Taking the thick base in her hands and working it over between her fingers. There's only enough room for that before you’re all the way inside her, in and out, again: the tip of your cock brushing over the softest curve of her throat.

When you take her at face value, it's fucking wild: your fiancée kneeling before you. Her chin and neck wet with her effort, lips wrapped so pretty, stuffed, used-

There are no questions. This is simply Irene, doing what she loves.

She pushes a hand between her legs and holds herself together as your hips tilt forward, meeting her halfway-

Just letting you get yourself off in her mouth like it's no big deal. It's her throat - it's her goddamn cunt and ass, and whatever else - because you fucking asked, right? Because you gave her the permission, the choice, the agency.

"Hey, where should I?" you’re muttering as you push the hair out of her face, already half-drunk on her slick lips and realistically only a few seconds away from doing some real damage.

There isn't a need; but you want her to tell you, to use her words. In her mouth, on her face, in her palm, you’ll go without thinking. You’ll cum straight onto your own stomach if it’s what Irene says. Even if she’s acting like you already have.

"Make sure you give her,” is what she garbles out around the hard line of your cock, and it’d be impossible to understand if you didn’t know every nuance to her, if you didn’t - you know - fucking love her. To have and to hold - to hold on tight and for better or worse, and this is pretty much as bad as it gets. 

The syllables come in-between hollow breaths, all wet and sticky. When Irene wrenches the fuck out of it, the base of your cock- “hm, that same sort of courtesy when, agh, I'm not around-"

Because the image alone is what matters. There, getting your cock sucked like you've earned the privilege - it doesn't have to be real, it just has to look like it's a new truth to believe in. The little motions in her wrist are just - hah, fucking unreal - and the way she sinks down lower on her knees for each stroke, from base to tip - lips pressing over the knuckles she has wet, and squelching, and twisting up and down and up-

She places a hand under your balls, the gentlest cradle, and something of your restraint finally breaks - it snaps - her insistence is ruthless.

"Yeah, god, okay- I’m just gonna go ahead-" 

There are these images in your head, of Irene: the upturned brows, the hollowed cheeks, and that slutty-as-shit smirk - and then of Karina: doing the exact same thing. Fuck, your cock is heavy, absolutely leaking cum: you can feel yourself leaking into the press of her mouth. It fills up her cheeks as she blushes into the fuck. Her lips become flush and go soft against the ridge of your shaft - her jaw slack in anticipation. 

"Your fucking mouth, Irene" you breathe out, “I'm going to cum-” 

Just at half the sentence, you're there, sunk into your fiancée's throat. Fingers across her ears and into her hair and watching her own hands pulling you, guiding you-

It’s all flexed in your back. Every muscle. Every fiber.

Irene hums onto a simple, satiated note. She always does, when she tastes it. When you dump a hot load of cum all over her tongue and straight into her throat.

(And yes, some might claim this is the death knell for all kinds of reasoning, but you’ll go ahead and admit it’s so, so worth it.)

"How thoughtful," she says, low and slow, once she's through swallowing the entire fucking thing.

The corner of her mouth tilts up. Because you're finished: two steps left in the brain from falling out of consciousness, a mess on the couch. You get to watch as she pulls you into sorts and slots each piece back to where it's meant to sit. The underwear, your pants. It's with such careful attention. Your soft cock gets cleaned with a tissue and wiped dry. A tiny parting kiss for the tip, her mouth full-on puckered, like she's kissing out anything you have left.

Though it's a pleasant daze. She prefers you soft like this, really.

All you have left to say is: "fuck me, baby." It sounds sloppy and open-ended as hell. "I guess I'll leave everything to you."

If that's a cue or sign for the evening, the only right thing: it isn't exactly misinterpreted.

-

The actual logistics don’t arrive for a handful more weeks. You find it surprising they ever happen at all.

// Karina 10:41 pm > i'm bored.

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

// 10:49 pm > have you tried looking into an incognito tab?

// Karina 10:58 pm > lol, and what is it i'm supposed to be finding?

// Karina 10:58 pm > help a girl out here.

"Send her a picture of your cock," Irene says, like it isn’t a joke. She looks up from the smutty-dash-of-romance-porn novel she's got herself wrapped in, with her best faux-serious expression. The pair of readers that usually are in her top desk drawer have made a new home perched low on her nose. "God knows she hasn't stopped leering since she found out what I'm marrying into."

"Please," you tell her, because she's full of shit. "I'm not sending her a dick pic."

Your laptop is warm on your thighs as you huddle on your side of the bed. That's the point of balance where it feels like Irene isn't trying to look. Though she clearly is. You flick up through a couple tabs just to drive the point home.

// 11:01 pm > sorry. i'm not in the business of just handing out freebies

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

// Karina 11:07 pm > thought we were making progress here

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

"Ask her if anyone's home with her." Irene dogears the page she’s reading and sets her book down. "Or ask if she's, like, tied up or something. Something edgy."

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

"Do you want me to put the readers away," Irene offers. She's wearing the sort-of smirk you always need to be wary of.

"No," you say. “God, no.”

"Ask her where she keeps her lingerie. Tell her she should be thinking about what it'd look like: all naked except a thong. With the straps digging into her. Tied up all nice and pretty-like."

// 11:13 pm > u alone right now?

"What the fuck?" Irene slugs a pillow at you. "That is the creepiest way you could've sent-"

// Karina 11:13 pm > yeah. i am :/

You and Irene are both struck a little dumb by that. 

“Sheesh, she must have had her finger hovering over the reply button.”

"Yeah," you say, eloquent. “Who could blame her, though.”

"Uh-huh." Irene exhales, staring a bit pointedly.

// 11:16 pm > cool if I come over?

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

Irene nudges you with her heel, a questioning glance: the window has just been left there wide open and hanging. She whispers like Karina can somehow hear her through the phone, "you are terrible at sexting."

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

// Karina 11:19 pm > got a couple. i wouldn't be against hearing something that lets my imagination fill in the gaps though

"Text her that you're into her throat and want her to show you her tits," and Irene actually cracks a laugh as she has the audacity to make the request. She's in good form this evening; in nothing but her favorite silk camisole - the navy blue one, which pairs great with all 5’2” of the rest of her. Like the soft curves she wears and everything else isn't bad for your heart. "Seriously, I want you to-"

"How am I supposed to end it?" You ask. The tone is purely sardonic. "Babe. Baby. My future wife. Tell me. You do realize you're basically asking me to bait her, right?"

Someone will eventually put their cards on the table, and Karina, Irene, and ostensibly you will realize you’re all currently having a mental break from reality. Or something along those lines. "I mean. Could that really be a negative," she wonders with an eyebrow quirked and another gesture of her arm like she wants to showcase the night sky beyond the bedroom windows.

"How, what - babe."

"You could promise to let her sit on it."

"Is the cockslut routine an act? Like," you lower your volume, "do you really have a playbook, here?"

"So mean." Irene reaches a hand over. She has her head propped on an elbow, the rest of her sprawled and comfortably positioned on the bed. And you wonder why the fuck you feel compelled to argue a point that so obviously has already been lost. "Just go fuck her already, god damn, I dunno."

Right. So. This was the part that was kind of inevitable - and Irene's impatience aside, you probably were about to win a lottery when you showed up at her door - that golden little interaction: "hey it's me, your rival at work's future ex-husband, I guess - I'm so horny and I think you're so beautiful and wouldn't it be so crazy if we, like, boned, haha, what?"

"Just- have sex. Tell me about it after."

The novel beckons Irene back toward it. She makes herself the picture of someone perfectly comfortable with you walking right into the next most uncomfortable predicament.

The sigh. That long, heavy thing. A leadup you do so often.

The simple idea of sending Karina that sort of message sends heat, low - just under the band of your sweatpants, and right where you've got yourself in the palm of your hand and you're already wondering how this is the result, why your cock is coming to a rise already - god damn - why every thought of Karina's face, and Karina's ass, and Karina's everything, every moment her lip is caught in between those teeth is becoming impossible not to touch. "Okay," you huff, "fine. I'm getting up, I'm going now- I mean it, right now, just give me a minute, I am putting my clothes on."

"Wait," and she's saying, "wait. Wait."

And when you turn around, Irene has this cat-that-ate-the-canary grin all stretched on the canvas of her face. She takes off her readers - her elbows thrown into her lap as she goes to the very edge of the mattress, pulling your shoulders for balance. "Babe-"

"Mm."

Irene likes to get you at a low simmer. The way she runs her thumb pad along your bottom lip. And all those questions - a look into her eyes - it's hard not to fold or break - when she's holding onto that sort of expression, unwavering; no matter how her mouth seems to get soft and curious.

Her lips move onto yours, asking - a push. And your eyes - a brush against a shoulder and you've already gone a whole mile from anywhere decent. There's the touch of her tongue between your parted mouths.

"You'll be good right?"

"I mean, sure," is what you manage, watching her lips close.

"You'll fucking wreck her, and do it exactly how she needs it done." And her brow, knit. She can tell your brain is busy jumping ahead to a hundred different scenarios. "Stop worrying."

There's a brief nod of reassurance. Her fingertips dust down your chest and the rest of the way. You hear Irene tell you to-

"And give her an extra hello from me."

"Okay, I love you, but also you're insane, like certifiable."

"Shush, I know you," and Irene gives your hair a little tousle before pushing you out the door.

-

You're standing there at the front door of Karina's apartment a little after midnight, bathed in dim, orange wicked fluorescence. Like it knows your sins - past, present and future. There's no obvious answer when you go knocking, and for a half-moment, you're thinking, okay, it's alright, this is how I let someone down easy-

Until she answers and leans out, pulling open the door. It takes you by surprise-

"Well, I'd normally let you in," you hear Karina say, and a smug smile starts to cross her face, "but..."

It's about the degree to which she looks hot and a little off kilter in this tight t-shirt - a snug pair of panties around the sway of her hips - that almost sends you spinning. There's not an ounce of self-consciousness; it's like a punch to the gut.

"Aeri's date went south and she's drunk. She's passed out on her bed, like, right now, I don't think-"

There's no bra. It's hard not to get fixated on every detail. Like her nipples, practically standing out. You have an irrational desire for her to take a step back, further into the room, further out of your vision's reach-

"Uhh," you croak. And you do have the mental faculties for, uh. For telling her. "Maybe, you know, later, could be better, yeah, maybe call me."

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

"No, no." Karina has her hands searching up and underneath your sweater. Her fingers dance flat up, right over your stomach - teasing as she hikes you back inside. Right past the threshold. Your mouth is half-caught and stupid under her, the gentle hum and pressure on her lips. "It means we need to be quiet."

She drags you another step forward, with just the hot flash of her gaze. 

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

The laugh she makes into it, this one little scoff - it's an acknowledgment: an agreement. It's one of the worst fucking sounds, and the whole damn thing gets to you. Like her ass wasn't the perfect fit for the palm of your hands- like you don't want to trace your fingers under the elastic of her panties.

As if it wasn't fucking clear enough. It's the tongue in your mouth and the hands in her hair. She's kissing you soft, she's kissing you deep; her weight rests and pulls back with each swell of your ribs, pushing her fingertips down until they're skating, slow, low into the grooves of your spine. Like she's getting familiar with you again.

"Okay," you breathe. She laughs on your lips and presses forward - pulls you back, farther- "uhh. Okay."

She must see the confliction you're in-

"Hey." Karina keeps going until you've got her backed against a wall, until your thigh has pressed into the crux of hers and your hand is in her shirt. You don't miss how she lets her head tilt back when her eyes shut. It's her. There's no disputing the reality. "Whatever you want to do to me. That is all I've been thinking about. Do it."

"I- don't really-"

She makes a decent show of crossing her wrists and tugging her shirt right over her head. Tosses it someplace safe enough. "So are you just gonna leave me in suspense, or do you need my explicit, enthusiastic permission?"

Your lips draw themselves a blank on anything useful, while your heart rate accelerates.

"Here try this: you’re going to fuck me until I beg you to stop. Then you’re going to fuck me some more. Or whatever- then we can go somewhere, I don't care," she offers with a half-whisper. In all her goddamned glory - barefoot, almost bare chested - it's not like it could be any other thing.

-

You’re not exactly supposed to end up on your knees for this.

This isn't quite how you pictured-

Okay, fuck, Karina's making the prettiest noises where her spine is curling up against the wall; those sounds you couldn't even make up. How it feels like the easiest damn thing, because there isn't a question to why. Every inch of you is pressed to every inch of her. You know what you'll taste on your tongue, which of these breasts belongs in your palm and the fingerprints in the dips of her waist - her lips on the curve of your jaw - every mark and bruise on her skin, every hint of it is real; it's fucking you up because you're kissing the woman that Irene picked, the woman you met - it's how you pull yourself away-

Karina, for the longest few seconds, is shocked into stillness.

Because you could, of course, decide to give this one last shot, your head between her thighs and eat her out until she was so fucking wet your cock wouldn’t even enter the equation. This is not actually a new idea; the possibility has run through her mind enough times already.

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

"Do you need instructions? I can get a bit graphic."

"Actually, you know what?" you choke a little, and - "trust me."

You stand straight up for a moment, a second, an extra fraction. You slip your cock inside her hot cunt, and, yeah. She collapses right into you. You’re holding up her just enough to fuck into - she's starting to breathe deeper, harder; you've got her pinned like that - a hand on her neck, fingers sinking into everywhere she's softest: her tits, her ass, her waist, her throat, and there is nothing that isn't some version of fucking glorious about Karina's weight grinding, heavy onto the tip and onto the ridge and down the thickest length of you-

And her face, jesus christ, her fine brows upturned, the tears heavy in her dark lashes, the little gasping-sobbing sounds that spill across her wobbling lips - this is the both the easiest and the hardest part: seeing her get absolutely fucking ruined-

(You know, god help you.)

-

Irene doesn't even have to ask. There are hickies and bruises shadowing in on your neck, your chest - these marks you never remember Karina giving you, and a ton of scratches all up your back.

"You know I was going to offer to make you breakfast," Irene says, smug, "but I'm wondering if Karina got to you first."

"What the hell do you think?" you say, dumb.

There are eggs burning on a skillet that are never going to be salvageable, no matter what Irene says. She has no respect for the process. And her voice is full of that infuriating smile: "was it everything you hoped?"

"God," you mutter, trying to mask the embarrassed laughter in your words. You can hardly move an inch on her behalf.

"At least tell me something fun, you insufferable tease," she presses her nose into your hair and tickles the spot on your side, just to be a pest.

You lay it all out for her. Everything she wants to hear.

-

Surprisingly, there’s still plenty to learn about each other; days to weeks to months. The first real thaw of the year comes, and you’re quick to fall into this odd rhythm.

Karina won't actually join Irene on set or production very often - too much heat. It shouldn’t have taken so long to figure out the two don’t belong in the same room together, and if they’d asked you, they’d know - but no one ever really does ask you. However she does spend more and more time around the apartment. In and out of your personal spaces. And maybe a bit in between, or a little underneath too: how she seems to slot herself right into every possible fold whenever Irene’s away.

Always traveling for this reason or that.

And god, the perfect powder keg Karina is - ticking, short-fused, all ready to explode. It’s ironic, you think, she’s drawn to scandal the way Irene will do anything to avoid it, and here, she's found her ultimate indulgence.

The quick lay, the time and place you know you can be patient in pulling her apart, the everything in between. 

In fact, you’ve taken to calling her "babe" just so she doesn’t think twice when she gets your cum pooling deep in her cunt, all hot and sopping. Looking like the picture-perfect centerfold. The fucked-dumb face - all twisted in your grip, flushed-red; and the musky scent of sex; the noises and her presence alone. You fuck her, and fuck her, and fuck her, rubbing a thumb across where the mascara runs thick.

To be the gorgeous girl, cock-drunk and fucked-out in your lap - so simple - so natural: Karina finds her way over more often than not.

After your shower, after your nap; your work, the bar - Karina’s never more than a text away. And you'll keep a hand around her waist as she stands around in the kitchen, stealing Irene’s leftovers out of the fridge. Karina ends up straddling your thigh right there at the breakfast table, holding onto the wood for support as she cums all over you.

The long and short of it is: 

She's fucking you. She's fucking your fiancée. She sees no problem in having her cake and eating it too. The only caveat is: Karina thinks neither of you know what's actually going on.

“You gonna say hi to Irene for me?" she's teasing one day, snapping her bra back into place. The t-shirt pulled over all that glossy-dark hair, the shimmy of her hips just to get back into the world's tightest jeans. She presses a fleeting kiss to the corner of your mouth. It's such a stark, clinical goodbye - ending with a flick of a thumb across a screen. "And oh, let her know if she ever wants me to teach her a trick or two. Anytime."

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

Karina does the most insipid thing. She fucking winks. “I’m sure she would.”

-

"Uh, are you kidding me?" you ask Irene. 

It's late one night, and Irene is standing in the kitchen in her pajamas with a welt the shape of Karina’s lips kissed right into her jaw. A couple drinks in your system have given you both a false sense of clarity, and also an ill-timed desire to solve all your goddamn problems. You lower your voice. "In her ass?"

Irene has that all-triumphant and dopey grin that makes your heart ache for her. There's a soft curl of her hair loose, thrown across a shoulder. "I’m serious, pull her hair right, hold her wrists until her back has to be arched. Pin her to the bed," she continues to illustrate, "it's all in the finer points of how much. Tell her to count, even. I'm not joking-"

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

"-she'll let you do anything, promise."

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know.” Irene wags the spoon at you. “It’s great.”

-

It's not only the hypothetical-homewrecking that gets Karina so torridly wet for the whole affair; when she's pinned beneath you with her legs spread and her toes pointed skyward, or perhaps later - the same day even - riding Irene's face in a locked dressing room and crying out - "ah, hah, jesus, please-"

In her head, she has you both at her beck and call. Forget semantics - Karina is a fool to her own illusion. Because in her head, not only has she managed to go toe to toe with the industry's reigning monarch, she’s managed to win.

-

You don’t exactly know how Karina ever intends to keep it casual. Because things are damn near constant:

It’s a weeknight, and the moon is high above the windows, casting a crisp rectangle onto the hardwood; it doesn’t actually matter, as far as Karina is concerned.

Irene’s on television again, the sequin in her dress clinging tight, and she’s found the gaze that never breaks for the cameras. Found the flash of her most practiced smile - that little chime of laughter she has that sounds like striking pure gold.

Then Karina: sitting cross-legged at the very end of the sofa. One leg thrown over your thigh, she’s got these nylons on her feet and she’s poking a toe into your ribs. "Isn't she stunning," you hear her muttering, "honestly. Doesn't it, like, turn you the fuck on?"

Her foot grazes your lap, all casual at first; the impossibly soft-curved heel of her sole. There are so many ways she'd prefer to pass the time and they almost all involve getting under your skin, if not just outright getting into your pants.

“Elaborate.”

"I mean listen, in your case, just knowing your fiancée is up there looking like a total angel and at the same time, thinking about you; how she’s got to be considering every which way she’ll unwind just after the showcase - at least, that’s what I’d be doing." She licks her lips, teeth. "Hell, I’m only imagining how pretty her eyes are when she can barely keep them open, and that’s enough to ruin my panties."

"Are you really."

She shifts her weight. Puts that ankle to good use. Rubbing it into the crease between your legs. "Tell me," her lips curl. She’s looking at you dead-on. "How does she usually prefer it, hm?”

Like a wildcat, you suppose, your Irene - a pretty, little predator. You could tell Karina everything, but you don’t. Instead you let her wander into the lair of her own making. Her eyes: light and curious; it’s written in the lines of her face how she's picturing it all so plainly.

“I’d guess she lets you go slow. Or hard. Or maybe a little rough and then you make her cum, and then maybe, just maybe, after the teasing; after the edging, I guess, that's when she comes in hot. I would hope."

Karina twists her foot around, swings her weight onto your lap, and sucks in a sharp breath when you reach out and grip the lean lines of her hips. It’s as easy to hold her still as it'd be to drag her across the couch and under the rest of your body, fuck the goddamn tension until there was no longer any room left for the pretty smirk in her lips. And her gasp would probably sound a hell of a lot better - than all the needling quips - a much louder and much less-pretend whine when you could throw those thighs open and really pound her wet, aching little cunt-

“Easy,” she chides when you end up taking two handfuls of her chest. "Shouldn’t you be more supportive? For god’s sake, it’s your fiancée’s moment in the spotlight, you know-"

There’s nothing stopping you from popping off the buttons of her dress, one by one by one - and kiss right there, into the swell. Your voice feels all the rougher when you respond, "and what a moment."

Her fingertips skim over the places she's been kissing you, where she's been marking and claiming and trying to, at least, to stamp you like her personal property - when the look is that serious. All cold-burn. Right through to the bone.

“So.”

You can feel her touching into your pants. The heat in her soft, silky thighs; she sits above you, keeping a leg on each side. A part of you feels trapped; another is confused why you aren't turning the tables right now - flip her and ride out her cunt on the couch. Some passing thought, or just a fraction, the only one that matters in that particular instant, wonders what Irene would do, will do - has done - in your situation. How her hips would roll. How Karina’s moan might sound when she dug a nail right into a sweet spot.

You push Karina's skirt a little farther up her body and try to gauge the moment she's finally decided she doesn't mind.

“How about you keep your eyes on her, and I'll suck your cock while you do," ends up being the short and not-so-sweet of it all. “-or maybe you can get off between my tits.”

She wraps those fingers around your base and pulls gently. It's not a decision, but merely a continuation, a culmination: a gesture made entirely to pull the response: the hitch to the throat. Her nails skim that ridgeline as her eyes track across the cut of your features. It makes you groan into her next kiss, to say, "if you wanted it so bad, babe, you could’ve just said. Would save us a lot time-"

"Are you complaining?" she husks, pulling your pants down your thighs. Your cock is in her hands and she smiles like a cat - licks her teeth when it twitches at just the slightest touch. "Yeah, I didn't think so," is how the breathless laugh leaves her lips.

You catch the quirk of her brows, her tone: straight-up, like nothing. You’re almost buying into that until she's got your shirt on the floor, those lips of hers in the divot of your collarbone, and her tits wrapped around the base of your cock, and, well, fuck-

She actually wastes no time - none at all. A couple feet away, Irene covers her laugh with one hand. There's a brass award in her other. And the television casts this soft, pale glow.

Karina tips her head, and a curtain of her dark, silken hair spills across the ridge of her breast. She runs those big eyes over you, all wide and round and vaguely-deviant. There's the perfect amount of motion, of squeeze, just a light-bit of pressure, and she's got a face smug-arrogant in an instant, knowing. Fuck, her hands on either side start pushing into the line of her cleavage as she bounces and rocks and draws every inch of your cock up through her soft tits and back down again.

"Fuck," is the harshest exhale she's ever dragged out from you.

She hums a low sound, all self-satisfied when it's her own namesake: your body wants her, like you know the full weight of her needs, your touch, how badly she's fucking craving to get off and still not admitting to anyone it might be more than sex. Like it's really as easy as her next breath, the flutter of her lashes: Karina wants your eyes, the weight of your attention and she's not going to beg for a fucking thing. The feeling, you think, is mutual.

"Irene," she says, her smile as open as it could ever get. "She's just so gorgeous, right?"

On one hand, she’s speaking between the lines. A perfect tincture of deceit - the bawdiness-by-nature: watch me, look at me - is what she might as well say - look what I can fucking do, the whole lewd display. And, god, how she knows every way to make a guy want it, like she wants you to remember it.

Because on the other, the movement is so, so direct. 

Karina twists herself in an upward tilt, just an easy, practiced thing; she lets her tits spill around your cock and through her fingers, full and soft - and her lips part, mouth slacking alongside yours, matching the sounds out your chest with her own. Like she knows exactly which slide of slippery friction will make you moan, or which pull and drag will send your teeth straight into your lip.

"Isn't it crazy," she lolls her head a little, letting her own saliva drip down the center, onto your weeping slit. "How much I want your cum filling my cunt, even knowing she's the one you'd rather put the ring on," the drag and drag and drag - her tits are fucking incredible, and she knows it. She pushes up with her fingers and gives you a long draw right through the press, right where the nerve endings run electric, right where she keeps moving, up and down, and up and down- 

“-it must be hard, I mean, jesus christ. Here I am, needy and hot. Begging you to wreck me and my only sin, hm - the sin of being second best, right-"

"Holy fuck, you're-"

"Obsessed," she says, and drops her tits against your waist again. "I know, I know. How could I not be?"

You're left muttering into the titfuck alone, watching her rub your precum up between their soft shape, feeling the slight give, how her skin goes warm. The act itself: such a simple-thing-bordering-on-the-absurd that you notice how you coil and flex beneath her curves, how she feels so soft and warm. The slight pucker of her lips every time your cock escapes her cleavage does little to help. It's probably the fault of the brain-fuck but the wet of her mouth is practically everywhere you look. You could eat her alive right here, spread her legs on the coffee table and finish with a bit of screaming, groaning and tearing, and no one would ever stop you.

But instead,

"-it's a good color on her, really; but then every color is a good color on her, isn't it so unfair?" She's taking your cock into her tits, deeper on every rock forward and back, holding them close - a gentle lock of those long manicured fingers keeping it all together. "Even wearing no color at all; you must just love how all the freckles are so easy to see," she murmurs, squeezing tight. The sound is wet, messy. A filthy chorus between her dirty words and the dirtier action, and just that glimpse of friction when she strokes down again is maddening. You're all slippery. So sticky-slick, so tight.

Of course there's not a fucking inch of a reaction out of her; you want to get off so bad-

"You could close your eyes," she tells you. "She would still be there. The sound of her laughter. The image. In that dress or not," and her mouth furls into a half-smile before she pauses. Reaches down, pulls her tits around you impossibly tight. "Just so damn pretty-"

You cum just like that: 

"Babe," is what you let her have. The soft, undercurrent hiss. "Fuck."

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

Well, mostly up - along the expanse of her neck and throat, coating where her breasts sit so pretty against the lines of your thighs. Across her sternum and the hollow of her neck - her body's covered in your shared mess: slick-filthy-hot, all strewn across her perfect tits.

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

"Completely covered in you." She's still smiling. That deep-cut and perfectly symmetrical curl of her lips. The gorgeous fucking shade, and her chin, how her cheeks flush, just a little - they've always turned pink in the most specific places when she gets fucking cum-soaked. “I know, just look.”

And her hands slide across her chest, trailing a path through the thick of your release, spreading the glaze all down her front. Making it messy, making the exact look a guy sees once and is driven to the ends of his sanity - just to spill his load out onto her. To get her all used, and trussed up: just how she likes.

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

You can't do anything other than what's expected: take her up in a kiss, breathe into the mess you've made on her skin. The gasp is full, surprised - just enough, maybe, to count as genuine.

Such a mess - she murmurs - um, come on then, you can do a girl a favor. Bath bomb, bath towel, bath robe - and really it doesn't have to be a suggestion.

You’ll pin her down and fuck her right over the lip of the tub if that’s what she really wants. Just being in her company is indulgent and excessive and begging you to make a terrible habit of it. Have some self–restraint, she has this tone in her voice sounding more and more like a dare. There's just enough there in her hands: one reaching for you and the other reaching into the porcelain, swirling up the lather - and that look on her face, as if to say, can't believe you have me waiting, like some desperate, depraved pervert - only it’s more explicit than that. Only it feels worse - and her mouth is moving again, speaking into the air that already feels stifling hot, words cutting through the steam: you're not very nice, I mean really, it should come as no surprise how she turns out, having this jerk for a fucking boyfriend- 

Nevermind. Not a dare, it's a challenge. She was right the first day you undressed her, the brattiest girls always have the worst kinds of fantasies, the darkest little tendrils of self-destruction. How she's laying there, asking and telling, pushing and pulling; and how she thinks she's so clever too.

Though that is no reason, she laughs, for you to think she won't love having her pretty cunt cockwarmed and spoiled for an evening or more. - And so it goes, and so it goes, and so it goes, and so it goes.

-

(Really, to Irene’s credit, she had Karina pegged right from the jump. A character study in, well, herself.

She's seen as an ingénue by the press, and an outright savant to the executives. They know her as the obvious successor. They give her the runway, they watch the leggy-girl-turn, the model-posture, chin held high and aloof, looking down at the gathered throngs of photographers.

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:  

But her favorite game - that bit of innocence served on a platter, ingenuous when it comes to spinning a flaw to gold, and the deception too - Karina loves and loathes every second she spends upstage from Irene's own, hectic, international production. Because if anyone asks her, that girl would claim it's never been a competition in the first place. 

So you see, if you and yours have both decided to ruin her-

It is a disaster-in-the-making, isn’t it.)

[capslocked]

HONNE, TATEMAE & THE OTHER ONE

male reader x shin yuna

9k words

Yuna shuffles into your office with the same sneaky smile, the same easy slouch, and she settles into one of the chairs across the table. There is, apparently, more to talk about.

It's a matter of image, of perception, is what she believes. 

You know every good lie starts with the truth.

So you swallow. You pause. Some other part of you understands Yuna can't ignore who she really is, and you’re not sure you can either.

-

Look - Shin Yuna is the kind of woman that turns heads, even with the best of intentions. A long, lithe silhouette; an easy, rosy sort of youthfulness clinging to the swell of her cheekbones, the curve of her waist. Take a dress that's cut to show a little thigh, or a hairstyle pushed back on one side - earrings, or heels, or just the subtle swipe of red over her lip - it doesn't take much for men (or anyone else) to figure that out. A girl who, more times than not, really ought to have a boy's hand planted on her ass, in possession.

So the opportunity to capture such a form perfected - all toned and graceful and flush for curves, her legs never seeming to end, the slithering fit of the dresses - these were the things they wanted. Package it, put a logo on it - better yet, a ribbon or a bow - and ship it straight to the consumer.

Somebody everyone wants, somebody no one can ever have.

“So,” Yuna asks from the other side of your desk, lips slanting halfway coy. “Are you going to treat me like an adult?"

Her fingers play idly with the hem of her skirt, and she lets a long, slender leg slowly slide out from beneath her.

“In what way,” you answer, half paying attention.

"The photos." She doesn't have the slightest qualms about lifting it higher. The soft creak of leather, and a deepening smile. "Am I not allowed to be a little racy?"

"That's certainly... one way of looking at it."

You glance away from where her stockings wrap around the soft curve of her thighs to flip back through the photos in your lap, one after the other, each a little different from the last. The beach, the sun, a flimsy white slip of a bikini top that hides exactly nothing, her muscles wet and glistening and perfect. Beyond suggestive, it's considerably inappropriate.

But then to a lot of people, Yuna is a lot of things. 

She’s more clever than anyone gives her credit for. And she’s fucking gorgeous, sure. That’s definitely not up for debate, but god is she young - she's barely twenty. And here’s some rather uninteresting food for thought: you couldn't even technically take her for a drink without faking an ID or breaking some law or another, like a real one. So go ahead, chew that down. Girls her age are typically studying, or working a retail job and getting wasted on the weekends. And they aren't typically making six, seven figures turning their head to the camera and asking how much more skin?

You have some thoughts.

Prudently, you’re her publicist, and it’s your job to make sure that the public gets a good look at her and sees exactly what you want them to see. It's unfair. She wields sex like a weapon. She's got the face, the body; it's an easy sell, commodified and commercialized down to the finest detail, the softest curve, the slightest arch of her brow. The idea's to not let anyone look too long, should they catch something you haven't approved yet, or the fact that she's quite possibly a real person with a real life and real feelings, which could easily fuck up her brand, so unfortunately, that's a bit of a no-go.

Sign of the times maybe, no ethical consumption under another something, yadda yadda - it's a shitty business, really, and the whole thing usually leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

(And just to be upfront, as an important disclosure: you are fucking her brains out on the side, which is a different kind of ethical dilemma, with a different kind of flavor to it. 

You’re supposed to be something of a role model - and she’s gone and fucked up bad by falling for you. From her perspective, it probably makes sense. Girl gets boy, bespoke song, credits roll and it's fine. No sin to atone, no 'after'. 

It was supposed to be a one time thing. It’s metastasizing into something you’re not even going to attempt to put into words. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen, you know that. And you know the girl has daddy issues, but then you've never had a problem whatsoever playing into it. The possessiveness, the control - she gets off on it. You're pretty sure that she'd do just about anything if you asked her, and you'll admit that the thought alone makes your stomach stir, your mouth run dry.)

Yuna taps her knuckles on the wood of your desk. “What’s the verdict?” 

"Well, professionally," you say, caveat in hand, and you give the photos one last flip through. "I'd say they're fine.”

"Oh?" Yuna cocks her head to the side. Her long, blonde hair curtains over her shoulder, and the smile that shadows in at the corner of her mouth is almost wicked. She leans forward, chin propped on a palm, and you see that her expression is bright, glittering with interest. "And unprofessionally?"

Sure. It's a fair question.

Though she's wearing her stage face, the one that looks all big eyes and doe lashes, a hint of a pout on her plush bottom lip, and she's staring at you expectantly, the way she might look at a man she's just asked for the time.

You've seen her look a million other ways. You've seen her with her knees spread, her cheeks flushed, on all fours, straddling your lap, face pressed into the sliding glass door of your shower, her eyes screwed shut as she chokes out your name. And god, doesn’t she look good in all of them.

Your fingers tap against the photos.

“Unprofessionally," you tell her, and the smile on your face is tight - unknowable. "I think they’re a little… gaudy."

Yuna frowns, and it's just a flash before her expression is carefully blank again, the stage face back in full swing. She's been doing this since she was a teenager, so the mask is impeccable, but you know her, and you know that she's thinking: about the photo shoot, the way the photographer was looking at her, and the way you had looked at her later, too.

She knows what you've seen. She's wondering if that's why.

"Really," she asks, a note of disappointment in her voice.

"Really," you confirm with a small sigh, though you're still smiling. It's a small, private sort of smile, like you're remembering a joke. You don't miss the way she glances down at your mouth either. "Let me be clear, you have a shot at real success. I mean, you have a chance at a career. A real, sustainable career.”

She's sitting there with her legs crossed, her foot tapping restlessly, and when she's silent for a moment too long, the way her eyes narrow just a smidge, her head tipped slightly, you realize how it sounds. Patronizing.

"Look," you amend. You're not the best at apologies, but you try. "I just mean - I think that you could be doing something that you actually enjoy."

"Who says I don't enjoy this," she says, and there's a bite in her tone, a challenge. She's leaning back in her seat now, arms crossed.

"What, taking your clothes off for the camera?" You laugh, a quick bark. Isn’t that a cruel question, and you can see it in the way her eyes flash. "You could do a lot more than that, I'm just saying."

"Right," she says, and she doesn't blink, doesn't even move. Her gaze is fixed, unwavering. "Because I'm not pretty enough."

You open your mouth. Close it.

It's not a question. It's a statement.

"That's not what I'm saying-"

"Do you know what makes me different from the IT-girl-of-the-month? The Jang Wonyoungs, the Bae Irenes, the Kim Jisoos of the world?" Yuna cuts in.

"Yuna, this isn't-"

"You should know. " She laughs. "It's your job, knowing things, isn't it?"

The silence stretches thin between you. She's not wrong. There’s the quintessential beauty, the timeless classic, the fantasy-wrapped-up-as-a-daydream - oh, it's all sexual, but the product there is palatable (read: marketable). An idea the general public wants to take home to their mother, not take to bed. A beauty so docile and innocent, you feel guilty harboring those untoward thoughts it makes you have.

Yuna is somewhere possibly, someway probably the opposite. You’ve sold her as such, as fantasy in sheep's clothing. She's neither afraid to put the images to words, nor speak her desires aloud. It's her own brand of sensuality, and it's what the public wants - has always truly wanted, since the dawn of man and of popstars fucking their publicists - what the public wants but turns itself in knots just to pretend they don't. The only way it’ll end up in anyones’ parents' home is under the guise that it will be smuggled upstairs and held down into the springs of a mattress. Hand over her mouth, or maybe around her throat, just so she'll shut up.

She's not a nice girl, or the girl-next-door, a bride-in-a-box, but you'd known that before. The line between fact and fiction is fine indeed.

"You're different," you tell her, finally.

"When I first came in here, you had no qualms, no issue to raise, and now all of a sudden, everything is too much," she says, and she's not smiling, her tone flat. "If it was a problem from the jump, you would've said so."

“I just think a little subtlety would be a nice change of pace. It could go a long way, I mean, I could show you the data- "

"So you're going soft on me, is that it?"

You blink, and the realization hits.

"Just where was this noble version of you when we first started out? You had no problem then, remember? Put a sixteen-year-old in front of a camera, in this industry, and all of a sudden-"

"Don't."

“And suddenly it's all 'oh no, that's a little too much, we need to dial it back'." She sighs, a single sharp burst. "Why is that? Is it because you think that now you own me? I fuck you, swallow your cum and call you daddy, and now these are your decisions? Is that it?"

She’s standing now, her chair shoved back so fast it nearly clatters to the floor. There's a storm on her face, almost a rage. This now become a familiar story. The one where the girl's too pretty for her own good. Too much, too soon.

"I'm not a child," she tells you, her tone measured, a sharp contrast to the fire in her eyes. "I know what I want. I know how to get it. You're not telling me anything I don't already know. I'm different. You're right."

She's different, but the girl's clever, too. And she's stubborn. It's a dangerous combination.

You breathe slow. "Then why don’t you act like it."

“If they’re going to call me a slut,” she hisses, and she's walking forward. Her palms land on your desk, hard, and you glance down at her clenched fists, at her neatly kept nails, "you know, after we leak them all those steamy photos online-"

Your mind clicks. You reach to slam the cover of the photo book shut. She's caught your hand, though, in hers, holding it firmly to the desk.

Yuna glances at the photos over again, at the tight fit of the swimwear, or how the ties slip in an invisible breeze. And she's biting her lip, trying not to smile, you can tell. "You know it might be worth it for once," she says, slipping a finger between the buttons of her shirt.

There's a long, tense moment, and before you can register it, Yuna has rounded your desk; she’s closing the distance, fast. 

And she’s lowering her eyes. Putting her lips on yours.

It knocks the wind from your sail, for just the instant. You're speechless.

Because her fingers. Her mouth. Her hair. Yuna's everywhere, and she's warm. It's utterly selfish, you understand: you want her to be yours. You want her to be yours and no one else's.

She’s realizing she might be.

You feel her grabbing for more of you. Wanting. She tilts her head, her breath hot, and you kiss her back, her mouth slick against your own, and the kiss is a fast, deliberate kind of messy. Your teeth catch her bottom lip, and her tongue slips past yours, licking into your mouth, her hands clutching at the collar of your shirt. It's not like it is when you're fucking, which is slow and hot, and she's on her back, legs around your waist, her nails biting into your skin, or when she's bent over the arm of the sofa, her ass in the air and her back arched, her breathless moans a chorus of yes, yes, please. This kiss is more battle, more heat, less gentle and less finesse. It's the kind of kiss that's just short of an argument.

"You're an asshole," she breathes into your mouth, and it's not a compliment.

You smile against her.

"So are you," you murmur, and her lips are parted, her eyelids fluttering shut, her breath coming quick and hot.

"Then maybe you should just fuck me," she says. She's not asking. “Yeah.” You press your words right into her neck, her collarbone. “Maybe I should.”

Your hands are on her hips faster than you can realize what it is they’re doing, palms pressing into her, and then you're walking her backwards, shuffling a few steps until the small of her back collides with the edge of your desk, and you're lifting her up onto the surface, the photographs falling to the floor, scattering.

"I thought we weren't supposed to do this here," she murmurs, pulling away for just a moment, her mouth swollen and wet, her eyes dark. She knows exactly what it does to you: the goading, the taunting - the looks of faux-innocence later over a bare shoulder, her ass in the air. How it can get you to fuck her within an inch of her life. What it’ll get her, the return on investment.

"And I thought we agreed to longer skirts."

Her thighs are smooth, silky, and they part, the lace of her underwear stark against her skin. You slide a hand beneath the elastic band, sinking down, and down, until she inhales sharply.

"The fuck do you end up doing going up the stairs?" you add, and your fingers are tracing the swell of her hip, and you can feel the goosebumps on her skin.

She bites her lip. You sink down to press a kiss to her thigh, and then the other.

"Nothing," she tells you, and her eyes are wide. "I guess it all just hangs out."

She simply smirks right back into you, throws her arms over your shoulders. You’re snared, caught - she’ll always be able to fuck what she wants right out of you.

"Jesus, Yuna." Your hand curls around her wrist, thumb pressed to her pulse, and her shoulders roll back.

You push her down, and she's sprawled across the desk, legs stretching wide, her head tilted back and her chest heaving. “God, you’re so fucking wet, and I've barely touched you. That turns you on? Being a brat?"

She sucks air past her teeth, and you can measure each rise and fall of her chest. The lace under her hips is soaked, her pussy swollen and pink. Like if she doesn’t get your hot, open mouth on her clit this instant, you’re both going to have a problem.

You slip two fingers into her instead, and Yuna keens.

"I know it does," you say, and your voice comes out lower, drier than you expect. She's hot, so wet around you, her pussy fluttering. "It fucking turns me on, too."

"Please," and “god,” is what all you receive back in half whispers, while her legs are spread, her heels now really dug into the square of your back, and she's got a fistful of your hair like she owns it. Her voice is high, her eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t be such a fucking tease."

You're not going to make it easy. She's not going to make this quick.

"What, and you aren’t?"

You curl your fingers inside her, and the noise that leaves her is positively obscene. She's grinding against your palm, her hips bucking, and her lips are parted, her eyelashes dark and thick, fanning her cheeks. She's panting, her thighs trembling.

"No," she breathes. If she’s shaking her head, you can’t tell. "I'm exactly what you tell them I am."

Your hand stills, and it takes a moment for her to realize that the pressure inside her is gone. Her eyes snap open, her mouth twisted.

"Fuck you," she spits. "Put them back."

You're already sinking down to your knees, and you've got her skirt shoved up, the lace panties pulled aside, her hips canted, her pussy glistening. The stockings can stay, fuck, the heels, too. She's so fucking hot, her legs spread apart and her lips red. Her palm shoved into her brow, and her breath just barely more than a ragged huff of air. You can feel her body wound tight and ready, her eyes on the ceiling.

You put your tongue against her, flat and slow. Inaccurate, indiscriminate, licking up her wet cunt. And her whole body arches off the desk, a cry leaving her mouth with her head thrown back. Her thighs are shaking, and her heel presses into your shoulder, and god, she tastes incredible.

"Please." It comes like music, really, a song of desperation. You can hear it. She's singing it for you now. "Oh god, please, fuck-"

So you do her one better. You put your whole mouth over her, and she fucking shivers. You don’t even try to ease into it - you're devouring, ravishing her, working your lips and tongue all over her pussy, lapping the length of her in broad, hot strokes, and she's almost shrieking, her body going taut. You suck on her lips, pressing your tongue into her clit, and when you pull off her, your hand takes over the place where your tongue can't quite reach, her wetness slick around your fingers. Yuna's close - you can see that she is, you can hear that she is, and it's her gasp that lets you know.

"I'm -" she says, her voice reaching higher, her nails digging into the flesh of your shoulders, the wood of your desk. The sound she makes is wretched and beautiful. "God, I'm cumming, I'm cumming - fuck!"

The licking, the lapping, the fucking fingering. You can feel her slicked cunt pulse and throb in a satisfied, anticipatory kind of way. Even if she wasn’t audibly wet around your knuckles, you’d read Yuna like a map.

Your thumb taps across her clit, once - twice, thrice, and it’s just that.

She arches off your desk, thighs trembling as your tongue works her over, This hard, hungry kiss, and she tastes as sweet as she looks - as filthy as she acts, too. Her pussy is slick, her hips rolling, her body trembling, and she's making soft, little ah, ah, ah, sounds into the wet seal of your mouth. She's trying to keep it quiet, because she knows as well as you, everyone in the damn office does, probably - it's one thing to play at being a slut. A complete other to really fuck like one.

Your finger slips in and out of her pussy, and then another. They fill her up. The knuckles bending and pushing deeper. Yuna's fucking ruined - your desk is ruined.

But then there you are, complicit, and perhaps a little evil: licking and licking and licking right into her, making her grip twist in your hair and her thighs clench around your face. You can feel it in how her breathing is coming fast, faster, her whole body growing taut, and it was never going to take long, you figure, the way her hips were rolling the moment you got your hands on her. You can tell. She's close, and she's so pretty, all flushed and writhing, her skirt hiked up, her ass perched on the edge of your desk, and when her mouth falls open and her breath catches in her throat, you pull yourself up to watch her, the heel of your hand pressed against her clit, and she's shaking.

"Look at me,” you tell her, a kiss trailing unsatisfyingly into the crease of her thigh, your voice running coarse.

She does, her gaze glassy, and the sound that leaves her mouth is a sob. That’s all it really takes.

“Show me. What face you make when you cum on my fingers sweetheart, show me what a slut you actually are-"

You can watch it all in real time, the panting, the heaving. The sculpted lines of her pretty face screw up, real tight, and she lets out another moan, breathier this time, her mouth hanging open. She does it again when you press down. And Yuna fucking shakes, her hands balled, white-knuckling, and the desk rattling beneath her.

It's all a matter of slight degradation, you’ve learned, the barest humiliation. Like the paradoxical freedom she knows she can find in a hand clenched tight around her throat or her hair pulled and twisted into a fist or the sharp sting of a smack across her ass. Her pretty face. She likes a little something that burns. Something sinewy, visceral, raw: you call her a whore, a filthy fucking cumslut and it makes her body curl like she has hot metal pressing into her skin. Makes her breathless, like she wants you to own her.

Sometimes it's better than being fucked.

(Sometimes.)

Because just look at her: she’s in the middle of coming apart, mouth fallen slack, brow furrowed - and she gets real quiet when she cums, the absolute opposite of the journey she’d taken to get there, all those loud little, uh-uh-ah, fucking please god, her moans, her whimpers - her orgasm ripping right through the middle of her, the hourglass of her entire body stiffening on borrowed time as it washes across her features.

You let out a loud sigh, something she can moor herself to that isn’t your fingers, the desk, or your hair at the roots. Yuna can be every bit as uncomplicated as she can be complex, but god, you love her most like this: an unrehearsed, beautiful mess.

"Baby," you tell her, because it's easier to just call her that, and because you don't know how else to end the statement, because you know if you ask, she'll let you - hell, she'll beg for more, and that’s got your brain feeling rather mushily incoherent at present.

"Daddy," she responds - because of course she fucking does; she’s gasping, and her cheeks are still so pink, her body sated, and your heart leaps into your throat. 

It's a problem; you've been trying to work it out for a good few months now, and by this, you mean the little moment you have right after you're done, where your eyes meet, and you smile at her. A problem, too, her lips. A problem, because she kisses you, soft, and slow, and easy. A problem, because her heart's probably already yours.

If anyone were to ask, you would have said there's no greater pleasure than knowing a girl that's almost died to take your cock, but maybe that's the point: it's just supposed to feel a bit better if you're a little head over heels, a little stupid about it too.

"I'm going to use this perfect pussy now," you warn her - just simple formality - because you're already rolling her down onto her back, your cock hard and aching against your trousers.

You've got your hands on her stockings, tugging them down to her ankles, the lace of her panties around her thighs, the neat garter of her garter belt wrapped around her hips, her cunt bare beneath it. You unzip, too slow. You tug yourself out.

“I’ll be good,” she says to you, a promise.

“Yeah,” you return to her, “I know.”

And you slip your cock into her cunt, just barely - maybe an inch, maybe more - and you hear a little noise leave her throat, low. Broken. 

“Fuck,” she murmurs, and god, you just can't help it, it's easy; you sink deeper, nice, slow, everything smooth inside her, until another broken sort of gasp spills off her lips. 

And then another: "oh my fucking god."

You snap your hips back in, bottoming out this time in the wet heat of her perfect cunt, and she just fucking collapses. Yuna looks like an absolute dream in this state of half-dress, half-distress: black suede around the ankles, stilettos, with just the perfect heel. There are worse things, you can imagine, and she looks perfect sprawled out against your notes and portfolios, all this hot, aching want. As gorgeous as she is fucked. You tear into her stockings, a little. You’ll tear more. 

You already know you're going to hell. Or at least that’s where you should already be, but you hips crash into hers again, fucking her legs wider apart, spreading her open across your desk for you, getting her slick all over the photos, her career - it’s all so perfectly unfair.

"You have no idea, the things I want to do to you right now," you breathe, your tone hushed, and you're talking again, like you often do. There goes your mouth - but your hips drag back, and then again, her pussy clenching, vice tight and impossibly wet.

It's a long, torturous, lazy sort of a pull, that draws these pretty thin moans from the very center of her.

And the way that feels, your cock buried deep in her cunt: better than good - heaven, if you care enough about labels for it, or the names of things. You haven’t any real way to tell; the gates haven't opened or anything, so all you're working from here is an educated guess. From the fact that Yuna’s eyes have slid closed, her lips parted, and her whole body starting now to tremble gently with it.

"Jesus, this perfect, tight pussy grips me so good, god - such a good girl, always so fucking wet for me," and your mouth is pressed to the arch of her ear, whispering every last thing you know will make her cum again, like a dream.

And she is, she does.

She's twisting up to grip at your hips, her head falling to one side. When you drag your cock through her cunt, slowly, you watch her lips purse and the way the flush moves all the way down the column of her neck, past her collarbone, her shirt half undone and her tits heaving against the white, sheer fabric. You fuck her for a little, and then you roll your hips slow, so slow. 

Until your pace is fucking punishing, deep, and so hard. You can’t help it.

Because it's unbelievable - she's so perfect, so tight around you. Fit snug like a glove, like she was made to take your cock, to whimper and mewl at your mercy. Her lips part further and she keens, her brows twisting in similar disbelief as you pound your length into her. The heat pooled in your belly, the way she looks under your desk: fuck, she's so beautiful like this, properly fucked. 

You'd let her ruin you for life - it's that simple.

"Yuna, you - fuck," you barely say, and you sound more than slightly stunned, so she’s filling in the gaps, elaborating in the spaces you cannot - that she loves it, that you’re so good for her, and so is that, and that, and that - the way it hits, right there, keep fucking her just like that, because right there, right there, right there, right there - the way she props herself up on her elbows to tell you, "you're fucking me so deep, oh my god - yes, oh my god, fuck."

By the time Yuna shudders through another orgasm, a silent ghost of a wail leaving her pretty frozen mouth, her lashes are batting against her cheeks, and she's biting her lip, so hard you're certain she's going to break the skin, her back strung like a bow. It's the look on her face, that soft sort of reverence, and how her lips are swollen and spit-slick, the pretty hollow of her throat. Your thrusts become faster, shorter - your own moan thick in your throat, your jaw hanging slack.

“Here,” you say, and she’s just putty between your fingers, on your cock.

You’re flipping her around, onto a different angle. You know she likes it, the way her tits are pressed against your desk, and it's hot the way her ass tilts right into your hips, arched. Proffering. "Be good for me, and spread yourself open."

She's already so meek when she complies. "Anything, sir. Stretch me out; I want you to make me yours."

God, she's practically purring when she talks like this. She knows exactly what that fucking does to you. Knows that when her eyes draw back, big and watery and full, you're a goner - if your cock wasn't deep in her pussy, fucking her open and raw, the view would nearly be enough. And all of this, the pretense, the pantomime, she knows how to bend the line of your body to her own, because when she turns, and presses her red mouth to the crest of her shoulder, you are hers.

You could probably cum, right now, deep down into the molten hot of her cunt: if your hips keep up their ruthless pace, if her ass was sticking up the slightest bit more - the sound that would come from her.

"Take that perfect cock - and fuck my pussy up," Yuna mewls, her voice saccharine and slurring, a touch whiny. She rolls her hips. Your cock grinds, still, though it stutters now - shallow and quick.

"All this pussy, for daddy's cock," and you're sure that the entire office can hear her now, the moans that escape from her mouth - but you can't even find it in you to care. You're caught, all of her a net you've willingly been ensnared by, and here you figure that's the slightest bit appropriate; you're so fucked, and it's funny, too. Funny enough to laugh about, later. "Nobody fucks this tight little pussy the way you do, sir."

It's a smile she hears in your voice when you say, "is that right? Go on then, let’s hear all the things you'd have me do to your slutty little cunt."

The line's crossed again, in some indecipherable direction. Where, again, exactly, does it matter? There are lines and lines, and none of them quite mark the beginning, the end, the periphery. This time you don't pull back; you dig deep, and it makes Yuna cry out like you’re killing her. Which, in a way - you already have.

So your hips stutter forward again, once more, and you lean into the slant, so fucking deep it's practically impaled. There’s nothing quite like holding this girl’s hips and pounding her from behind. Her pussy alone is fucking incredible. And the sound her ass makes against the flat of your stomach, the crease of your thighs - it's unimaginable, the way Yuna makes these little squeaks of a noise, like half-broken moans, when you fuck deep, deep, deeper into her. The way her arms splay wide and search frantic across your desk. And as you grab her slim, dainty wrist, pin it back and pull her tight - fixing her upright until you have her head lolling back against your chest - you simply fucking pound away.

Fucking all these little curses and sounds of appreciation out of her throat. Your cock forcing out each syllable, "yes," and "fuck," and "god, oh my fucking god - I cannot believe," now on repeat, how her tone grows tighter. How she moans - a lot, like something's being worked loose.

"Uh-uh," and you're holding her steady now, with one broad, strong hand at the back of her neck. "Keep telling me, and maybe I'll let you cum."

Your free hand finds purchase in her hair. Yuna's groan coming out pathetic and wanting, her mouth half open. You wrap her silky golden locks around your fist, her hair thread neatly through your fingers, and then give the slightest of yanks.

Christ, her pussy just fucking soaks onto you. Greedy. Needy.

"Shit," and Yuna gasps when she can, where she's allowed to.

"Oh, is my little girl into getting her hair pulled?" and you can see the signs of affirmation: the muscles inside her flexing, grasping you as you roll in, a small, soft nod, and the way she sighs your name, like a prayer on her lips.

Listen, she can barely speak, the way you're fucking her apart. Yuna's body is wound like a bow, like string and taught wire. Bent into the side of the desk and open for you, her pussy pulsing tight around you with every stroke.

"Sir, I'll do - whatever you need, just - just - let me have your cum, please -" and there, she's begging now, and her voice is tinny, breaking, breathless and airless.

Then it’s her fucking hair. You pull so much on it harder this time, with another measured thrust inside her, your body flush against her ass. Fingerprints searing down onto where her hips flare and taper, impossibly narrow.

You’re probably hurting her. You’re probably ruining her for anyone else - nothing will ever satiate her more than the way she sobs as your fingers twist tighter through her hair. Around her fucking miracle of a waist. It's an obscene sound that echoes down to your cock, as deep, hot and fucking filthy as her cries when she cums for the third, fourth?

"Just," Yuna barely makes, her eyelids heavy, her gaze flitting somewhere behind her. "Just look at you, fucking me so hard, filling up my tight little pussy, making me take everything your cock has to give. God, you love wrecking my perfect little hole, don't you?"

No, or yes, or probably. You’ll figure out the details later.

"God, I love it when you get real messy, when I get you like this-" your words run seamlessly into the searing heat between your bodies, like punctuation, like the end of days -

"Use me." She doesn't just say it. "Take me, and cum in me, wherever you want. Daddy, you can have my mouth, or, or, you can - you can finish inside me."

And god, you could, you really could: just the timbre of her voice does things to you, the way that it curls around the words daddy, and sir, and you're fucking me so goddamn good. She's saying them now, her whimpers breaking into outright moans and all: shit, please, please - you're gonna make me cum - oh - oh fuck! And when she's wound that tight, a quivering, sopping mess of a girl, you put your fingers against her clit, circling and pressing in tempo to the thrust of your cock.

The cruel metronome that makes. Hell, it fucking sends her.

She’s begging you to finish inside her. It's fucked up - and she knows it. She wraps her heels around the square of your back, and the tension rises, and rises, the coiled spring tight and waiting - just a push away, so you slam into her once, then twice more, the push of a hand splayed between her tits and your fingers digging into the muscle of her thigh. She wants you to cum in her pussy, fill her right up; she tells you that, again, that she wants it, and her voice is raspy, high. That she wants you now, as if she didn't before, and how does this compare, because she needs it now.

You hold out for just a little. You’re holding your breath. Just a little, just until Yuna’s eyelashes flutter open over her shoulder and she says your name, so sweetly, and says, "please, just, inside."

You shouldn't.

You can't.

So here, barely able to think at all, you end up doing the unthinkable - thinking all the while of pumping her right to the finish and draining your balls straight into the deepest reach of her cunt, how fucking tempting it may be - you muster an ounce of good judgment still adrift in a sea of lust. Your throbbing cock draws out of that wet, inviting heat and into your fist, and watch how that makes her begin to unspool: the way she tries to press her knees shut. She's sobbing for it, pleading, her lashes dark with tears. "No, no, fuck me, please, I'm begging you. Please, I'm going to be so good - god, please -"

You tug her back, look her in the eye, and let out a loud, shaky exhale. "Knees, princess."

She's too wracked with need to do anything other than comply. Her jaw drops. “But-”

"Mouth," you cut in, sharp enough that her gaze lifts, and you're right there - on the precipice, so close, watching her tongue dart out of her mouth to run across the swell of her bottom lip.

Watching her knees fold into the carpet, her stockings down loose around her thighs, her underwear hanging off an ankle. The rise and fall of her chest like rolling waves, and you can see her hands fisting on her knees, and her face: you watch the emotion flash over, like water on glass, and a moment is all it takes. She leans her face forward to your hand, as you wind her hair into your fist, her lips parted and her gaze lowered. She's obedient, taking the weight of your cock with her pretty pink mouth like the fucked-up-little-fantasy that she is, opening so nice and wide.

Her eyes flit up to yours, her mascara-ringed lashes fanned against the pink of her cheeks.

"My face," she tells you, or something close to it, "fuck my face. Go ahead, use it - cum all over me."

Your cock slides halfway home, her cheeks hollowing, and when it presses to the back of her throat, she gags. You curse and tip your head back, the wood of your desk digging into the flesh of your palm.

"What did you say," you half groan out. "Baby," you add, just for good measure, just to play along, "c'mon."

The tip of Yuna's tongue sweeps and swirls just beneath your cockhead, and she moans her answer around your length, lapping at a leak of precum. "I said," she's repeating now, her cheek brushing across your shaft, and you shudder. "Fuck, what I said was I want you to cum all over my face."

Jesus.

You bury your cock into her mouth once, twice. Let it sit there. Let her really struggle for it, the angle just a tad awkward from above. Let her lips stretch wide, and her shoulders shake a little - tears start to gather, pricking her eyes, her lipstick a mess, the way your cock fits, plugging up her throat so full. You hold her like that for just a second, a little less - until Yuna's moaning, the vibration low in her mouth, and her eyes flutter open, closed.

"Fuck," you spit out, and "perfect," and your voice is shot, your whole face warm, and you're going to cum on her - everywhere on her. Yuna, who’s been staring up at you in wide-eyed submission, gives you a little nod, like she means it.

Like she’s earned it.

And maybe she has: it only takes one last look to seal it - her hand curled around your cock, her cheek matted with her own spit and lipstick, the bright smudge of her own cum from the point of her chin to the cleft of her cupid's bow, and her eyes are locked on yours, eager and hot. Maybe she hasn't - and maybe you should make her beg, fuck her mouth some more - it's almost cruel, how she looks. A perfectly pretty picture, poised and pliant and waiting, and she's right there, beneath you, and fuck - this is so wrong, and you'll ruin her, you'll mark her up like this. She'll be painted like a work of art.

Your pulse thickens. Stands right up in your veins.

Then, your control, snapping: her pretty lashes flutter, her mouth gone slack, her jaw still tilted up like she expects a gift, an offering, her palm wrapped so nice and snug around the base of your cock, her expression dazed, and so easy, and perfect, so eager. You tilt your hips just a fraction further, and she fucking swallows, her tongue tracing the underside where you throb harder, heavier - her body lilting up as you press in so deep.

“God,” you breathe in, out. It hits hard. It hits fast. “Yuna-”

A tensing of your stomach coils up through like smoke, and your grip tightens on the edge of your desk, the other in her hair, a helpless, desperate thrusting, and there - it's a wonderful, brilliant sort of explosion, like light, the white-hot burn of a fever breaking. You cum all over her face and into her hair, spilling out streaks of hot, filthy white onto her sculpted features and the sweet line of her throat, and god, there's so much, she's taking it so easily, all her breathing hot and heavy and loud.

Her skin alabaster and porcelain; cotton and canvas; she lets you fucking paint her, all messy and ruined.

In fact she’s even smiling like she’s holding in a laugh, all gooey-soft with satisfaction, and you're jerking your cock slow through her slender fingers, even after there's nothing else left to give and every inch of her face is marked - the way she wears your cum like new skin. You feel the shockwave tear your nerves open, and then the calm, right on its heels, spreading out from your core to your fingertips, out through the roots of your hair.

"Ah," you exhale, a tight gasp. Yuna takes the entirety of you into her mouth, sucking down your length - harder - as she swallows back a final, sticky load, her own hair sweat-slick to her face.

Just look at the damage: that’s a story not even you’d be able to spin. There's cum on her nose, dribbling past her cheek. On her jaw and on her cheek. Filthy white streaked all over her parted lips, her neck. Down her shoulder blades, and soiling her hair, and leaking down past her collarbones.

(Christ, was this better or worse? You can't even tell. Every version of her that's been served on a plate for you has seen fit to make you sweat.)

When the dust begins to settle, you’re left panting and spent. Yuna, the collateral on this fine, whiny, disaster of a deal. A collection of photos, and some thoughts and ideas, that now sit disheveled on the ground. There's a scathing voice inside your head that's demanding to be heard, reminding you all-too-casually that this is not any way to manage a client. She could snap her fingers, call out to that sycophant at the top floor, and your career would be over - she could do anything she should ever desire.

You know, on a baser level, this, and worse: the duality of the thought. Her tight cunt on your desk, you on your knees; the sharp gasp you can steal from the top of her throat, perhaps when she feels the gentle pressure of teeth around one rosy nipple. The pinch of your thumb and index finger around the other. Her nails down your back in ten angry lines, and the throb in her throat, while you slide the whole width of a hand, rough, over the flesh of her ass.

Maybe the desk, like everything else, can just join the pile on the floor.

"Yuna," you say, the vowels pitching like a sigh.

Her palms find the sharp crease in your pants and slide upward. She's gazing up at you, bright, her face sticky with you.

"You can't send me out like this," she tells you, matter-of-factly, letting a smile cross the lines of her lips - or a smirk. A wordless extension of the previous sentence - of a few.

You pull out and away from her: a white and gray dotted tie hanging loose, unknotted; a button still fastened somewhere mid-center, your trousers pulled off and loose down just below your knees, the fly gaping open. She's in a similar state, the cups of her bra slipping loose, her mouth flushed, lips swollen and red, the outline of how she’d let you use her in a smeary, runny stain across her cheek.

"Maybe let your manager know," you tell her, pulling your belt in place, and you think you catch her eye rolling. "That you're going to be late."

Yuna doesn't hesitate.

"Tell her yourself," she responds, "I'm sure she'll be relieved to hear I'm not actually dead - just having gotten fucked stupid on my PR person's cock."

"I might forget to include a couple details."

"You shouldn’t." Her eyebrows jump. And she's chewing, lazily, on the full curve of her lower lip, her teeth glinting like razors. "Here, before you throw all this to the sharks -"

So, so very dramatic, and with this: her thumbnail pressed beneath your chin. It draws your gaze up - up, and down: from the splay of her legs and the gleam of wetness between them, a brief rest along the arcs of her chest - the room's a total fucking wreck. Your necktie, her skirt, her blouse, her pantyhose. The papers and books all spread, bent, broken, the stack knocked clean onto its side. The skirt's probably still pulled too far up her hips for decency, her breasts shoved up to her neck and the collarbone, and then there's her face - her chin streaked with cum. Yuna smiles then, the corner of her mouth pulled upward.

She might kiss you if you'd let her.

Cum on her lips be damned, she's beautiful like that, like she isn't even trying. And in fact, she never really had to - this girl, she'd do it alone. The idea that someone could be as universally loved as she, is enough, a marvel even, but here she is in front of you, every atom and curve a siren, a study in perfection and composition. Like she’s not just all your mistakes laid out to bear.

"Take a second to take a proper look, hm? Get all the memories in, while they're fresh."

"Because?"

"You can remember I'm only the person you say I am, for you."

"Oh, of course," and the laugh that leaves your throat sounds dry, cracked open. The band of her skirt stretches, snaps back, so neatly that it leaves a pale line on her flesh. And now there are your hands, fitting around her hipbones, a sigh: a short, sudden motion, tugging her up. Yuna gasps: something surprised, delighted. She's all grins and teeth, all clean, bright incisors. 

"Mine," you're breathing, the flat of her stomach underneath the fingers you've placed upon it. "This is mine - you. Yours - you're all mine."

It’s possessive, but, you’re not all incorrect.

"Yeah," she more than agrees. 

There's a ribbon-taut quality in the way it leaves her mouth, the tension in her body coiled up through to the bones. She makes it sound like the beginning of a promise, the beginning of something much larger.

And by the way." She’s still buttoning her shirt. Putting herself together. You’ve seen the triage, the damage control. This is the Yuna you get. 

So, she needs the second - a respite to lick a stray stripe of slick and cum off her wrist - blotting her cheeks with a ball of wet tissue, until all that's left is the smeared lipstick, her stockings splayed around the floor. The pattern you've worn, where your fingerprints would've shown, gets covered up under her skirt and her coat, wrapped up in a scarf.

The smug satisfaction in her tone pulls your focus, just in time, her hair's falling in waves down her shoulders - perfect, but not flawless: there's a creased line, a hint of her throat, just beneath the collar. There's a slight wisp out of place. The buttons aren't arranged all the way from her collar to her sternum.

"I'm going to go with that photoset, with the white top, in the sand - gonna post 'em online and generate some buzz. You even said it yourself: they're fine. " She pauses, pushing away a strand of hair. "Professionally, of course."

"Professionalism." You smile. "Of course."

She walks out carrying the stilettos: pumps in either hand.

"Always. Catch you soon," she promises, and you do catch a last flash of her expression, lips parted, the lower curving into a satisfied smile, right as she flicks the lock on the door open and your office goes back to quiet.

For a split second, it's unbearable: the silence.

And you think again.

She can have anything, get any boy, girl, whoever, any designer, photographer, make-up artist in the world; there's something so unmistakably intoxicating about the fact that the thing she's decided she wants, is you.

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 9

[prompt: problematic relationships]

male reader x nana

10k words

"Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it?" Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt. "You, me - us?"

And here, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

So, go ahead, cue up the sound of a mental rolodex spinning out while you start to list the very real, very valid, very adult reasons you should never, ever put your hands on her. (1) She's too young for you, (2) you're kind of a community figure, or at least someone who has to appear to be one, and more pertinently (3) she was your student not long enough ago - in your ethics class, the irony of which is not lost on you - and that makes it the kind of dirty, low thing you'd feel guilty for even masturbating to. Let alone actually attempt to live through, no matter how insistent some parts of you might be to the contrary, a point emphasized by the pressure of her finger against the dip just below your sternum.

"These... oh, how should I call them." Nana hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

-

You're a high school teacher, interdisciplinary. Sometimes history, other times philosophy, you've also taught math - and once, egregiously, home economics when the faculty member whose usual duties consisted of teaching the class was out on a very sudden and scandalous maternity leave. But it's your love of literature that finds you in a bookstore near enough to the high school to sell more used copies of intro textbooks than actual novels.

You're paging through a book you'd say you're considering buying - if any of the store staff were to push the question onto you - when she appears at the other end of the fiction aisle.

You catch the look first of her dyed hair, this perfect shade of chocolate, to the edges, the fade-to-brown, cascading over where a more formal shirt would ostensibly have shoulders.

She smiles; it's pretty.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing down and seeing the modest rise of her chest beneath a crisp-collared sleeveless top; all your typical college-age tells but for the red flannel, rolled back down around her waist. Her fingers, long and thin, dangle from where a uniform button-down would taper off around her wrist, thumb rubbing lazily at her forearm. The briefest glimpse of her nails, all done up in acrylic - perhaps the most potent way to show contempt for an old dress-code.

You have, admittedly, also noticed the length (appropriately, the lack thereof) of her pleated skirt and those frilly stockings that ride so far up the creamy curves of her thighs that it has your stomach rolling and tightening when she shuts closed the book in her hands and says -

"Isn't it weird how most of the novels in the romance section are written by women?”

- she speaks with a slow deliberateness, like she'd only ever hoped to find one of her old teachers alone and slightly vulnerable in a used bookstore -

“Like, how do you think a man would even go about writing those kinds of stories?" She grins, because maybe this isn't really a question at all - not one meant for you, certainly. And for one wild moment, the rush of relief (she's not actually talking to you), then panic (she's actually talking to you.) surges through you.

But then the girl pushes another couple books along the shelf and continues.

"Because I'll tell you what, Professor - all this stuff," a flip-flip-flip of her fingertips against a leathery dustjacket, "about just feeling it, not being able to control it. It's all women, always women." Another wave of her hand to set another row of spines a-shuddering. "Do you ever think maybe people will get tired of listening to girls talking about feelings when what they really need to see is what guys would do?"

There are so many reasons you should turn and run. 

So many little flags, flickering wildly in your mind. This is one of your students. Was it this fall? Maybe the last; she had sat front-center. Never slept in, was one of your best by several measures - not simply in regards to the simple repetition of classroom work, but by her insistence on getting in the kind of heated discussion where one might dig their fingers through the innards of your lectures. Not just good - fantastic.

"Nayeon," you end up saying, flat as your suddenly paper-dry mouth can make it - with just the tiniest hint of unease. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

And almost as if she knows that you're trying not to let your eyes dip any lower than the collar of her shirt, her shoulders do that lilting little move (hiking up and away just so), the one that your girls tend to learn a long, long time before your boys ever manage to figure out. She laughs out this pleasant sound, adds: "not that long, sir."

"Well," you're clearing your throat, looking around the bookstore like it might contain a way out, and eventually landing somewhere on her skirt, "you know how fast it all goes."

"Nana, by the way."

“I’m sorry?”

“Nana,” She gently corrects you again with this mischievous slant to her smile, and you start remembering: all the gossip and rumors, how she was being courted by these talent-scouts and labels. A prodigy, or as close to it as anyone from this town could ever get.

Your eyes are starting to sting again when she, this perfect-fit model of your worst impulses, runs her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots a little bit, a silver wristwatch falling slightly down the perfect length of her forearm. It almost hurts not to reach out and steady her. And it definitely shouldn't, but it has you breathing a bit faster. The rationalization: you are a man, and there is a perfectly ordinary part of you that might be aroused by any amount of smooth, inviting skin. That's fine. You're fine.

"Just for the record," Nana starts, still looking like she wants to put a hand forward and hook one long fingernail into the buttons of your shirt. "You were, like, absolutely one of my favorite teachers."

"I guess it's nice to hear I'm not a complete lost cause," you say.

She snorts. "Oh, definitely not." And maybe because, after all of the years you have been teaching these soon-to-be lawyers, politicians, and doctors, you've come to not look down on them for saying the wrong things so much. Though you do envy their absolute ability to say the wrongest of things - just so - just on purpose.

"Are you," you nod at the thick stack of paperback novels that she is still holding, and with which, suddenly, she's bashful and flustered - this perfect shade of pink blossoming through her cheeks. "Actually here to buy those?"

The response: a demure little shrug. A drawl. "We all have our vices, professor."

"I'm not your teacher anymore," and remembering at the last moment, "Nana, you can drop the honorifics, please."

She holds a book out, cover turned toward you, and your mind stalls - even your fingers slip a little where they are resting on the spine of your own paperback purchase. The title is an affront to literacy, and the art on the cover seems to have been produced only with stock photos, gaudy.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well," she laughs and has the courtesy not to lay it at your expense, "it is so good." Then, without missing a beat, she twists her lips together, and finds the book flush against your chest. "I'm sure it beats reading textbooks and essays about the merits of Locke and Hobbes' life-after-death stuff all day, anyway. An hour if you can spare the time? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it"

And - ah, there it is. The push.

-

There is a zero percent chance that, after any of this, things will end neatly for either of you. 

You still wonder, slightly, how long Nana will keep up the charade before breaking character - because there's no way in hell she doesn't see what she's doing: wrapping you around her pretty fingers, her shiny, manicured nails, twisting every chance you get to reject her into an excuse to linger that little bit longer.

But it's well over an hour spent at the cafe-end of the bookstore, where she orders an iced-coffee and fills you in on the details you don't really need to hear, what she's been up to these last couple semesters - playing twenty questions; questions about other faculty members, the school, if the school newspaper is still anything like it used to be (for the record: no), then coming back to if you've been seeing anyone lately. That last one slips in so naturally you can't stop yourself from taking a slow drag off of the straw in your drink and answering: "not recently."

Because no honest deed goes unpunished, or however the saying goes.

"Hey," her hands splay out over the tabletop, pushing the cold, condensing water of her glass, smudging where a finger drags a line through the pool.

Maybe she knows. How you're already caught, and there's no going back, which is to say you're perfectly free to watch, hungrily, where her throat moves, and then where her lips part.

"I’ve got the perfect thing for that," and for one unhinged, hysterical moment you picture it, Nana: lying back against a counter or maybe in the cushions of a sofa, panties thrown carelessly over her shoulder; heaving out this soft, heady gasp. You: pushing inside of her for the very first time, both of your legs bracing, the heel of her foot pressed into the small of your back - but before you can convince yourself that she can't be talking about that, and just barely before the air gets stuck in the back of your throat and you realize that you might be so thoroughly, tragically fucked -

"Read this." A snap back into the here and now. She is looking at you very pointedly, not naked - but beautiful and perfect as she leans a bit into the table and crosses those lovely, lovely legs of hers, and tilts the copy of that awful, awful filth at you.

"Nana, respectfully, this is drivel," you say, immediately and plainly, listening to Nana laugh out loud as you glean more than you need to know from the info on the inside cover. "They've crossed like five major genre boundaries for a hook-up. Why should anyone bother?"

"Come on." She waves it off with a careless gesture of her hands. "There's plenty of things to like. Maybe you should give it a chance - broaden your horizons, teach. Besides - the sex scenes?" She rolls her shoulders with the same shrug you remember watching so carefully all those times she made her way, out of the hallways and back into that front-and-center-seat she was always occupying whenever the bell rang. "So filthy. I can show you one of my favorites."

"Doesn't really seem like appropriate reading material for -"

"You said it yourself," her voice has a bright, saccharine tone, just on the right side of strained. And between sips of that straw stuck in the purse of her pert, little mouth, she draws that next sentence - the ice cracking, thinning under your feet -

"Not my teacher anymore."

Nana smiles; this brash, cock-sure thing that reminds you, as you try to clear your throat of the nerves making a bed there: you are actually so, so fucking gone on her. So far gone it hurts, when, with a flourish and a bounce and a complete, reckless lack of discretion, she starts paging through the first chapters.

"Who says you can't study these kinds of stories on an academic level? Think about it: sex sells. Whoever ends up writing, it's a whole lot easier and a hell of a lot cheaper than trying to do it all yourself." She looks up, this mischievous twinkle in her eyes, as she angles her fingertips down on the book and opens it - page after page of very obviously poorly-written sex. You look, not even consciously.

But of course, her fingertips drift lower and lower along the pages until it's evident: she doesn't have an exact page in mind, but only a particular passage -

"Here. Let me show you, just one."

"Alright, fine," you start - trying for an effect of exasperation, something to mitigate this god awful throbbing, "whatever - you get one, one sample paragraph and I'll, you know, whatever."

"Yeah, you'll definitely see. Just trust me. Just the one."

She drums her long, gorgeous nails against the table, then eases back with a finger highlighting the text.

You're screening and scanning the words as she tells you about the heroine in the story: a pretty girl who comes down with a bad case of infatuation for her teacher - unrequited, of course. And then, into a passionate affair, of course; all the most raucous, explicit details laid out over the table for everyone else to hear. She says it is about as nonchalantly as though she had been reading you the daily weather forecast and not an elaborate metaphor for - and here, you stop her.

"He cums on her desk?"

"Fucking hot, right?" She nearly snorts and gestures you onward, her eyebrows jumping - go on, go on.

So, you skim along: a heavy rush of nausea (alongside another) pulsing down around your gut at the thought of actually doing such a thing, your ears going hot and your legs crossing on instinct. There's not so much a breath of hesitation as Nana, cool, unfazed, and utterly unaware of the uncomfortable churning of your stomach and the simultaneous thrumming in your cock, takes another deep swig of coffee.

She hums, thoughtful. "Honestly? Kinda wished it happened to me like that. You were a good, good teacher, professor. I wouldn't have minded your hands all over me." You hear her laugh, and the entire universe collapses like the end-days. You are struck down with feverish conviction: this girl is the worst. 

"Anytime you wanted," she adds, so carelessly.

There's a clunking sound, of glass on wood; a half a second where you almost lose control over yourself.

“Nayeon,” you let slip, the old name - a mistake of an invitation she grasps like a weapon. All coming to a glint in her eye that says she knows how you see it, how you can still picture her sitting with her hands folded over the skirt of her uniform, chest rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. Studious, taking notes, acting every bit the naive sweetheart everyone believed her to be.

You shudder out some pretense of composure and settle back a few inches as she continues to coax a reaction out of you, prodding: "how many girls did you make confess back then, hm? Did it ever do them any good?"

"Dial it back, Nana."

Her expression is all feigned, gentle surprise. "But sir," she looks at you so innocently, "you said I should drop the honorific."

You want to argue that, you also want to tell her off for being such a brat - to demand that, instead, she cut the shit, sit back, and remember who you both are, but when, with a wink and a smirk, she's getting up out of her seat, Nana sets a gentle, reassuring hand on your shoulder as she pushes her chair back beneath the table. You get onto your feet, and when the two of you are stood close together like this - she's really and truly that much smaller than you remember. Waist so tiny you think you could almost, almost wrap two hands all the way around her; skirt rising all too easily when she tosses her weight between her heels.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," you tell her, sternly - the voice of a teacher whose patience is running thin.

But no matter where you look, the consequences are dire and immediate: an abject fascination, a kind of debilitating greed; the absolute fucking loss of ability to look her directly in her eyes. Not like Nana isn't staring right through you. There's no doubt some part of her relishes the feeling.

"Hey, what do I know?" This sweet, demure-like chuckle follows. "It's just porn, right?”

-

Eventually, Nana says to call it a night because the sun's long set into the horizon and the chill starts getting at the both of you.

She tells you while you're packing up your belongings to come by again sometime, her voice teasing as she explains that you should pick out a new novel to read for your benefit.

Which is possibly the ideal outcome, all things considered, if it wasn't for the way she found herself in your hands just a few paces into the parking lot - no one around to catch you, where you're gripping fast onto her wrist and pressing the lines of her body into door of your car, looming and ready to give a piece of your mind.

You know what you ought to say - things like don't bother, you've enjoyed her company, she's fun and sweet, and in a dozen different ways: be a good girl, and go home. You had your fun, didn't you? But she's practically begging, those huge, wide doe eyes that stare straight up into your soul.

"C'mon,” her voice lilts into a deeper, more purposeful register, “you wouldn't turn down a student on her way home, would you?

(This fucking girl.)

She speaks of propriety, like you aren't a man of your own principles - like you aren't reaching down to press a kiss to the swell of her lips like she undoubtedly deserves. To lick into her mouth and pull and kiss and bite until she's trembling, teeth caught in a delicate whimper. Or, that you aren't running your hands down her sides to find the backs of her knees and draw them upward, hooking your hips flush against hers.

She's all too breathless, watching you draw off her lips, fingers fast in your shirt, your hair - holding you close.

Then finally, a true, honest reflection of your heart. Nothing less than sheer and utter capitulation: "let me take you home."

Nana just nods before wrapping her arms around your neck and kissing you again.

-

It's definitely on you for expecting anything different, but Nana fucks like she talks.

Conceited. Brash. A little selfish.

The girl's sitting there on her kitchen counter with one leg hooked over your shoulder. She's stripped herself down to near nothing save for those fuck-off ridiculous panties: slick, shiny with a thick strip of satin between her lips, complete with white lace frills and all; the same ridiculous pattern as the thigh-high stockings clinging tight around the soft-gentle fat of her legs and the lace top of her garter. Her pussy - all tight and pink and soaked - has left this shimmering, shiny mess that's trailing down the insides of her thighs.

Your fingers are in the elastic of her panties, near bruising the curve in her waist where she's rocking, flushed and keening against your grip.

You tell her, "take these off."

"Off?" She repeats it back to you with the same little grin: playing dumb, the smart, charming ass she's been all night.

"I'd tell you what I really want to do to you," you start, pushing your fingers in a little harder, eliciting another pretty moan. "But I'm really, really sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.

"I hope you're not planning on being rough with me," she teases, running her hands all through your hair as she pulls herself against you - and of course, it's her audacity to insist, "no marks." She drops a chaste little kiss along the underside of your jaw. "At least, nothing that might show up on a camera."

Someone with a little less baggage might have done just that. Might have jerked her panties down a couple inches further - ripped the cloth, exposed her even more. You might have followed the waistline further along the perfect round of her ass, found those dips and dimples that, maybe, no one else has ever gotten to explore. You may have grasped at the ends of her hair and gotten your fingers in her pussy without ceremony - driven Nana to the very brink of her climax just before palming two greedy handfuls of that ass - shoving yourself right there between her lips and, lost to shame, put a fucking kid in her.

All the things she must be dying for you to do.

"Something the matter?" She pushes her mouth into yours for a kiss that has all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning. Your tongue against hers, languid and gentle at first; wet-sloppy, kissing and sucking on her bottom lip. You can feel her smirking when she says, "don't tell me you've forgotten how."

It's a lot, the effort you're putting in not to crumble - to crack at her taunts, snap your restraint, the temptation. You just wanna grab her pretty tits in both hands, shake her, and say: "shut the fuck up." But no - even in your wildest fantasy, you want to hear her first - beg you to make a wreck of her. So you force the words between your lips, dry and cracking:

"Not a fucking chance."

A laugh. "Guess I'm in good hands, then. Have to admit," Nana slides her hands down to hook under your own, bringing them lower. She grinds your fingers in slow circles over that one, aching, perfect little bud - a shock that has her curling tight inward until she's whining, clutching at her waist. "Not the - not the situation I had in mind."

Nana shifts her weight a bit more on one hip, guiding you through rubbing along the entrance to her slit - sloppy with precum, silky and aching - and when you place just the lightest pressure over all that hot skin, she opens her mouth: 

"Ah."

Her eyes, her hair, her fucking mouth - you can’t look away - she’s so gorgeous it hurts.

Even the way she pants; the perfect furrow between her brows. And then, you dip a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. It’s enough to make her whine, all shaky and high.

"Go on then, with how you’d pictured it," you press, already easing your digit in and out; slow, slick pumps that she is growing hotter, needier around. "I'm sure you've touched yourself to it more than a few times. The details and - stuff - must have been vivid."

"You haven't the slightest clue."

A brief kiss. You coax another shy sound from her, drawing a long sigh against her mouth -

"Try me, Nayeon."

"This is a lot closer to the truth than you’d think, professor." This time, no correction, she just smiles wide and tosses her head back, asking, sweetly, as if to absolve you of the responsibility. "Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it? You, me - us?" 

Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt and starts to pull.

On that detail, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

"These... oh, how should I even call them." She hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

"You know," you start. And by this point, her cunt's that much tighter. You've managed two fingers now, but no further, and she's making these desperate, punched-out gasps. Her clit's a swollen pink nub, jutting out from its soft hood. "I really had you pegged all wrong."

"Not - not at all. You can fuck me just fine, trust me - ah. Please, you can fuck me anyway you want."

And here, you grab a little higher on her hips, pinching her on the outside of a thigh, and begin working your fingers fast. You've never cared much for teasing, not really, but something about the way she squirms in your grip, tries to lean up and grasp onto your shoulders with shaking hands, it gets you smiling. It gets you grinning, even, especially the way she makes these pretty noises: a long, desperate little, "ah," at each press and thrust, her breath going high and uneven. 

"Listen, Nana -" She squeals out loud when you push your fingers just a little deeper, a little bit harder. "I'm not going to talk about what a slut you've been today or how badly I want to spread you wide open," you can already tell it's affecting her: the sudden change, the subtle hitch in her breathing, the tremor where her thighs press together. "Tell me about you, about your little ideas. Let me help."

"Wouldn't be fair." Her pussy's getting tighter, urgent with want. And still:

"C'mon now. Humor me a little. There was probably-" you say, sliding down that ridiculous pair of underwear along her ass, tugging them over the curves of her legs - so slow and easy, all while you're not bothering with easing off. Nana moans again; voice pitched. "Lots. Lots and lots of dirty things - and, I'm willing to bet my career that they made you a hot, mess - an awful, soaking fucking wreck. Who could've guessed? You, of all people, with just the right kind of teacher's-pet-appeal, hm?"

And you meant it to be a joke, just some ribbing. But the question has her immediately tensing, looking at you very intently, no trace of shame as she snaps back -

"Your mouth." She rocks forward. "Your fucking mouth."

You shouldn't keep touching her, you shouldn't keep staring, you shouldn't push her flat on her back and shove your face right into her cunt, you should pull away before this goes too far - it shouldn't be your fingers drawing out sopping-wet gasps out of her pussy, nor should you press your tongue to her cunt, your mouth to all that delicate flesh and, at your first taste, shiver.

Nana laughs: shaky, nervous. Then, your fingers sink back into her pussy alongside your tongue, your lips, the way even your hot breath against her aching pussy has her all stunned, breathless - and -

"Please."

- right before she breaks off into a beautiful sound that catches her hard in the chest.

(A sound like you’re all she could ever want in this life, maybe the next; it’s this wordless plea.)

"Hah, I had - ah, had so much - hah - dirt on you, used to masturbate thinking - ah," and there, she arches her spine, forcing a sigh out, "thinking about how you might punish me." She laughs - nearly choking. "How you might break down all your veneer of being a good, moral man and fuck me raw and rough and - ah - fuck. Oh god, fuck."

You twist your fingertips up just so, right against this perfect spot in her, and all the sudden the entire line of her body seizes - stiffens up, the muscles in her thighs twitch as you both moan through the moment, the spasms reverberating in your own ears, loud and unashamed, right against her wet, wet clit. Your fingers are fucking and fucking and fucking away in her cunt, harder and faster and sloppier, every word, every groan, every gasped breath only making it easier to forget. To give in. And with every heavy slap and squelch of your fingertips digging in as deep as her body allows - you're sending her that much closer.

You pull back long enough to bite out: "cum whenever you want, Nana.”

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, is what she’s trying to say, bracing against how your tongue moves around her clit, and she knows, there’s no use fighting it.

A kiss against her swollen mound and she writhes. “There you go sweetheart, cum for me.”

Nana comes undone. Gradually at first, then vaulting over that edge all at once. She lifts and lowers her hips - pushing your fingers into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt; rocking up and up again. It's a torturously slow kind of grinding, and her feet find purchase on either side of you as her toes curl, one heel digging into your shoulder. An assurance; a promise; a lifeline; that she might tremble and shake through it, moaning.

“Fuck,” and, “god,” and, “you’re gonna make me-” slip past her lips alongside all the assured gasped-out cries for relief - the orgasm sweeping through her, tearing her apart.

Back pitching, shoulders narrowing, face twisting, cinching tighter and tighter -

Until she collapses.

Until it’s over.

As she lays there, chest heaving, arm draped carelessly across her forehead and half over a kitchen cutting board - her thighs splayed open, fucked and spent - she's so, so beautiful.

And it’s in that sort of fucked-up-noodly-state where she just slides right into your arms - those long, slender legs wrapping tight around your middle. "Here's the deal," you say, grabbing hold of her hips and steadying her, as best as either of you can.

"Hm." This lazy, sated look, the way her tongue's dragged out - slow and slick - across the top of her teeth and bottom of her lips. "Go ahead, sir. I'm listening."

The lip service - that coy little appeal to authority that maybe you’re actually plenty fond of - it makes you stop for the barest of moments. This girl, she's unreal. How hard could you ever be asked to resist her?

She lifts a brow. "Professor."

So you continue:

"I'm going to get out of these clothes, and we are going to see what happens after that - if you have a preference for the bed or the sofa, now's your chance to pipe up. Or else -"

"Or else-" She repeats, shifting her weight around again. You can feel how she adjusts her heels to hang higher up your ribs, rocking her weight against your abdomen, against your cock - and the instinctual twitch that runs through your spine is turgid and rough. Like a shot. If it had a smell, it'd probably remind you of gasoline.

And then, maybe just to rile you up even more: "the dining room table makes a good impression of a teacher's desk, no?"

You slide your hand along the backs of her thighs until you have a good, tight, high hold on them and pick her up, leaving the panties, the stockings, all of it down where they can gather dust or whatever - she giggles, and tightens her hold around you like she doesn't need to worry about falling.

"I'd rather fuck you into a mattress to be perfectly candid."

Nana throws back her head and laughs - this real, honest-to-goodness peal of laughter, a hint of playfulness where there was usually just a practiced ease. "Oh. So forward."

(In all likelihood, you're both going to hell, and on the off chance you meet down there, you figure you'll fuck her then, too.

You've read the myths, the Greek tragedies, the ones that have these gods descending from the heavens on human women, for pleasure and nothing but, you've read those stories and plenty more - the details don't matter: it's always a bad, bad end for everybody involved.)

She takes you upstairs. And the two of you fall through the doorway to her bedroom, stumbling all the way.

Her apartment is simple and clean in the way all young adults try to emulate, all white countertops, but with pictures hanging in little, neat rows on the walls and the space void of anything with some sort of character or history.

You know because you're fumbling toward a dresser or desk or bookshelf in an attempt to orient yourselves, bumping and tussling, half-blind, on your path forward and all of a sudden there's a goddamn framed photo in your hand - not of her family, thank god. Though just about every other person in the picture is familiar to you, you remember every single one - but all you're capable of focusing on is Nana, Nayeon: not quite the same. The same glint in her eyes, the way her smile has a timeless kind of quality, the faint dimples in her cheeks. 

And some wicked part of you is all too willing to ignore the whole timeline of events that has led up to you, Nana, like this: you want to pull her hair. You want to shove her around like she doesn't matter - is in any way disposable or replaceable; the most selfish parts of you wishing you could keep her pinned down by her slender neck; pressing a palm, bruising, into her collarbone as you start to work at your belt buckle and slacks with your other hand.

It's hard, getting a grip on yourself as Nana, sliding onto her bed and rolling across the sheets, pulls her stockings down the length of her legs - only stopping herself long enough to meet your eyes. Her throat bobbing.

“Of course,” she says, because your cock is hanging out by that point, straining and a little pent-up. "I fucking knew you would have a perfect cock."

"Flattery or sincerity?"

"Um, let's say both." She shifts around the pillow - that sweet little pout on her lips. Her gaze dropping from your mouth and running all along the length of your torso, lower and lower. Like her hands. And when her eyes flick up to meet yours, just when you're stroking at your cock, base and shaft, teasing yourself, well past the point of pretense, a devious smile spreads wide across her pretty, beautiful face. The implication: you aren't leaving here until you're cumming inside her.

And with a glimmer in her eyes, the sheer audacity, her fingertips ghost the underside of your cock as she draws up toward the head, "you're going to ruin me with this thing. You know that right?"

"A bit dramatic."

Nana moves to rest with the tops of her knees at the edge, her chin resting against the insides of her wrists, elbows propped up - poised, playful, everything she should be as the both of you regard each other a moment longer. "Can you blame me? It's not just that it's huge, I mean - I've barely even gotten a hold of it, and yet... god," she snorts. Her eyelids are heavy, mouth curved, almost a snarl as she drags her bottom lip through the grip of her teeth and sinks down onto the mattress.

"Say something filthy again," and this is a test, this is Nana testing you to see what exactly you'll get away with.

(Hint: it's a whole lot.)

She sighs. The image of indigence, innocence, everything pure and good you couldn't hope for. "Should I suck it or not? Or maybe, I don't know. Would you prefer me to beg for it first, ask if you'll put it in? Like, I think if you ordered me to put it in my mouth, right now, I wouldn't be able to say no."

"Really," the most sarcastic answer.

"Really," she continues. "For instance. If you came over here right now and guided me up and onto your dick and told me, specifically, that you were going to face-fuck me? I couldn't say no. No sir."

You could have her any damn way. You could have her, and you both know it.

"So tempting," you tease, mostly in earnest, "maybe another time, when my self-control isn't quite so lacking."

Nana hums a low, flippant sort of noise - like: whenever you're ready - and just how much trouble it gets you in, the mere suggestion, is what she is banking on.

"Hey," is her invitation, "I won't beg yet. You still want me to put my mouth all over it," and to emphasize, she slips her fingers between the plump pillows of her lips, smiling at how that makes you reach over the nightstand, accidentally pulling open a drawer, possibly reaching for the first aid kit, "or would you rather watch me stuff all these fingers in my wet, little hole."

A sharp inhale: it really would be fun, probably, but you can't take it.

"Nana," this voice, gravelly-ragged and harsh, "if you're planning to make me snap, you are, without question, on the right track."

"Then before that happens," she says, pulling you down into the bedsheets beside her. Your body flush against hers, the beat of her heart loud against your own; this gorgeous, pristine girl, so nakedly giving - this is an honor and a curse all rolled up together, no doubt.

And after a hot, wet kiss: "fuck me like I always thought you would."

(She was made to be like this; it's the only explanation.

Made for wanting. Made for fucking. Made to be loved and made to have her cunt fucked full - ruined by your fingers, your tongue, your cock. This absolutely perfect body, and all the delicious parts of her; this thing of desire, bashful and coy and that deserves all the world and, having none of the grace or courtesy to actually beg, orders, like she always knew she could:

"Like, right fucking now."

Or else.)

Then you're there - her hot mouth, her cunt, your fingers digging in bruising-tight all along the curve of her thighs where they meet her ass, hips, thighs, waist. She's pumping her soft palm and delicate fingers, slick with her spit and yours around the length of you and this isn't going to last long; not that there's any doubt you're going to leave her sore. But still, you drag the head of your cock across the swollen lips of her pussy, down through the plump swell of her clit until it rests where the ridge just begins and every slide, every pressure along every inch of your cock, the thought of being enveloped entirely in all that silky warmth is nearly the end of you.

A whimper, "professor."

You wrap your hands tighter around the smooth, firm muscles in her thighs; dragging your fingers back and forth across the supple skin there - just firm enough to elicit a reaction from the tension in her legs, until you have her flipped over on her stomach. Because if you're going to fuck her properly, it's going to be with her face buried deep into a pillowcase and you perched above her, holding her down against the sheets.

You watch her get her elbows underneath her, laying almost flat. Watch her trace the shape of her own jaw, her nose, her neck - the smooth expanse of her chest - as you straddle her thighs. With her ass pointed right up at you and the heel of her ankle gently grinding into the underside of your leg, you groan, placing both hands just above her ass. And once you're gripping the whole shape of her, you push your cock into her, just an inch, listening to the shift in her breathing.

She shudders, "don't tease - oh, please, sir-"

"Is this what you expected, Nana?" You grab onto her hair. Then again, when she tries to get her hands on herself. Her shoulders are high, tight. You just don't give her a chance; pushing yourself another inch, a couple. The pace, so gradual she starts making these soft, little breathless sounds as you stretch her tight pussy open. A few moments when she stops trying to bury her noises, her gasps - stops trying to angle her hips or squeeze or resist the thick shape of your cock where it is so, so hot and full inside of her - and there you stop. "What is it you had in mind, hm?"

"Ngh - oh."

Her cunt's clamping tight around just the first few inches of you. The tightness, the wet heat is staggering; how it pulls and begs with the words she seems reluctant to spill out.

So - you lift a hand, bringing it back down again onto the pale, rounded flesh of her ass with a smack, a gasp, and this wet sound from the sopping heat of her pussy, all aching and sobbing, "don't, fuck, stick it - fuck, put it - just. Just fucking get on top of me and pin me down - make it hard for me to breathe - do it, just. Like I, fuck, like I always wanted, sir, please-"

And you sink all the way in.

"Fuck." She bites into those consonants, a whole-body motion that pulls at the tension in her spine, the muscles in her legs. But her hips angle right up, and she presses her ass into the hollow of your abdomen and says, "thank you. Thank you. God."

"Don't get lazy on me," you say, grinding the tip of your cock in little circles; pulling it out and angling it down until it's prodding at all the right places to make her arch and shiver.

"Please," she says again, louder this time, almost a moan. "That. Fuck. Yes. It's."

"Yes, yes, I know. Nana, you-"

"Just use me. Whatever you like," she pants; then, once you've pulled yourself out to the tip, slowly filling her again, "use me like a fucktoy, alright. Because - fuck," Nana shivers, pushing her hips into yours. Her shoulders lower, as if by degrees, "please. Use me. Make it rough. Please, professor - use me however you want, I don't care - anything's fine with me - use me, as long and as much as you need, I. Please."

The real difference here, beyond anything else, is that this is no longer the game it was; the very instant she was sprawled across the mattress with a line of drool dripping into the sheets, all her bright, polished glory has vanished, leaving this bare edge of her exposed - the girl who lives solely to be fucked and used by your cock, her cunt leaking, begging for more. Reduced to the basics and nothing else.

"Your fucking cunt, Nana, the goddamn clench - you feel - it's-" (So fucking good, is what you can’t quite say, because she’s tight and wet and her tiny pussy is quivering like mad every time you bathe your cock in its scorching heat. Over and over.) It’s hard to think; you’re truly - truly - fucking her, but you can’t ignore the tautness in her spine either, bent below you. There are probably tears beading down her cheeks, but there's no helping the raw instinct screaming through the core of her being, pleading with you to pull yourself free, before sinking hilt-deep into her again, again, again - to a chorus of sloppy, loud, nasty, fucking whimpers and moans.

Like music. 

It's easy after all, how her pussy gives way to you. How she molds around you - sleeves onto you like a glove - like there was only one cunt in the world you should ever be fucking up and fucking apart. 

"It's incredible. Fuck. Just that perfect."

Nana, as best as she can, trying to stay steady, braced against her hands and knees, is raising her hips.

But it's clear with the way she's slipping all over, slicking the sweat off her palms and rocking her ass back into your thrusts, a cry falling out of her, unbidden, when she speaks and not.

"Please," she pants, through tears probably, this breathy-shivering. A renewed enthusiasm for your grip on her - where, in another place, you'd worry about leaving marks behind - for the feeling of your weight slamming down into her, driving the air from her lungs.

The sheets are a crumpled mess, pillows knocked from the mattress, where the two of you are shaking it apart.

You're pulling her apart, slowly, thrust by thrust into her sopping cunt, and in a promise of how you'll put her back together, you get your mouth on her shoulders, her neck, kisses in her hair, behind her ear - Nana just whimpers, curling her toes and ankles along the backs of your knees, her face against the pillow and gasping, "thank you - thank - thank-"

And when your palm smacks against the generous swell of her ass, again, she keens so perfectly for you.

It's a breathtaking sight, so good, so perfect: her flawless ass pitched high, round and flushed pink. The flutter of her eyelashes and the tears and drool. The outlines of her pale white cheeks sent into ripple after ripple, and then the way you can slide one hand forward between her shoulder blades and slip it into her hair, nails raking her scalp, grabbing a handful of hair in your fist and tilting her face - to the side, enough for her cheek against the pillow and the way her hips try to press against yours; try to chase the pleasure; this brash, gorgeous, slim-waisted, well-curved, exquisite young woman - like everything.

"Please," is all she says as you fit your chest up tight to her back and mouth at her neck - lick all along the sweat. "Please."

You can't take it anymore, can't keep watching this masterpiece, can't stand the molten heat wrapped around your cock every time the drag in and out of her pussy pulls sets every nerve on fire. Right in her ear: "I'm cumming, Nana, I'm cumming inside this tight, little pussy."

A short gasp, "yeah."

"Yeah. Inside, Nana. Cum inside, you -" You twist your fingers against her scalp and find purchase, an excuse - a means to yank her head around and lean into her, teeth against skin, that familiar coiling in your gut and the burning sensation that flows right alongside every slap and smack of her hips on your skin.

"Fuck me." You watch her bite down, swallow a sound, try to say: "fuck your load so deep inside me it’ll be all I think about for weeks, let me feel it, all that hot, all that sticky, fucking cum"

And you drag your hips, these final, punishing drags through her drenched cunt. Her fingers are white knuckled and fisting the sheets, until the very second you've pressed every ounce of your own body's worth into her own, when you're collapsing her spine and pushing her face into the bedspread, this wave rushes through your ears like the buzz and hum of insects and waves and things out of sync - the high, the peak -

And then:

Sobering, subjugating silence.

In fact, you're shuddering; You're cumming, spilling pools of thick cum deep inside of her. It's all in that warm, filthy sensation, a heady, hazy, desperate thrill when her own cunt seizes in its climax around you, trembling, throbbing, quivering, clenching; drawing everything out and taking your cock deeper - even while the whole of her is thrashing and bucking, all of this messy with her pleasure and her voice caught up, writhing and breathless.

"God-" is the last thing out of her mouth before you can kiss it quiet, tug on her lower lip and open her up like a present - messy and breathy, crying out, you're making this mess inside, this beautiful fucking mess - as the whisper you feel against your lips:

"Inside me, like that."

As you groan, deep and hot, "filthy fucking cumslut-"

Right on the verge, riding out every twitch of your cock and each flex of your hands at the skin around her ass, her waist, back and shoulder blades; even after you've caught your breath, you keep pumping more and more inside of her, you don't stop, won't, and even when you manage it, pulling out the head of your cock - you can feel every slick detail - just the slit and rim, resting the throbbing head of your cock at her swollen little mound, feeling the length of her fucked-out pussy spasm at the emptiness and trying to grasp around nothing - empty, tight and aching, sopping.

There's her hips, just this, right there; the line, the silhouette. Her thin waist and the curvy swell of her ass, jutting out straight - the cream-colored flesh dusted pink. The lithe, soft line of her stomach and the insides of her thighs a little farther along, sweaty and inviting.

She's so pliant in your grip, even though she's trying her best to curl herself backward - to angle your spent cock back into the ready, welcoming warmth of her slick, wet pussy - and once the afterglow has begun to wear away, that same greed and yearning takes its rightful place. A glimmer in her eyes. The unmistakable need and drive.

"One more," she says, wiggling her hips back into your stomach. "For me."

(The truth: you can't refuse her, not as she bites her lip and twists, all that soft hair splayed across her face, stuck to her tear-damp skin.

One more, because you both still want it. One more, because in the dim glow and evening air of her bedroom, everything that happens now matters just as much as anything that happened before.

One more, because you need her again.)

-

When she wakes in the dark, you figure her bed will be empty.

Nana will realize that you're gone. Of course you’ll be - it was never going to go differently; the sex had to end at some point. After all, if you stayed, eventually she'd start saying something you'd find a fault in or your skin would be so sensitive she couldn't stand not running a finger up your spine and maybe kissing your hip.

The reasons to go always outnumbered the reasons to stay.

The world would catch up and someone would find out and that's the sort of gossip that might leave both of your careers in shambles. Or else, you'd do something you couldn't come back from, the moment the heat of the sex left your body and her cunt, god, her perfect little cunt was spent - slackening - and the moments-after-haze, her legs locked up and her arms a bit sore, would clear up. Then you'd look at her, or else the shame would win out - the guilt and you'd call it quits. She won’t blame you. She can't.

-

But then again,

Her heart won't fall completely to pieces, because:

You've stayed. And it isn't an easy position, even if she is easy.

Here she is, though: sleeping on her side with her wrists crossed in front of her face - peaceful and quiet, probably tired enough to sleep without dreams. The dark has long since settled across her bedroom, save the pinpricks of stars in the sky out her window and a sliver of moonlight. You can see her, or you could reach out and run your hands all along her calves and thighs, but you don't.

Nana's shoulders slump forward in the faintest of sighs, and there it is - the slow, gentle swell and fall of her chest.

-

Here's how you got here:

In this scandal-in-waiting of a relationship. Here's the stupidest possible path, where a bright-eyed student with a crush fucks her older professor just once, and somehow you both find yourselves coming back for more, like maybe your very, very bodies belong together - a maddening compulsion.

Even once you've managed to work through the idea of your cum all inside of her, a seedy, twisted corner of your mind murmurs how it makes the most sense. To stick your cock inside of her again.

Where she can show you the way it can look; the mess and the texture of the slick, white spill - dribbling out of her pussy in the afterglow, onto her palm, and down the crevice in her ass and lower.

It's the phone calls probably - and not just the phone sex - late-night talking, conversation and every once in awhile, the kind of hot, hard fucking that gets you in trouble, but also a reason to be with each other again. Not just the quick fucks but the nice ones - the days, the late nights and mornings and what have you: all the casual intimacy of it. All the sweet nothings exchanged.

The after-sex cuddling, with her straddling your lap;

The sensation of her thighs sliding into place around the tops of your legs, her arms tucked around your neck;

The kisses you don't take and kisses you'd be okay with, all the promises made to love you as many times as necessary, however necessary, wherever.

That's all here too.

Again:

She is young. But, who the fuck are you to say? Who the hell can tell you she doesn't deserve the least rotten, least painful, most promising love she can find in this particularly fucked-up world?

Who else is going to keep the both of you safe and hidden?

And who else, despite everything, seems to like having a secret that they're sure only you know; every glance or accidental touch with her eyes brimming, alive, and the whole of her bent like a bow-string - all held back and wound-up tight.

To the point her spine will shiver and shake; you know how it can be.

-

"Are you actually going to buy those?" Nana asks one day, dangling on her toes, chin rested comfortably in the sweep of your shoulder.

When she crowds the swell of her hip and her breasts and her entire body into your back and snakes her arms around your shoulders, you think there's nothing else in the world you need.

"You called them drivel," she adds, almost pouting - which is a look you're slowly trying to inoculate yourself against because the moment it comes up, you have a knee-jerk reaction to drop anything and everything and carry her off someplace else. To have a place where she could, could, could -

"Hah," you roll your eyes, not taking the bait. There's a shelf-full of campy, smutty romance novels in the dollar bin. "It is. The story was less than complicated, but I couldn't figure out what the hell two or three characters' plotlines had to do with one another, and sometimes you just want a little guilty pleasure, you know?"

"Ooh. So," Nana smiles, the devious sort. "I guess there is some honesty in you after all."

"Come on, this one at least has an original story," and it is a shameless attempt, "plus-"

"I know, I know. Fine. And if it is so terribly bad, well, I suppose I can use your chest as a pillow to take a nap," she says, before throwing this particular glance over her shoulder.

The cashier doesn't need to ask if the two of you want your copies of 'Wild West of the Heart' or whatever-the-fuck this one is titled, scanned separately.

All of that, those paperback-cover love stories and TV drama plots, these are the sorts of things you do just for Nana; as the two of you wait in long lines, get carried along, get bumped and pushed, like every other ordinary-person thing you've done for her ever since.

("Honestly, this isn't my kind of thing either," you tell her in the aisle of a grocery store once. The fluorescent lighting only accentuates the blush high on her cheeks. "don't make me fuss over something like this."

"Have a little sympathy," she insists, nudging the handle of the shopping cart against the inside of your shins. "A girl like me isn't good for much else.")

It's not romance, really, that's such a fucked up way to go about describing any of it, but then there's Nana, bouncing on her heels and prattling on, this girl in the spring of her life who is full to the brim and bursting with the most chaotic and eclectic sorts of thoughts and passions -

So, what.

"Really," she adds - another side, another angle on an issue the two of you had an hour ago while cooking breakfast. "Just, think about it. Would you honestly put all this effort into somebody who doesn't make you laugh at least as much as they irritate you? Because like, you would never tolerate some self-obsessed jerk long enough to eat their burnt, terrible pancakes every day of the week."

"Fine. Maybe." You sit across the table. "You're right."

Nana blinks and this look of wonder crosses her face as she grins. A moment of triumph for her and that was more than the honest truth. It's still strange, admitting defeat in any argument here or there, or that the two of you make an actual decent couple - together. The kinds of things that come naturally to other people.

"Any more caveats to all of this, professor?"

"You’re gonna end up bent over that counter again if you keep pushing it, kid."

The both of you break out laughing and then you finish your coffee, or she stabs the last few pieces of cantaloupe on her plate, or you kiss her neck, and just -

Everything.

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 8

[prompt: phone sex]

male reader x shin ryujin

16k words

The phone rings one too many times, and Ryujin is in the middle of scrunching up the paper slip that Chaeryeong handed her earlier that afternoon when she hears your voice.

The sounds of her scrambling for the receiver and her head smacking against the headboard come through in pretty good quality.

That never gets old.

"Stimulating conversations," you offer smoothly, like it isn't a euphemism and instead some high-brow intellectual pursuit. "How can I help you?"

Ryujin is speechless for an unbearable five, ten seconds until she lets out the kind of low chuckle that probably sounds better than it looks. "Hi," she says, "hello, I, uh- I don't know how all of this works."

"Why don't we start with who you're looking to speak with tonight?" you ask.

Ryujin sighs. She runs a hand through her hair, looking at the messy tangle of clothes on her bedroom floor with mild resentment. She’ll take her chances, figuring a direct approach is the best route when she doesn't really know where any of the lines get drawn or who is allowed to say what and who isn't.

"Um. Okay. Who you got?"

"We have a large variety of operators to suit any taste," you explain kindly. She appreciates that. "Do you have someone specific in mind? A gender perhaps, to start?"

"Well," Ryujin starts, running her tongue along the edges of her teeth. Lia has this thing she constantly says, that there's always a thousand and one reasons not to do something, and Ryujin is the first person to make fun of her for it - but here she is, finally putting that adage to use.

"I was actually calling to, um," she exhales loudly. "A guy? I mean look - girls. Girls are great, but if you - mmm." She clears her throat. Because she knows how she wants to do this, and it's most definitely: "A man."

You wait for a second before replying, and Ryujin allows the stillness to expand over and fill out every corner of her bedroom before a bright, "Alrighty, well," comes filtering out her phone, tinny but as enticing as ever. "That would be me."

"Oh."

"Yeah," you reply, easy and unhurried. You sound exactly like the kind of person whose company people pay handsomely to be around; the professionalism is undeniable, but there's something to be said for your tone. The softness to the vowels, the almost imperceptible upward lilt to the words - Ryujin gets that, maybe.

You're pretty confident in the answer, but you ask anyway, "have you ever done anything like this?"

Ryujin opens her mouth and hesitates for a brief moment.

"Well," she muses. She's tried porn, she's tried her own fantasies, she's tried cranking up the hot water and touching herself with the head of the shower aimed somewhere she's told by other girls: it's there, free of charge. "I haven't."

"But you have a boyfriend," you state. "You have a man, who you enjoy things with?"

Ryujin laughs nervously. "It's...it's been a little while. Not recently. Sorry. I know you don't-"

"No, no, not at all, you're doing fine, it's just that you sound very attractive over the phone. Excuse the assumption."

Ryujin laughs and rakes her fingers through her fringe. She knows it's a line, but she laughs anyway. She could - if she was looking for the deranged fulfillment of it - pore through a billion comments on instagram, on twitter that call her a lot of things: gorgeous, beautiful, hot. The last comment she read before almost deleting her app entirely was someone who decided to textually imitate a dog barking to a picture Yeji had taken of her in a coffee shop. There's a novelty, she thinks, in being charmed by someone who has no idea who she is.

"You have good ears then," she says, smirking into the receiver. "So do you normally do, what, ask questions? I have no idea."

"Yeah, it helps me build a profile," you reply, "but if you had something else in mind-"

"No, please, shoot." She grabs the pillow from behind her back and flops against the mattress, staring up into the ceiling fan.

"Do you feel comfortable sharing your age with me?"

"Twenty," she answers without missing a beat, even though that isn't right. It's weirdly important to her, keeping it private, and she isn't sure why - but then you say something pleasant and complimentary about college and new experiences that she's unable to register, and you ask her for her name so quick she just blurts it out:

"Ryujin."

"Pretty."

"Fuck," Ryujin grins, immediately chewing on her knuckle to bite back a gasp. "Sorry. The name is cute or, whatever. Whatever. Sorry for the curse. God, I don't really have a filter - what about you? Do you have a name, Mr. Operator?"

"I do."

Ryujin lifts a leg up and puts it down again. She doesn't know if she should already have taken off her pajamas or if that's weird. Or if the fact that it doesn't bother her means this is more or less wholesome. She turns over onto her stomach, humming into the phone and now she doesn't know why she's thinking about your face. You could be- well, fuck, you could be anyone, but there's this gnawing compulsion to put something together.

You tell her your name and she scoffs for a second, before quieting down and returning you a, "pretty."

"Ryujin, tell me." There's probably a slightly too long pause from your end of the line before you get on with asking her, "when was your last orgasm?"

She drops the phone right in her face. It bounces off the bridge of her nose before landing in bedsheets beside her and her eyes are welling with tears while she scrambles blindly across her bed, cursing into the receiver and squirming. She pulls the phone to her ear and catches the last couple seconds of you reassuring her that it's okay, that it's completely fine if she's hung up or gone.

"Actually, I have," and she curls her fingers into a fist, "never came in my whole life."

You clear your throat to keep a less than professional sound from coming out. A quiet space she feels necessary to fill: “Not even once.”

"Really?"

"I know. And I've only recently realized that's, uh - er- a pretty un-normal thing." Ryujin makes a waving motion with her hand even though you can't see it, trailing off into silence and blushing furiously. "Sorry," she apologizes. She doesn't know what she’s apologizing for, but she does it again. "Sorry about that."

"I should be the one feeling sorry for you," you rib.

"Fucking tell me about it."

"Hey, this reminds me, would you be averse to the idea of touching yourself?"

The question stutters Ryujin in her tracks, and she doesn't even say no but a drawn-out "nngh" leaks out before she can stumble into something more intelligible. "Isn't that, like, what you're supposed to do on these calls?"

"Every call is different, Ryujin."

She chews on her lower lip, rolling it under her front teeth. You say her name like you know her, and it's throwing her for a loop. The comfort you have with the whole situation - asking her a million questions and not demanding answers, taking cues and reassurances in stride and turning everything into some sort of ploy for getting her naked. Fuck, she'll take a bit of a plunge:

"Should I be touching myself?"

"It's not my place to say."

"Okay, well that's kind of a frustrating answer."

"So you're saying you like being told what to do," you tell her, and you hear the sharp inhale in reply.

"If I knew what I liked, you think I'd be calling a sex hotline and hoping some stranger might take pity on me?"

You laugh out loud, and her response is the quickest, the cutest little, "seriously!" before she chuckles too.

"Ryujin?" you ask.

"Yeah?"

"Are you straight?"

She nearly chokes - because it's like you're able to just read her mind - and if you can do that then there's nothing you can't do, maybe. And here, excitement feels a lot like apprehension. She twists and curls in on herself, thighs rubbing together, the flat of her hand traveling across her stomach.

"I'm-"

"Because no one should have to pretend that they're interested in guys," you interrupt her and, god, for as much time as she's spent dwelling on that, she wishes it were that simple. 

It would be a hell of a lot easier if she knew why she wanted to get her face between Yeji's thighs and drag her tongue all over her clit until that prettier-than-perfect face of hers cinches up in a pleasure that comes with just the right amount of agony - or if she knew why she didn't feel anything like remorse or guilt or envy when her boyfriend came around instead of wanting, you know, to get on her knees with her mouth around his cock too -

Fuck, it's all very complicated.

"Straight," she answers. She likes cock, as much as anyone realistically can, and she knows the body on a man can get her dripping and easy in all the right ways. So, she just swallows. Says, "straight enough."

"If you were to touch yourself, right now, and someone - say, a man - were telling you exactly what to do: what would spring to mind, if anything."

"Mmm. Is this you asking me to touch myself?"

"Again. That's up to you."

Your voice is light. Very pleasant. Very male, Ryujin realizes. She gulps.

"Can you, I mean," she says, running a hand down the length of her thigh, pressing down at the hollow.

"Ryujin,” you say, letting her mull over how it sounds in your mouth. “Take a breath for me, please."

Her exhale leaves her with a heavy push and she tries not to laugh. Nervous tic. She's getting goosebumps, but she feels warmer than before.

"We could say this isn't the first time, you and me, in some very broad and abstract sense. How does that make you feel?"

"Strange." She touches her outer thighs again and arches her back. "Kind of horny," she admits. And it is odd - your words, the things you say - and maybe it's her nerves because the experience is new, and so are you, and so are her feelings, all wrapped in one.

"Do you want to do something about that?"

There's silence between you for what seems like a very long time, your breathing quiet but apparent - a signal you haven't abandoned her in some state of vulnerability. Ryujin inhales deeply. She's shaking in her fingertips. The tension has her taut and waiting, and that's funny, really, because it's what she's been doing for years. The rubbing. The touching.

Her hips rock forward gently and she answers the unasked question with a sweetly husked, "uh-huh."

"What are you wearing?"

"Ah, really?" Ryujin laughs. Her fingers pause at her waistline. "That old, bad porn trope."

"I like hearing about people's clothes, is all," you excuse yourself lightly. "Helps me get a sense of things."

"Yeah, alright. Sweats. Baggy ones." Her lips fall apart. "Shirt."

"Is that all? Nothing sexy."

"What's sexy?"

"Sexy is…"

She listens to you mull it over, listening for a ruffling or two. "For a girl with a nice body - some body - some curves," you continue, and Ryujin has to drop another finger to the hot line of her thigh, her lower belly. "You need lace. Silk. You've gotta leave the best bits a little hidden, at least for a while longer."

"Wow. You sound a hell of a lot like you'd enjoy taking someone's pants off," she half-teases. "Do you make all your calls like this? One sordid fantasy at a time, huh?"

"Something like that," you reply. And then, as if reading her mind, "are you doing anything, right now?"

"I'm touching myself," she exhales. "Are you?"

"Ryujin, not yet. Please be patient."

She makes a face even though you can't see it or taunt her. That's an unfair request - you have an unfair request.

"Just, wait," you tell her. She's drawing lazy, winding circles across her thigh. "Let me show you something, will you do that for me?"

"But, what."

"Tell me everything. All the things you're thinking. Things you want to do."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

She blinks away her initial disbelief and reaches around for her lamp to switch it off. Until it's just the hallway light peeking in through the crack between her door and the door jamb and you, a stranger who won't be seeing her face or hearing her say anything stupid. She shakes out a few more breaths, shuffles against the sheets, and glides her fingertips past her belly button.

Her hand rises up her stomach in one decisive movement, until her fingers curl beneath the bottoms of her bra, trapped in its underwire. "I'm thinking - unh - about, ah. My friend?"

You're quiet and let the silence linger, until she seems like she might not find her way; so you repeat, "Go ahead."

"And a guy she used to like, fuck, she'd show up here, drunk on, ah. A weeknight. Somewhere, fuck, around midnight. Walk past me into the kitchen where we had the - the light. God." Her hips stutter and she grits out the rest through her teeth. "In the refrigerator. Ah, yeah, a midnight snack. Always looked way too fucking good for, um, oh, for a casual booty-call."

"Does your friend have a name?"

"Yuna," she practically pants, and immediately realizes she shouldn't have said that either.

"Did you always know what was going on? Between Yuna and her-"

"Boy-toy, yes - it was so obvious, I always knew, yeah," she said, clumsily grabbing the sheets with one hand as she drifts further between the peaks. "Just - fuck - he'd be picking at, ah, something with chopsticks."

"In your kitchen?"

"My, uh, table. And I'd be working up the nerve to ask."

You sigh over the phone, "ask him what?"

"What it was, like, I knew she was only- shit." She keens high in her throat. "What it was like, fucking taking that cock of his, and bending Yuna's tight little, ah, ass over and, mm, railing her on the side of her fucking bed - and just pumping her full of cum just like that until- Jesus, she would walk around after and sometimes-"

You groan softly. This encouraging little sound.

"-fuck - sorry, I mean. Yeah, he, sometimes he'd make her walk around with his, ah, stuff inside. Down her fucking pants and, it's like, fucking disgusting, I swear-"

"And?" You breathe a heavy edged noise over the line.

Actually okay, so maybe this was more than she bargained for, maybe she bit off more than she can chew - maybe, she feels like her insides are collapsing; all the fire pooling around in her stomach and gathering into a melting sort of weightlessness.

"And it makes me feel fucking-"

"Fucking what."

"Why am I talking about this, why-"

"Talking to me? Fucking wet, Ryujin, answer the question."

She pants down at her phone and then turns her face into her forearm, rubbing and making sounds. She thinks about, oh, fucking Yuna and how she showed up to hang out once, with cum leaking down the crease of her inner thigh, smearing against her skin and down between her legs.

"Wet." She swallows. "How do I-"

"Say that you wish it was you," you tell her. "That you wanted that, to be fucked. To feel a cock inside."

Her head falls back. "That," she manages, "fucking, that."

You drawl so that the question might roll off, easy: "Is that the kind of girl you are? Told not to curse, not supposed to let anyone else play with you - you just need it, don't you? Do you need someone's cum? Just tell me."

"I think so, ah," and she stops moving her hand. "I think I'm gonna go now. This is fucking embarrassing, like. Okay, sorry."

"Don't hang up," you tell her, and the soft edge to it is one she really wants to indulge. "Don't," you repeat, a little louder.

You start talking, about the same sorts of things she's imagined herself: the sex and the sounds and what he can do to her. You build a slow and aching heat between her thighs that has her dripping through her underwear and grinding against her fingers. Telling her how she's the one that needs to be filled, needs a man who can wrap her legs around his waist, get to the deepest parts of her, the parts untouched and willing.

Ryujin gets that - she wonders, half out of it and stroking faster than she usually would be, how much of it has anything to do with who the voice is on the other end of the receiver, and how it could be what a desperate, pathetic, tired part of her has always wanted.

"Are you?" she asks, panting over the phone.

"Am I what?" you whisper back to her.

"Are you," and you hear how she inhales sharply through her nose, a desperate gasp leaving her lips on the exhale, "going to, um. Are you touching yourself right now?"

Your reply is immediate, and her eyes flutter and close the second you tell her exactly what she wants to hear:

"God, yes."

She drags her hand up the center of her body, runs her fingertips over her jaw and presses the heel of her wrist to her neck to feel her pulse slamming hard.

"I'm fucking throbbing, Ryujin; you sound gorgeous like this, like nothing I've ever heard, I'm stroking my cock just picturing you, please-"

"Tell me." She's mouthing into the center of her palm, saying the words, tasting salt and musk. "Fuck, ah," she babbles, "tell me what you would do with me."

"I'd get you on your knees," you tell her without hesitating for a beat.

"Fuck."

"I'd come up behind you and tell you not to be scared, baby. I wouldn't hurt you, I'd just touch you real gentle. Push my fingers past your tongue, slide a little down your throat."

"Uh huh," she moans, her head falling back and rolling, rocking against the mattress.

"Want you sucking on my fingers. Need your hands around my cock, or better, my balls, play with them. You're going to take those fingers - every finger I got, all five, yeah?- all ten of them," you joke, "and open up your tight cunt - like you are now, like such a good fucking girl-"

The girl fucking yelps. Just this honest sound of depravity; it's what she's paying you for. It's a silly line of bullshit, but it makes her bite hard and ache a little around her own knuckles and moan in her palm and dig her nails hard into her flesh. Her thumb fumbles across the top edge of her underwear and you pant again into her ear as if on cue, giving her a small bit of guidance that has her jolting in pleasure. She didn't know that was there, fuck, fuck-

"Like that, Ryujin. Breathe," and she does.

"Please," she whines, trying to find somewhere for her arm to settle, resting finally in her hair - setting the phone to speaker in a foolish moment of lapsed-judgment, just before it nearly clatters off the side of her bed.

Keep going - she's telling you over and over - keep going, and you’re picturing her there: eyes closed, legs spread wide, bent knees quivering and toes curling into the sheets. It doesn’t sound fake - you've heard a million of them, you've learned them in their different tones and accents and you can spot a faker a mile away. And the girl on the phone right now isn't pretending or thinking about whatever's happening somewhere else.

(You don't join in for everyone. You can't. It's an asinine consideration that you'd be rubbing your fist up and down your cock while it's sore and wanting - aching from the neglect or lack of rhythm. You have to remind yourself it's just a job, that the logistics just can't support such selflessness.

But then there's the very fucking premise.

That the girl on the other end of the line is inches from the goalposts, fingering her cunt and sighing into the throes of her first orgasm - first ever, because you did this, you brought her this far - you're the fucking culprit, and no matter how many girls, or boys-pretending-to-be-girls, how many people have gotten off with the help of your voice, your instruction, this one sets a different fucking precedent.

You're not lying when you say, "I'm rock fucking hard, Ryujin," or "there's precum all over my knuckles, baby."

Because there is, and the poor thing chokes out another desperate sound when you tell her.)

"I'm right there, ah, fuck, keep going-"

"I've got my hand around my shaft, just enough that I can fuck it, can't I? The head is getting slick - baby - and my palm is gliding nice and easy. Are you cumming, Ryujin? You better be, you better be cumming right now."

There's a heaving gasp and she calls out for you, babbling curses and "please" and "fuck" in alternating succession, with enough punctuation for you to have to let your lip slip under the hard bite of your front teeth. "Don't stop," she tells you, voice thready.

"You need this so bad."

"Yes," she gasps. "How would you-"

"How would I fuck you?" you finish her thought.

She waits a moment, sucking in shallow breaths and then replying weakly, "I really like... I like doggy."

"On your knees?"

"Yeah," she stammers, "I like when, like- ah, like, pulling my hair."

"Fuck, I love that," you say into her mewling. "Splayed out with your tits against a pillow and getting your pretty, little pussy pounded? I bet that'd feel so good, huh? Hands so rough on your hips, on your throat, squeezing your neck so you'll turn pink. Just to see you smile, I'd probably fucking let you take whatever you want."

You're met with a broken moan, a long string of syllables ending on a note that has your shoulders clenching and cock jumping in your grip.

Tense over the things you can't see: Ryujin biting down into the side of her hand, the other knocking painfully against the wooden side rail on her mattress, her thighs tightening and screaming and clamping around her wrist as she pulls weaker, wilder whimpers out of her chest each time her fingers drag across her slit and the sensitive curve of her swollen clit. She's dying, she thinks, she's going to fucking die - the in and out of her soaked pussy, through all that sticky, satiny skin, slick fingers diving in, twisting until there's nowhere for them to go.

No other recourse than to fuck in, fuck, fuck, like that, fucking god.

There's heavy silence on the line for god knows how long - well, you have to check the log. But for her, it feels like fucking forever. That was - that was it. It's so fucking mind-wracking how good it was, she can't quite wrap her brain around it. Nowhere near. She thinks she'll have a better idea after two rounds, definitely by four. She'll buy something, use the discount, go shopping - an orgasm just to make sure she's not bullshitting herself.

You clear your throat.

She moves sluggishly, away from the side and against the headboard - the heat still unbearably oppressive, her t-shirt clinging and sticking. "That," she stumbles through the afterglow.

"Do I need to apologize to you?" you ask lightly.

"What? Oh god, no - no way. No way. I just."

"Yes?"

"Like I didn't know it was this-"

"Did you just cum, Ryujin?"

She's laying there with the phone pressed to her brow. A hand palmed over her own racing pulse. The faint smell of her own cunt lingering around her face.

"I don't know," she tells you, and promptly hangs up.

-

The darkness in Ryujin's bedroom is punctuated only by the faint, hazy light streaming in from the hall, and her bedroom fan making its creaking little circles, as she waits in her post-nut-high for her breathing to normalize. Her mind is buzzing, and out of all this, she has a hell of a bill and a couple conclusions:

She's a coward and a pervert, but definitely, definitely bisexual.

Or, like. She's in some weird gray area between not liking whenever anyone buys her drinks, but also the girls at least let her dance a little close. That's a strange thing, isn't it? For how often her mouth does stupid shit - you think at least someone would figure it out for her.

But you, oh fuck. You-

She's fucking shaken up, for sure.

-

(It's a home office set-up, actually.

Your desk isn't organized; you're sure the photos on the wall are askew and the paint looks slightly worse for wear if you were to turn the lights on - which you never really do. There's an aging lamp tucked into the back corner, a bottle of scotch next to your handset that's closer to halfway empty than halfway full, and you can't stop imagining it.

Promise, This never happens.

You've got the name stuck to the roof of your mouth even though you know it's fake. Stuck with something so painfully abstract. Imagining this girl that is probably as brash and bawdy as her voice, or more exciting than either - maybe her hair is long enough to brush along her breasts. Or maybe it hangs just over her shoulders. God knows just how that would frame her features.

You can see it, really. You pump a handful of coconut oil into your palm and the details solidify so easily in your head: her pretty mouth, nose, the dimples in her cheeks - eyes glazed and sultry and gazing at you.

Smelling sweet, all the places you need, skin hot, clit swollen-

Just- fuck. Fuck.

Ryujin, huh, imagine that.

Ryujin.

And you jerk off right into the soft embrace of a tissue.)

-

A little more than a week later:

Ryujin's all wrapped up on the couch, with an arm cushioning her head and watching TV when there's a sudden commotion from the front door. Yuna - her friend, her very nice, very male friend who never shows up after midnight unless there's a promise of sex - comes bumbling into the room.

He has no regard for boundaries.

So,

Yuna starts to say, smug, from where the hallway becomes the living room, "Ryujin - look at us. Stuck on a Friday night. You gotta boyfriend or something?"

She's completely unfazed by this interaction. She's pretty sure he has his own key, so like, he should be used to it by now too.

"Kind of." She shuts off the TV to turn her attention towards the topic at hand. "Why?"

Yuna runs a hand through all her long, silky hair and gestures her cock-du-jour on over to the door of her room. "Waiting for a call, maybe." She waggles her eyebrows. "Are you any good, I mean, you never seem to..."

Annoying brat. 

Ryujin smacks the back of her neck and interrupts, "you gonna fuck him? Go ahead and fuck him, Yuna." She checks the lock. The kitchen. Gets up and tries to ignore the heat flaring behind her ears.

"We could pretend," Yuna muses, tugging the waistband of Ryujin's shorts around her fingers before she's out of arm's reach. The elastic flips back into her waist with a dull snap.

"Dumb idea. That's a dumb, dumb idea," she reasons, because she knows Yuna has no self control. None, and it's showing; the second her shoulders sag forward and her eyes dart, craving, Ryujin steps back in. "Don't be stupid."

Yuna's lips are tilted, playful. Ryujin wants to smack that look right off her face. Like she fucking deserves any kind of victory just because she found out she can fuck anyone she wants while lacking the self-awareness to somehow be contented with anyone. She's not going to call her a slut - out of a matter of principle - but god, does she fucking want to.

"Gotta get ready, is what you should do," Ryujin mumbles under her breath.

"Fine." Yuna shrugs and pecks an annoying kiss to Ryujin's temple on her way to the shower, waving a hand over her head with a casual, "If you want something, you've only got a half-hour."

Ryujin pushes her hair out of her face and does what she does best: overanalyze and overthink the situation.

Whatever. Yuna won't give it up regardless, not in any way she'd actually be able to enjoy. Her cheeks go a little redder while she pretends to not be considering it.

God, a threesome in total functional harmony however: her working her mouth on Yeji (Ryujin doesn't know why she's thinking about Yeji, but she is), Yeji working her mouth on her boyfriend, her boyfriend working his mouth on her -

That'd be something, she thinks. Like one of those Escher diagrams, but one where everyone cums at the end.

The thought makes Ryujin wet enough to squeeze her thighs together and stand up a little straighter.

Then she hears the showerhead turn on, and she wonders just why, exactly, Yuna is such a spoiled asshole.

-

Turns out,

The universe just has this habit of providing Ryujin with what she wants right alongside everything she doesn't.

She’s stretched out in her sweats, sat up at the top of her bed again and touching herself beneath the sheet in a pointless attempt to contain the mess. Fucking horny - it's honestly unbelievable - and her left hand's making lecherous, slick noises until it's absolutely gross. Until Ryujin's gasping and panting and sweating from the nape of her neck and the back of her knees.

All because Yuna's the loudest little-fucking-whore of a roommate anyone has ever heard.

She's moaning like she's getting fucking plowed into the next life. And apparently, the cock she's got in her cunt is fucking huge if those little murmuring whimpers are anything to go on. She keeps begging the guy, coy, for a kiss while she's probably folded up like a lawn chair in there, getting railed, and the fact that the boy keeps obliging is as admirable as it is kind of insulting.

"Goddamn," she thinks out loud, because the walls are paper-fucking-thin. The apartments in the area are built in an earthquake-safe way, which in reality, means they can either withstand a magnitude 6.0 and come out without any severe structural damages - or that it's so cheaply constructed the building will go down like a matchbox house before it stands a chance against a tremor of any significance.

They're easier to replace that way she’s told. And Ryujin's apartment is definitely of the latter; she can hear everything.

The skin on skin, their bodies sliding together in the slippery sheets. Her mouth smacking wet around his tongue as he bucks forward and asks her to do a hundred filthy things, asking her where it feels best - that sort of thing, which gets her wound and agitated and frustrated, and fucking horny as fuck. Ryujin's bent-inward and panting when he really gets to work - the creaks and groans, their mingled pants and the constant thudding and swaying of the headboard smacking into the wall.

She doesn't even need to put her ear to the partition like she's sixteen years old all over again, hoping to catch her old brother going at it while her mom was out. Trying to figure out this whole sex thing - what all the fuss was about.

Just the way Ryujin sighs is nothing short of despondent. Slightly pitiful.

And every tight circle she's running over clit feels so fucking good, until she realizes the room goes real quiet for a bit. The stillness - no slapping, no movement, just wet, panted-breaths and muffled speech. She nearly asks aloud what's wrong - but she hears it: Yuna's hushed but totally undeniable,

"Been so long- don't, don't- hold up," she croons in these high, sing-song little huffs. "That - uhn, ah - that's my - that's my good spot, there, keep - yes, harder!"

Ryujin slams her eyes closed, dropping down onto the mattress and wishing she'd slipped her hands into her sweats sooner. Fuck. And as Yuna's back starts banging against the wall - so rhythmic and fucking thorough - Ryujin can feel the heat curling behind the backs of her knees, radiating along her calf and reaching into the smalls of her feet. Fuck. Fuck, she doesn't even get to watch.

Right there. So good, please, so fucking good, is what Ryujin can’t not hear coming right through the drywall.

She’s three knuckles deep in her pussy, all stretched out, and she's practically drooling - "spread me, baby. Hold the, fuck, spread my lips open. See me- unh. Ah - see me? Please, do it-" - the boy groaning about it as he fucks her, and then, Yuna, needling him with a quiet, breathy, "harder, can't you?"

The answer seems to make Yuna squirm and scream.

And Ryujin's nearly rolling - rocking, fucking humping her own fingers because it's starting to ache a little, a cramping in her wrist and arm and jaw that she's trying really hard to ignore, rubbing and fingering and fucking herself closer, the heels of her feet sinking hard against the sheets, throbbing and aching around the flicks of her knuckles, harder, faster - faster -

"Fucking hell-" she seethes and stops moving all at once - because god, Yuna is un-fucking-believable.

The absolute bitch, she's doing it again: squealing and cursing and calling his name into her orgasm and just basking, it sounds like, right in it. Because she always does this, every single fucking time, she acts like it's the best feeling in the fucking world and she fucking loves everything, and that shit just - Ryujin grits her teeth and grimaces and pulls her slick fingers from her body - that just ruins it.

All that build-up and for what?

Fuck, Yuna really has the nerve to go there too. She's talking about sucking her own damn cunt or some bullshit-

Yeah, it's not fucking fair, Ryujin concedes.

Or maybe she's being punished. She could live with that, but god. The unfairness of it all. She tries, for a half a minute, to let her throbbing stop being a goddamn nuisance. But the noises coming from the other room are making her crankier, more angry, more irate - and definitely hornier than she ever really intended, even though she knows Yuna is thoroughly distracted in there.

Ryujin sits up a little straighter. Squares her shoulders, steadies herself and fishes around in her pockets with her uncoordinated, cum-coated hands until she finds her wallet, a credit card, her cell -

And there's an aching, a sore pulse of neglect between her legs; that's all too much. A quick peek down confirms that, yep, she's practically dripped right out of her shorts and even gotten a dark spot in the front of them. How great is that.

Yuna is over there, all, "thank you - ah - can you please do me a favor and fuck my mouth with your big, big, huge, fucking cock-" and this guy, he sounds so patient, telling her how he wants to do exactly that, but he wants to fill her tiny pussy up first, fuck her here, fuck her there, fuck a baby right into her. Wants to get his cum all over her face, smear her mouth and her throat and her cheeks - 

Ryujin inhales through her nose and holds, eyes falling closed in something between misery and anguish.

He's telling her, yeah, of course he'll fill up her throat - give her so much it's leaking out of her fucking nose - and Yuna sounds like she's moaning and garbling an objection to that last part - but it doesn't actually fucking matter.

"Geez," is Ryujin's quiet, little gasped-out response. He just fucking pounds her right back into place; her next orgasm. Fuck-

And there it is: the slew of moans that start back up and just keep on keeping on.

Shin Ryujin is going to lose her fucking mind.

-

Ryujin only lasts a handful more days before she calls again.

It’s another Wednesday night, if only to increase the odds that you’re working. Yeah, she could go with another guy, but another guy might not do everything you did, talking quietly and calmly - so composed while Ryujin was losing some part of her sanity to the thumb she pressed on her clit. 

No, it has to be you.

That's what Ryujin makes herself say when the operator apologizes and explains you're busy.

"Will he be working much longer? Please, I, um-"

"If you give me your number," the operator tells her, "I can add him as a preferred associate. You'll get him next time instead of going to the line."

Ryujin pauses, finger held to her chin. Will he know that? There's all this implication isn't there, that maybe he won't. Maybe you're popular - are you? It's a lot like texting someone for the very first time. And if you did - know, she means - would she be acting like a stalker? It would feel weird, probably, but no worse than some people do it already.

Oh god, this is kind of fucked up.

Maybe a little. Maybe.

Ryujin pauses, finger to her chin. Will he know that? There's all this implication, isn't there, or maybe he won't. Maybe you're popular - are you? It's a lot like texting someone you like-like for the very first time. And if you did - know, she means - would she be acting like a stalker? It would feel weird, probably, but no worse than some of things other people are undoubtedly doing with this service, Ryujin decides, and rattles off the digits so fast the operator asks for clarification.

"If your schedule doesn't open," the line says, "call back and leave a message with when."

Ryujin shrugs and says, "yeah, okay."

-

You make Ryujin sit through forty-five-fucking minutes of on-hold music - this barely audible synthetic noise that signals a connection is still there, truly a genre for no one - all before she just cuts the fucking line and lays down on the couch.

Okay.

Okay, fine.

Whatever.

-

(You are… going through the motions.

Some girl on the other line is barely holding it together; you can hear her thighs making slick noises. God. She sounds desperate, she's holding the phone all tight and saying your name. She's fucking babbling; it's not attractive, not while you're tilted back as far as your office chair will go and staring up in the ceiling.

You're bored, mostly.

"Please, please, I'm-"

"Going to cum, I know, princess." She asked you to call her that. "Mouth all open? Can't help it? Just need to lick it nice and fast?"

The answer comes all choppy: "I can't, ah, a-ah-nymore, no, I, can't, need-"

"Do you have any idea? How hard I'm fucking stroking my cock right now? Sitting right in my lap. Jerking it right for you," you say, and then she makes an embarrassingly wet noise, gasping through a choked whine, "so I'm ready to give you what you really fucking need."

"Yes," she chokes. "There - um, please, I just-"

"The biggest fucking load," you tell her. She has no idea, really, that you've got one hand on the receiver, the other just pinching the bridge of your nose - neither of which are you jerking the cum out of your cock and balls like a fucking hydrant as you’d described. What she doesn't know won't hurt her, and you keep your face turned to the side as she starts screaming. As it starts running into one noise that lasts forever - so unbearable that, this time, you consider going out to the bathroom to grab a glass of water and a handful of painkillers. "Need it deep. Let me pour it in, yeah?"

"Yes," she gasps again, heard on this distant frequency because, yes, yes, you've plugged your ear with a finger.

"That'll satisfy you. C'mon, now, princess - give it right up," you tell her, but your eyes are a little dull when her moan turns out all-gagging and twitchy and spasming through it, until finally:

"Ugh."

You wait a moment for the gasping and hitching to finish.

"Good girl," is your distant reply, followed by a polite, perfunctory, "call back anytime.")

-

Ryujin feels like she's in grade eleven again as she stares at her phone. Boys. Drama. Girls. The drama.

The overanalyzing, the wondering, the hesitating. Fuck. She wishes she knew a way to change this, because she doesn't feel particularly mature and is somehow reduced to this girl, this idiot sitting here all embarrassed and staring and moping about a thousand different calamities at once.

She's looking right at the lock screen: the wallpaper of her and Yeji and Chaeryeong out getting coffee on a random Sunday, all bundled up. Winter. Like three, four years ago, maybe.

Ryujin looks like shit, it's funny.

But Yeji -

How she can make the winter pallor look good is beyond Ryujin's understanding. It's unfair. All the things are. Her brain is back and forth and spinning, spinning like the hands on the old clock hung up on the wall in the kitchen. So stuck on what's not quite normal. Stuck on what doesn't fucking matter - who even fucking cares who the fuck she's attracted to?

She feels it between her legs.

Has been for like a month, or longer, without an outlet. Without anything to give her the hint that maybe she can get back to it - the right it.

She doesn't need to call, she tells herself. She's not some weirdo who's sitting on this for days just in the hopes that her boyfriend is having a bad week with work or whatever. It's only Wednesday, technically. Still way early. Just another few days, she reasons, another few hours - what does it matter?

Wednesday. She can feel the word settle inside of her.

Though only once her bottom lip is chewed to hell, does she pick up her phone and decide she will.

-

(You're in your bedroom this time around, finishing up your own weekday workout - on the bike, fifteen-second sprints - when your phone goes off. A simple dinging. Very unassuming.

The operator comes in with a cool, level, "line two, callback."

Then there's nothing but silence for a few beats.

You towel some of the sweat off your face. It's warm - your skin, flushed. Bouncing your phone in your palm. The same feeling that's been tugging at your throat for the past two weeks starts to flare and swell.

Not quite a hope, not quite expectation: just something close.

"Are they still there?"

The operator confirms. "Shall I put them through?")

-

Ryujin fumbles in her own rush of bravado, hands pressing against the fronts of her thighs in an unflattering, nervous little gesture as the connection clicks and picks up.

"This is him," comes your voice, a little husky and raspy from all the day-to-day talk, but even and easygoing and maybe - just maybe - something she can hang on to. Ryujin gives an acknowledging "Mmmn," like the phone call isn't causing her major inner-turmoil.

"Right, ah." You sound kind of, dare she say, nervous yourself. You clear your throat into the line and ask, "what brings you here, stranger?"

Ryujin pauses at this; the red in her ears reaches her fucking jaw. Stranger. Jesus christ, okay, okay-

She laughs. Stops immediately at how self-conscious she sounds. Clears her throat and tucks some of her hair back - settles herself into it like her life hangs in the balance. "I'm here to get my rocks off."

"It's not usually my place to say," you begin in earnest, "but if you're anything like me, and this is gonna sound completely off-the-cusp, but those two weeks really seem to build up, don't they?"

God.

She pulls her sock off her ankle. There's eczema on her heel, and it's the kind of thing she can imagine Yeji telling her to not scratch - that she's going to fuck up her skin. It's funny the stupid fucking things she can remember and all the things she forgets. Like just now, with your voice in her ear, a little unsure in a way that says you've got other, much more important things you should be doing. But you're here with her.

With Ryujin.

God. She might hate herself a little.

"Um," is how she finds her bearings. "Actually."

"It's a joke. Not that- I mean." She hears some rustling - assumes it's coming through the ear piece. There's an abrupt slamming on her side of the line and it seems like the worst kind of deja-fucking-vu. Her neighbors. She forgets it's even this late into the evening. That other people don't have to work so hard in their free-time.

"Maybe this isn't a good night," she says, not so much as thinking the words.

"What?" you ask. Then it dawns on you. "No, no. If you're there, I'm here." You clear your throat. "Besides, there's nobody I'd rather hear from than a woman so desperate she's signed onto my frequent flier's club."

She stops chewing the insides of her cheeks long enough to give you a tired, irritated sound. "Whatever."

And you nearly choke trying not to laugh.

"I don't, um-"

"What, do I have a nice voice?" You laugh quietly.

Under normal circumstances, that wry edge, the bit of try-hard-humor would have her rolling her fucking eyes clean out of their sockets. So when instead she opens her mouth and a fatal-fucked-flirty-feminine, stop, comes out, the vowel pulled long like a plea or a request - well, Ryujin's forehead drops against her bedspread in immediate regret.

You seem startled by it too, going quiet for a second.

"I-I'm-"

"Cute," you decide.

Her ears are red-hot and her cheeks have to be pinking and god, she hates this. That she's hearing this so soon, and it's making her brain hazy and soft and stuttering through, um's and yeah, well, um's. A part of her can't believe she's paying for this, and then, at the same time, she can't believe she's not actually putting cash down for more right this second.

Because it feels -

Like maybe -

Her shoulders rise. She wants this to be quick; she hates this feeling of embarrassment creeping its way in and grabbing onto her with both hands, like this weird, pseudo-affection. She's a grown fucking woman and here she is, letting all her guard down for someone she doesn't even fucking know.

You can feel the tension, hear it. Your lips purse. You try for something easy.

"Go on and give me the details, Ryujin."

Before you'd even picked up, she'd already half-undone her shirt, the flaps of the collar hanging loose with her hands gently petting her ribcage - so easily giving and pliant that there's a good portion of her, in spite of the doubt, in spite of what seems completely illogical about all this, that has her realizing maybe she wants this more than she can possibly understand.

God, she feels like a fucking fool.

"It's pretty boring."

"Not to me. I've spent the last few weeks talking to a bunch of assholes who don't appreciate what they got in the first place," you reply. She imagines you're a little playful about it. Wonders, momentarily, how good that smirk looks - if your eyebrows are lifting like you've been teasing her since day one. Fuck. 

“Your operator is a total asshole too, by the way."

"Don't say that," is Ryujin's shy reply, practically moaned out. "You sound like someone I'd absolutely fucking hate, jesus, stop that."

"Just because you don't get on with someone, doesn't mean they can't get you off."

"Smooth, or something."

"I'm taking a break, relaxing a little, enjoying an overrated TV show or whatever this is - not really minding my business," you say, but your smile is so audible it's fucking offensive. And she's - she's maybe, definitely into that. Like the fucking embarrassment in this is turning her on. Ryujin puts the tip of her finger in the waist of her shorts, experimentally, gently, this small brush and press to her sensitive lower stomach. And it's true. All she hears is her own breathing in the receiver, a bit labored over the slightest, least indecent touch. It's amazing, how much her body can want even when her head can't seem to catch up.

"What do you like?" she asks. “You’re a person, working bits and all, something’s gotta get you all worked up and flustered, no?”

"Will you believe me if I tell you this is my absolute favorite?"

"Do you always dodge the question?"

"It's just like a courtesy," you clarify, "it's not personal."

"Now I sound like a desperate pervert."

"On the contrary," is your warm, buttery reply, and it is fucking aggravating just how well this works on her. "I think there are much better things people can say about you."

God, that - the thought, the possibility of something about her that has nothing to do with how 'thick' or 'thin' her thighs are, or the silhouette of her ass in safety shorts, or how her voice makes guys want to ask if they can take her home and fuck the answers from her, or any of that; it's kind of liberating, just a tiny bit. That it can be a good thing for some reason. God.

Ryujin rubs herself. "Yeah, well."

She wants it all the same and says nothing, shifting a little until her hips tilt slightly upwards, letting her pull at the drawstring of her shorts, loosening the grip. She's already kind of feeling woozy in all the best ways, soft and feminine in how she slides her hand underneath her shorts. Over panties first, with no clear idea if you can tell and honestly, too distracted to wonder about that, if she should care or not, too caught up with her fingertips over the raised seam in her underwear - where the fabric's wet from her.

A shush comes into the line when Ryujin swallows.

The ache between her legs grows louder.

"You still there, Ryujin?"

"Of course," and then, she finds a little more reassured finality: "fuck, yeah, fuck. Please, I..."

"Ryujin," you say with all the calm and control in the world, "talk to me."

-

(So - truthfully, honestly, factually - you are a total wreck.

You're sitting there in a heap of bedsheets and a cold sweat when Ryujin finally mutters into the silence, "thanks, for that, I, uh- that felt really good, exactly what I needed," and hangs up before you can ask about her day or comment on the weather or suggest calling back tomorrow.

She is just perfect, the way she lets a small "I..." slip when she's close. Perfect, how she groans her little broken, satisfied sigh of a yes, her last, fleeting exhale just a sweet, high, barely there please, her body tensing with every little shudder and moan and pant. How the pace goes fast and then slow - like she's gotta think it out a second, her own fingers bringing her closer and closer until there's nothing but a flurry of movement and ragged breaths - an enthusiastic little mmph noise - followed by Ryujin's wet and slick little laugh that sounds like relief.

Like you did something to help, like she needed you and wanted you.

There's cum sticking all up your torso and along your wrist, the inside of your thigh - everywhere you could manage, frankly - and, shit, it's not fair, you realize:

She can find you, whenever she needs you.

And you -

You're just sitting here. Nowhere near sure she'll even call again.)

-

There's a sizable difference between being lonely and being alone, Ryujin thinks, running the cloth under the stream of the shower and then pressing it damp against her throat, wiping at the backs of her knees.

Lonely means that something's missing - it's something she feels when she catches a glance at the handsome arm reached around Chaeryeong's waist, the way she dances so close to someone she just met, or whenever she tells her that she's thinking about, maybe, probably, definitely, absolutely going home with him if her friends don't stop her from leaving. God, her smile is always so cute when he's near. When someone's calling her over for drinks - hips sashaying like she doesn't know the whole bar is staring at the creases where her thighs flare into her ass - because he gave her a look from across the room, and she's swaying from drink to drink.

Like, of course, they're fucking; it's a known, unsaid thing.

She knows it, he knows it. Chaeryeong fucking owns it.

Alone however, is just what it says on the tin.

That's something else Ryujin has yet to learn - that everyone loves differently, cares for different things. Yuna is still single after all, and she can never shake the feeling that it's simply to spite her for some perceived slight or another; Yuna can't live without company, no matter how brief or short or meaningless, so perhaps it's better she never catches on or finds anyone worth keeping around.

And Yeji?

Ryujin sighs, rakes the comb through her wet hair.

The showerhead is running hot between Ryujin's fingers, and the water coming off of her skin turns to steam instantly, filling the bathroom with a permanent cloud, stuck in flux - rising towards the ceiling. She passes her fingers under it, watches the flow, a quiet hm escaping the back of her throat - and she considers the way it feels beating against her throat and chest.

Down the concave curve of her stomach. How it burns red right over her thighs. The pressure slips and sinks low, lower - and when she puts a palm out for a little stability, her left leg can't help but buckle just so, lifting itself out and off to the side. So she stands, toes pointing against the shower floor, face first into her arm against the cool tile.

Ryujin sees where the rivulets of water have gathered above her clavicle - feels them trail down over the tightness in her breasts and between. A couple images pass through her mind at once - thoughts of fingers trailing a line back up the center of her body and a gentle tap against her chin, turning her face to some perfect all-consuming kiss - a hand squeezing at her calf, rubbing her muscles gently - Yeji smiling into the crook of her neck, the grasp on her hip, wrist flexing. Her back bowed and fingers, broad and experienced -

"Don't need you," Ryujin quietly says to nobody, which -

You're doing so well, Ryujin hears back in her imagination, you're so beautiful, you can keep this up, I know you can. I bet it feels good, doesn't it? Just let go and I'll...

Ryujin whimpers out. She can feel that line deep inside her going taut, buckling in her core, the reverberations down to her wrists and fingertips and toes. If she didn't have the wall in front of her, she knows she'd be on her knees - kneeling to the hot water pulsing around the knots of nerves right behind her clit. The pressure hitting her like the crack of a whip.

"Fuck me," she says to no one, gasping in that way you only can when no one is listening.

Yeji's smile is what's gotten her this close so many times, the smell of the ends of her hair tickling Ryujin's nose. Hell, she can't stop thinking about the way her nose crinkles or her dimples flare just when she finds Ryujin's name in her mouth.

It's not fair.

She's so close to cumming and letting whatever happens happen. The slick of her release pouring right out into the drain of the shower, washed away with the excess. So when her whole hand shifts and catches in just the right, delicious, frustrating way, Ryujin inhales so deep through the end of the sentence that, as a result, her knees wobble.

She feels like fucking crying.

It's that sweet little lilt in Yeji's voice, saying things like: "It's alright. I promise you can keep this up a little longer." And "Oh, god, baby." And, at worst, the way her voice shakes with a "come here, honey. Let me-"

Ryujin has to catch herself when her footing slips a little from under her. Then, your voice, coming in distant at first, grows louder, clearer. Into something catastrophic, right against her throat, like it knows the very inside-and-out of her, "go on. Fuck, please, cum all over me, baby - show me a face no one else gets to see."

And for the first time,

Ryujin gets herself off. Alone.

She moans and sighs out. Gasps, "there you go-" and whispers an, "ah, jesus." She manages the most silent, the least decipherable, fuck, as it leaves her mouth like a prayer. Her left knee twitches, body curling into itself, and her hand moves - fingers closing and her eyes clenched shut, a wave, cresting - she just-

Collapses.

Wanting: Yeji, sure - and she came - but the only thing she can really wrap her head around is the truth that she's so, utterly fucked.

-

"Are you sure there's no one you can bring?" Yeji asks in the middle of slapping the ever-loving shit out of a coffee maker that has, for as far as anyone can remember, never worked.

"Uh," is Ryujin's inconvenienced reaction, the tips of her fingers idly sorting through her credit card statements, which a more-sober, less-horny version of herself is a little out of sorts over. "I'm not sure there's anyone I'd want to bring."

"Uh huh," Yeji replies.

She pauses and rests the bottom edge of the coffee maker on the edge of the kitchen counter, stopping herself mid-smack - leaning away to try and give the stupid thing a once-over.

"Who the hell says it's got to be someone you wanna make babies with? Maybe it's just someone you'd think would look good beside you, smiling at the cameras with. Or."

"Or."

Yeji's lips tilt. "Or someone you wouldn't mind screwing in the bathroom."

Ryujin spins the pen in her fingers and gives Yeji a look that says back off and can you chill out already, in the sort of way it takes years to ferment - the silent understandings, the good-natured naggings, the good-fucking-luck-with-that-buddy's. Yeji knows she's getting on Ryujin's nerves. Knows that has never stopped her before.

"In my defense," Yeji clarifies, "I can count at least a hundred people that would crawl over broken glass to sleep with you and, uh-" She knocks the coffee maker off of its stand and holds it gingerly to her chest like some child, motherly. "-I don't wanna take a bullet for your unintentional chastity, Shin Ryujin."

"First of all, don’t pretend you’re doing me a favor here," she replies. "Second-"

"Can't hurt just asking, right? I could set you up, you know, someone you've never even met - no pre-burnt bridges to maneuver."

There’s a world, and Ryujin imagines it for all of a second, where she stands up and grabs hold of Yeji by her cute little ponytail - if nothing else, just to stop the way it bounces every time she steps - and maybe, she also kisses her on the mouth so hard she stumbles. Or perhaps she could pull that ribbon free of its holdings and unravel it down against Yeji's jaw. Pull a whimper, a tiny little ah that says this was inevitable. Maybe they crash onto her bed. Maybe she gets her fingers sticky with how soaked through the cotton of Yeji's shorts have gotten in those short, heated moments - what a world that would be.

"One of what's-his-name's friends? I’m assuming."

Yeji looks annoyed and proud and beautiful; all at once.

"Yes, and what's-his-name's pillow talk is exceedingly whiny about how my best friend is so incredibly standoffish and abrasive and-"

"Okay. I'll go." Anything to stop the image of Yeji with the comforter pulled up to her tits and hair splayed all over the place; red and flushed. Her lips curling with the curve of the sheets and god -

"Just for an hour?" Ryujin asks.

Yeji finally places the coffee maker back onto its stand.

"I mean, nothing much happens an hour into a birthday party," Yeji reassures. "It'll be fun."

"Uh-huh."

"Trust me."

Ryujin wonders just how far Yeji could go - if she knows that she can snap her fingers together, and Ryujin will be there: ready to do anything.

-

Ryujin is trying to go to sleep, is how she'll explain it if anyone asks. Though she prays to god no one ever will.

She tries books. And she tries scrolling aimlessly through Instagram. And there's this one guy she kinda-sorta-dated's updates: photos of a vacation to Boracay, which seems nice; his chest is a little more defined, more chiseled than when she was seventeen and kind of fumbling her way around a college boy and his stupid fucking preoccupation with who should be paying for drinks at whatever run down establishment was his pick of the night. Ryujin makes a face at the screen, pursing her lips; there's a girl in the photo - she looks too young for how her ass is falling out the one-piece. To the extent that she makes sure to send an unsolicited meme she's tagged herself in - like "here is my past and here are his balls", and gets a block and a report as a thank you.

It makes her feel good. That's what's most important.

And then, with little other distraction and a decent lack of luck, she picks up the phone.

It rings for a while before the operator comes in and says, "You're at number nine."

"What?"

"The queue. This call has you at number nine."

Ryujin slowly leans up from the pillows and squints into her bedroom.

"Huh."

"Would you still like to be connected, miss?

Ryujin thinks it over for a moment. Of course you're popular, a part of her mind comments, because you've got a voice like gravel-slung honey-gold. She's imagining eight other girls just like her, laying in their bed, panties on their ankles and thumbs covered with spit. All desperate for you. All curled up - one right after the other - with no fucking idea.

"Miss," the operator comes back with.

The line goes quiet - a few beats, but not too uncomfortable a silence. Then she gets a soft little exhale out, saying, "can I leave a callback number?"

"If you like." The operator considers the idea. "I can’t promise whether he’ll call you.”

“No, yeah.” Ryujin curls an arm under her chest and plays a finger against the swell of her breast through her night shirt. Gets lost in her own consideration. “Don't think he would anyway."

-

A new day is defined by new possibilities, or something or another you read once stitched into a frame; Something you muse over the rim of your coffee, nose-deep in the laptop at the kitchen counter top.

Last night ended a bit unexpectedly - this not considering the couple's awkward fight which took up two-thirds of the evening. Or the girlfriend-slash-fiancée of that guy, which somehow led you to wonder just how old was too old. But as you were logging your final client session of the night a ping came through the employee portal and let you know that someone had left their number with the operator in the hopes you'd call.

You swig back the rest of your coffee, roll your shoulders and shrug. Oh, there are at least a million reasons not to call a number that randomly, offhandedly arrives in the middle of the night and gets patched through a phonesex hot line under the cover of darkness.

The same number could be out there, defacing the wall of a truck stop bathroom, or inked into the skin of a squat prison convict who's got a brow like the horizon. Maybe, it belongs to that married business man that took your personal phone number as his private line and spent all the time bragging how he was going to quit his wife and make a run for it with you - just you - even though you'd rather stab him with a fork than be involved with that kind of psychopathy and are honestly just looking for that extra bump in commissions every time his wife calls to ask the exact same thing.

Your clients call. You talk.

You take the cash.

The point is: there's more fucking deviants out there than there are stars in the sky. You would know; you talk to a new handful every goddamn day.

Yet it doesn't really matter. You're gonna do it. Because you're feeling restless. Because - and it sounds insane - there's at least some probability, no matter how remote, that you will pick up that receiver and punch in a number and the line will connect with the girl who's been on your mind almost constantly for the better half of two months. That you might listen to the dial tone turn into her answering with a genuinely indifferent, "this is Ryujin," or whatever her name actually is -

You're living in a pipe dream. You're probably reaching, actually. And all you know about this woman, is, what? What does it really, factually, truly amount to, the amount you feel you've come to know about her.

You know more about how she prefers to methodically, meticulously begin, then draw out, and finally end a blowjob to someone that ain't you than you do about any detail in her life story, frankly. You're reaching, and you know it.

You pick up the phone and dial.

-

(It goes straight to voicemail, and get this: that’s her real fucking name.)

-

Yuna has the audacity to ask, as she slides into the booth, "who do you keep texting?"

Ryujin's eyebrow arches.

The younger girl nods towards where Ryujin's thumbs are practically flying over the keyboard.

"No one." Ryujin puts the phone on her lap and crosses her arms over her chest. Then the words seem to echo through the inside of her skull, so she shakes her head a little, in emphasis. "It's nothing, don't worry about it."

She's right though - and maybe that's the problem. Maybe that's why it's hard to answer.

Chaeryeong washes the shot of whisky down with a swallow of lemon-lime. Her eyes slide open to Ryujin as she wipes at her bottom lip. Then she spikes a finger into Ryujin's ribs.

"Spill."

It's a dangerous order, and she doesn't realize it at first. Chaeryeong's bad ideas have an annoying habit of flinging themselves on Ryujin, like a bomb dropped at low altitude - sudden, quick, and more than enough to shake everything up. Chaeryeong will make Ryujin go out dancing - and then she'll lose her clutch purse. Chaeryeong will remember she started the evening with a scarf - so they need to walk out a whole block or two to find it.

More importantly: Chaeryeong is not a great drunk.

So, of course she spills. She relays her findings, carefully and as deliberately as she can muster.

"Does he have a nice voice?" Chaeryeong asks.

"It's kind of deep?”

Chaeryeong snorts. Apologizes immediately.

"Not... deep. Sultry. I guess. Smooth, easy to hear." Ryujin tells the two across the table.

Yuna whistles low. "Romantic as shit."

“Fuck, I don’t know. In, like a sexy sort of way." Ryujin raises both palms in a vague gesture. She clears her throat at the two pairs of eyes staring back at her as though the words coming out of her mouth belonged to a foreign language. "Uh. Sort of raspy, or something, sometimes, like he's... on the phone a lot, and you know," Ryujin flushes, suddenly caught and wondering where all the confidence went, "yeah."

Yuna's leaning forward, chin in her palm. "I'm having a hard time believing texting is a sort of standard operating procedure."

"Well try a little harder," Ryujin snaps, eyes finding Yuna's and making herself fucking clear.

Chaeryeong has this look about her, she's trying to keep it all in, but then there's her eyes, cinched at the corners and dead-fucking-giveaways. She puts an arm against the table and points at Ryujin with an up-reaching thumb. "This is the cutest shit, like ever, and you two are texting like actual lovers instead of two, apparently rando-stranger fuck buddies, or whatever."

Yuna - for whatever reason - feels at liberty to throw gasoline on the fire. "Does that mean you think he's going to get jealous if you bring some dude along to Lia's birthday?"

Ryujin sucks in a breath; the fact that he'd never - well.

"Ryujin's in love," Yuna adds for dramatic effect, for the sake of being the worst fucking person. She can be so fucking petty. It's a side of her no one ever sees, because she's just so sweet all the time. Like right now, she's doing that smile-smirk thing that gets Chaeryeong giggling against her hand and then coughing into it a second later.

"Jesus christ," Ryujin starts gathering her jacket and purse. "He's- not- this is- God, I'm done." She slips her shoulder under the strap. "Thanks for listening to me sound like a teenager."

"Isn't that just normal for you," Yuna quips back, pulling at her straw until there's only air rushing through the bend of it. "Where are you going?"

"I can't stay here," Ryujin says as if it's obvious, as well as her point, the argument she's trying to make. "Besides, Yeji is gonna want me to get my dress and shit all sorted out."

"Don't fall in love with one of the robot voices at the cross-walk on your way home, or anything!" Yuna laughs out, giving a flippant wave goodbye.

Ryujin lets her eyes roll because sometimes, she hates her friends.

-

It still throws you for a loop whenever Ryujin pings your phone with a text that says something like:

have you jerked yourself off to exhaustion or is there one more in you for someone like me?

Or,

my roommate is getting pounded through the springs of her mattress, wanna see if you can hear it?

Or,

are you free? I really fucking need to cum. bad.

Each text is something you tuck into yourself. Save and mark and spend all your time in those long-form responses imagining how her face looked when her brain typed out the words for you. You wonder if she's sighing through her fingers or hiding her lips behind a pillow while the heat coils in the pits of her hips.

As time goes by, Ryujin slips a little more. From one text about whatever book or series she was rereading last and another about the sadism of politicians and how people are more likely to agree with what they've heard someone else say than the facts of a given subject, to texts with a few scattered thoughts to strings of sexting that has you cumming into the palm of your hand and through your sheets and in the middle of a dream in which there's no clothes and a pretty fucking filthy proposition.

"How have you been lately," you decide, and consider, briefly, the very strong likelihood this call is gonna send her right through the goddamn roof.

When Ryujin eventually finds herself able to get out: "fine," there's a tell-tale pause, then an even longer pause, that implies she'd definitely rather say anything else. Then she kind of stutters a, "pretty good. Not too bad. All that stuff, I suppose."

And not to say any part of this has felt like routine. Both of you breathing into the end of a telephone and letting your eyes clench tight while you cum all over yourself - imagining everything she told you she wanted you to do to her, how it'd all go: "fucking with my arms grappled behind my back," she'd hum, "head pushed into the bedsheets, you're smothering me, ah- I'd let you cum wherever the fuck you like, but please-" or maybe a bit simpler: "so my thighs are straddling your face?" is about the gist.

A second goes by, another, a third.

"Hang on," you end up having to tell her sometimes, "I need a fucking towel-"

"You really are, huh, jerking off with me- I get you that hot, is what you're telling me? Or is just too much imagining how you'd fuck your way right into my guts through my pretty little pussy? Ah, jesus," the cadence of her voice climbs high before ending up back where it belongs, "Jesus, fuck."

"Can you imagine," is how it'd start, "how good it'd feel? My pussy, or- anywhere, everywhere. I think you'd ruin me for anyone else - you- with how, god-"

You can hear Ryujin shift on the sheets, licking at her bottom lip. Silently cumming. Cumming for you.

"Okay."

"Okay what," Ryujin quietly says back.

The gears turning.

You press your hand into the side of your neck. "Fuck me. Now, in a second. Tell me the last fucking thing in the world you want me to be or do and-"

"Wait."

There's this half-breath. This hmm that almost trips off Ryujin's tongue. Her eyes squinting open to a new thought. You think she's about to be sly. About to surprise you with an offhand fuck yes I'd ride that face like a bus seat; that she might come back with, yes I'll put you right in the middle of the best part of me, god you'll love it, and I promise not to make you cum if you're nice enough not to let your hands wander. But.

It's funny how things are -

"I have a confession," she says, matter-of-factly.

That's not entirely unusual. You've had more of those come through your line in a year than a confessional grate might get in a lifetime. So it doesn't sound like something special to you; Ryujin and you are in this candid don't-ask-don't-tell in regards to payments and the exchange of goods and services, but here you are, still using lines and bits. Practiced.

"In the name of the father, and of the son, and-"

"Funny." Ryujin gets the hint to backtrack. "Uhm, I mean. Remember the roommate I was telling you about?"

You hum a, "maybe."

"Uh," and now the hushed voice from her throat sounds distant, suddenly out of the scope of the receiver, "can I be totally, honestly- just really, extremely honest here, are you- or?"

You stop thinking about the ebbs and flows of her voice, how it dips down then arches up a little. Because now her voice has become something that is nervous, bordering on uneasy. So you stop, take stock and hold on. You weren't expecting a voice of worry or tension, or not at least while she wasn't thrown back into her bed and rubbing furiously at the ache between her legs.

"Yeah, of course," you offer her up.

"This is so embarrassing," she's saying, and some part of you feels ready to sink - you haven't the faintest idea for what, but there is something. Your chest clenches.

You can't help the worry and reply: "Okay, um. I mean- yeah. Me too, I can admit I feel a bit- and you can, y'know, be a little-"

"I'm not straight," she says finally, with a little quiver of her voice right at the tail end.

A blink comes, another - there's nothing coming out of you and you have no idea why that should be at all difficult, so the silence grows long. A new sort of awkward; the kind that you find out isn't just the rush of cum cooling in a pair of sweat-damp underwear. No - this is embarrassment, the kind that taints you.

"What?" You exhale a strained laugh, almost too-bright. "Are you- is this some sort of-?"

"Nope, no, this is crazy, sorry." She laughs. "Sorry."

"You certainly had me fooled." You sit up straighter in your bed, resting elbows on your knees. The moon is filtering through the windowsill and bathing the room in blue - casting light all the wrong ways. Making your own heart beat just a little too fast. "Fuck, um. Can I ask a personal question?"

"Sure." Her voice sounds uncharacteristically soft.

"What are you into?" and you as soon as you ask, you're laughing - because you've heard Ryujin wax lyrical for weeks, pontificate about every manner and way she'd take a cock between her hands, lips, fingers. Every. Single. Place, she wants one in - and now you can't believe this is what you went with: "I mean, like girls?"

"It's probably safe to assume I have some, y'know- degree of- yeah."

You chuckle a bit. The stiffness in your shoulders settling out.

"I've been in love, I realize - boy, with my roommate - for a while."

It's said with a sad laugh - as if this were a little shameful. Some deep, dark secret no one could ever be privy to; some stain on her soul that might wash out only after one final scrubbing with dish detergent and the cruelest bristles. A thing that keeps her up at night -

“Not the roommate, by the way, who we listen to get fucking railed like she’s on-demand pornography every weekend. Just to be clear."

"Good, jesus, that'd be fucking something."

Ryujin sounds more cheerful when her voice comes back through the line, "right?"

You wipe the perspiration of your top lip. You laugh nervously at this girl admitting to being in love over the phone - a stranger, truly, in all ways - to some fucked up audio-fetish sex line personality. And now - the fuck's wrong with you?

"Are you mad?" she asks, and some part of you is wrung. A small string of tension twisting so hard inside your gut, you're losing touch.

"No," you let her know. "No, not at all."

And that is honest. This is honest. There's this itching little scratch all over the insides of your skin that seems intent on driving a fucking wedge. Right at the center of your chest, tearing you apart. It feels as you've lost - not an object, not a material. Not an idea, nor a concept - but a feeling, that for once, was distinctly, overwhelmingly yours, without your wanting, or permission, or comprehension.

Ryujin sighs, this elongated relief coming in. She sinks back against the headboard.

She tells you everything. How Yeji smiles, and it's like the whole fucking room has gone up in lights, just from her and her alone. How there is nothing that she'd rather spend all her days around. She talks and you sit there, silent and listening. She talks about her. Her name and everything Yeji does and everything she wants.

The more you listen, you realize it's all real; she's not confused, or mistaken, or out to play a game or convince herself of something she believes is inherently untrue. She's not frustrated, or longing. She doesn't have this stomach-rolling pit of anxiety digging a cavern at her center because she just can't go through the rest of her life, living a life like everyone else. Not ever.

Because, all you really notice is-

She loves Yeji. The quiet kind. And she's sitting there, legs curled under her ass, crying. Not sad, or frightened, or wounded, just this beautiful sort of awed: it's the kind that only someone who is too inexperienced at crying should have. Where you just-

Look away.

"I'm not taking my phone into the bath with me," is the last thing she says to you, tears flooding out in her last couple words, before you can only offer her a meek: "anytime, Ryujin, I'm here."

-

(Four, five weeks go by in the blink of an eye. A month where you figure it's best to let her text or call or make it clear she wants your voice.

She never does.)

-

Lia is taking her sweet time to apply concealer over the cut Ryujin earned herself trying to get a stupid thing off a shelf - that's how low and unreasonable her tolerance for anything mildly inconvenient is.

"That fucking hurts," Ryujin tells her, wincing.

Lia ignores her.

She keeps on dabbing at the spot on her temple with the makeup brush until there isn't any trace of bruising, or where the jagged scar of a cut ends and skin begins, not anymore. At this point, she has gotten better, has developed a kind of surgeon's eye: zeroing in and unblinking, until every inch of damage is looking like Ryujin did when she was brought into this world -

(which is not perfect, but what it ought to look like, all things considered.)

Lia holds her hands in place on either side of Ryujin's head. "Stay."

It takes less than five minutes, and during those, Yuna just offers from around the bathroom door, "Ryujin, sweetheart, you’re looking hot tonight."

There's nothing more Ryujin wants to do than set the girl straight - the girl can't not keep a chirp to herself, for once in her fucking life. Because this flimsy slip of a dress around her middle feels too tight, the air choked out of her lungs if she shifts her weight onto the wrong foot. The hem rides way too fucking high up her thighs. So, if anyone didn't want a good long look at her ass tonight, they better come up with a plan B if she has to so much as approach a staircase.

"Have I ever not," she bites.

Yuna snorts.

And luckily for Ryujin, Lia feels the same way:

"Yuna, would it kill you to find something productive to do with your time?"

Yuna opens her mouth like she has something to say (she usually does) before retreating further away, the edge of her hair disappearing around the doorway. Then Ryujin's grinning - eyes taking in how Lia glowers a bit back, silently judging the stupidity in Ryujin's expression and also, admiring how good the girl looks. "Not bad, though, really."

Lia tells her with an underhanded wave of the brush and a wink: "historically, you do always get laid on my birthday, remember?"

Ryujin jerks a little, and the scar above her eye throbs into Lia's thumb. "Thanks?"

-

The party is miserable, but it's not Lia's fault. It's not really Yeji's fault either. They tried, that's really all she can say for them - her and her permanent-plus-one whose face Ryujin wants to both claw at and kiss until it’s swollen-

What she really can't wrap her mind around, though, is the guy sitting right fucking beside her. The idiot.

"Really, I'm telling you," her date - who is about 3.5 out of five stars at best and not so much handsome or hot as he is 'okay in a pinch' - grins up at her with the smarmiest of smiles, "if you'd just have taken me up on dinner, I would've spent all our time talking about you. We’d figure out how to enjoy ourselves."

"Likely story."

This fuckwad has the absolute goddamn gall to look wounded when his arm starts circling its way around the space where her dress is suffocating her at the waist, and Ryujin starts to shimmy her way out of hot water - again. God, she thinks, god save me-

"I think," she manages with a stilted grin, "I'm going to make myself useful- drinks, no?"

When he leans forward to grab her hand, it's only so she doesn't leave.

"You're not going to ask for my order?" he presses. The only reason Ryujin hasn't knocked out a couple of his front teeth is because Lia would be the one hearing Yeji whine about cleaning up the fucking mess.

"Just scotch. Neat."

Ryujin's a natural when it comes to smiling fake; it's part of her goddamned job. "Of course," she says, like she's not absolutely loathing him.

"Try the oakier, single-barrel variety, alright," he explains, because what's hotter than a man who's an expert in alcohol and being an insufferable tool? Nothing of course. She hopes he knocks back a few too many and his liver explodes - the painless way out. If god would ever fucking allow it.

She barely manages a half-strangled laugh over the blare of the music before he finally releases her wrist. 

The absolute fucking prick.

-

Here's something Ryujin never thought she'd come to appreciate:

Being alone.

It's just her and the breeze through the open doors of the rooftop garden, which is something every bit as refreshing as it is teeth-chatteringly cold. The wind picks up in gusts and billows, until it starts nipping up the fabric around her knees, like it's any one of the drunk, stumbling guests milling about and looking for a noncommittal lay.

Her left foot slips a step outwards, the uncomfortably tall heel bouncing on the edge of her toe and tapping a tune against the brick. Ryujin slouches on the railing that encapsulates the entire terrace, arms pressed over it, hands folded one-over the other - letting the night sky caress her bare shoulders with its wind-brushed kisses. This, is okay. It's better.

Maybe not ideal, but better.

And all it really took was a few fucking moments where she isn't smiling with pursed, stressed lips; where the pressure in her jaw finally settles out enough for the knot in the back of her teeth to fall loose and for her mouth to actually feel, y'know - good.

Not forced, is what. Not fake, or not real, or whatever-

Ryujin almost fishes her phone from her clutch. Almost. Almost texts to tell you that: this fucking night, like all the others in the past month or two or year, has left her feeling particularly done for, and yeah, no, it isn't helping that she'd take whatever would be the alternative if it meant a face like yours came in handy to lean against, or your shoulder or thigh to use. Like some pillow - that's all.

And you are, like. An option. But not, she sighs out, exactly the right one.

An errant chill shudders through her and down her spine.

"Shin Ryujin."

She'd recognize the tilt of that voice anywhere; even if her ears were pounding and her head filled with static and noise, she'd be able to place Yeji at the end of the world. The truth is easy to see, if only Yeji knew where to look: the corners of Ryujin's eyes screw up tight for a second, an immeasurably long time, in order to not do what they wanted. What it would mean.

She does anyway. "I'd hug you," Ryujin throws behind her with an airy sigh, "but I know where you've been."

Yeji's jaw has set at this point; a twist is still in her lip and she lets out this dry, half-laugh, half-not sound - which is the thing that drives Ryujin a little crazy. Yeji turns her attention from the concrete ground, to Ryujin's profile, her body leaning forward, toes tipping in: "sometimes I wonder if my partner in crime can breathe without saying something incendiary."

"Nope." Ryujin offers no further response or follow-up. Instead, the quiet gush of air makes itself the center of attention and a victim of silence.

"Sorry about-"

"Don't be. Don't give it a second thought." Ryujin stretches, leaning a little over the railing. Her fingers arch before her. Her words sounding the slightest bit cold, "can't win 'em all, right?"

Yeji's eyebrows pull together. "That's not how this was supposed-"

"God, Yeji." Ryujin smiles. Yeji hates that she never knows what that means. "I'm trying, really, I am, but you know - I really, I have tried my best, so can we just lay it to rest?"

Yeji leans over the railing - the fucking moon reflecting in these lustrous pools where her eyes go darker than night - and doesn't say anything for the longest moment. Ryujin chews her tongue, and tries to look as interested in the void of stars and night clouds as possible.

"Fuck's going on with you, lately?"

Ryujin just laughs back.

"Really," and the last word dips in a groan. It's almost childishly tragic how petulantly she insists, "talk to me."

But Ryujin has nothing else to say - no witty, scathing remarks. No deadpan observations or funny asides, not even a morose comment to throw back. There are times and moments and fucking periods of her day where she'd happily chew glass if it meant that Yeji would sit there a second longer, be beside her for a while and smile, just smile at only her, once - for once.

Her only response is the worst kind of lie, this soft: "really nothing."

The moment where it slips and hangs between them, when it lingers the longest -

She could reach out, a hand on her thigh, the small of her back, if she could only reach. And Yeji, she'd listen to her, for once. She'd really, genuinely hear what Ryujin says; like she can see it, plain as day, everything there's in Ryujin's eyes, the thoughts inside her head, written on her goddamn face and across the open night air in neon:

I love you. I'm in love with you, you're too close to me.

The seconds pass. They tick, they stretch and grow thin. Yeji looks at Ryujin expectantly, and Ryujin knows. It is something like being put on the spot and called in. Something like a long, pained whimper caught somewhere in her throat.

She is very much still, unmoving, and feeling nothing at all.

Maybe she can blame the alcohol, the dark, the series of events that saw her hiding away behind a bunch of decorative trees and fighting for breath where the wind blows a little cooler. She can pretend like the stars aren't absent above her, and it doesn't hurt a goddamn bit.

“Yeji, I-” She licks at her lip, ready, willing-

Ryujin grabs at her waist with a hand. Her knuckles white around the black of the railing. And with no further fanfare, she spits it out like venom, with no small measure of shame or guilt or worry for how Yeji will take it - or worse: how she herself would react in the wake of admitting it aloud -

“I love you,” Ryujin says, and it pops out of her mouth as neatly as it had the first thousand times practicing alone in her car.

A blink, and another. The look on Yeji's face is hard and blank, as if she'd understood every syllable, but didn't hear it at all - maybe. Her gaze drops, it trails a path along the long line of Ryujin's pale neck. Of the two ways it could ever go in her head, stuck on loop for as long as she can remember, Ryujin had never considered that Yeji might turn this still and vacant. A sudden feeling, a pull or a grip, starts in the lowest part of Ryujin's guts.

"And not-," she hears her own voice falter, "like-"

Then - it's on the back of Ryujin's head and in her hair, a hand curled at the base of her skull and pulling her head a little downward and her, until their foreheads meet. And before she has a chance to walk it back - to stuff it down where it came from and seal the bottle tight - before she can clench her eyes, shake her head, and spit out anything else like the fact that there was not much that had to change, between them -

Yeji just says plainly: "Yeah, hun. Love you too."

And it's shockingly, the most painful thing - that she just squeezes her hand and pats her back like it's all they could ever be. Without even the wherewithal to reject her properly; to tell her something like "don't ever say that again, god," or "oh shit- Ryujin. Sorry. So, no," or at least to spit back with a scathing laugh: "welcome to the fucking party," like what she always does.

"Yeah." Yeji clears her throat quietly and starts retreating back from the brink - with no apparent aim but to pull away as she draws herself away from the warmth of Ryujin's space, "uh, don't forget to say hello to some of the staffers before they go home, okay?"

Ryujin is left with nothing but the air that follows Yeji's outline; left with her heart sinking into the depths of the night; left trying to make sense of the bitter sting ripping her chest in two.

Left with her own hopelessness - the pining - when Yeji walks away.

To be lonely, to be alone; neither are the same. 

And she hates knowing she is so incredibly both.

-

The worst part is she knows how it looks.

Her pace just on the verge of unsteady, the way her feet come up from the ground: Left foot, the right. The other. Back and back and forth again, faster and then slower and- fuck.

A damsel, severely distressed.

She sits down on the curb. She wants to cry, but even just the way she looks, carrying her heels and struggling with this fucking dress she wishes she'd never bothered with at all - oh, the tabloids would be sure every detail gets pinned under all the wrong lights. A breakdown would only serve to confirm all the right things; it would paint a story for anyone who cares enough to glean from her crestfallen posture and red cheeks that she is yes, a little broken, and that everyone wants to be loved and she's no different - and -

She sucks a breath. This time, when her tears fall, it's a quick, perfunctory action, no show in it.

Her palms rub her face - and she wipes, and wipes, and wipes - smearing at the foundation under her eyes before she takes a long drag of night air. Deep from her core, filling up her lungs until she can't hold anymore. Until it hurts and stings the backs of her ribs - it's enough for a single, fleeting moment. The street is mostly empty; an occasional car will speed by every now and then and it's those few and far between intervals that hurt most, that nearly shatter her: if she can barely do this, alone, how can she possibly be enough for anyone?

Ryujin’s smiling only to hold back her tears, and it fucking stings. She flicks hurriedly past the lock screen of her phone and swipes through the message stream with blurry eyes - there’s a whole host of people that want to know where the fuck she went, if she's safe, why she up and vanished the moment Yeji couldn't keep an eye on her. And well. The girl sighs.

Finds your name in her contacts and puts her thumb right beside it.

It rings exactly three times, and she hates the number. She hates how many things can be associated with that number in those seconds alone.

Four, the pause where you must have had the opportunity, but didn't decide to pick up - just leave it be. Then five - Ryujin is definitely no longer looking forward to any of this.

Six: it stops.

There's this crackle, and through the night -

"Just what brings you here, stranger?"

For an indistinct amount of time, Ryujin drifts in the whirlpool current of that question; it sinks her deeper, into the currents of your voice and the tone and what it's suggesting and demanding from her. All the things your voice is giving her permission to ask of and with and-

Until finally she answers back: "do you ever just, like, wish," a shallow pause for the hitch in her breath, "something, someone was a little more for you- or to- with you-"

The swell of a smile through the receiver; and you can't help your laugh, soft.

"Sometimes," is what you say, "that's just human, don't you think?"

She doesn't understand how something like love or life or desire should be a universal trait.

"Uh, maybe," she shrugs out, and thinks.

"It's pretty normal," you tell her.

Quiet, as if you were right in front of her.

"Look," you start, and you can hear how she sniffs her nose and swipes the pad of her hand right along the side of it, to catch anything stupid and stupid sounding leaking down to her upper lip. "You don't have to. Let's just hang out. Tell me anything."

And for once, she does.

She talks.

-

(The whole story.

From the first time Ryujin realizes the world is never going to be fair - that she shouldn't have to look at herself like she's unlovable because she's seen her friends be held as though they are - or at Yeji like she's completely unattainable or somehow, unlovable, and that someone as amazing as Yeji should have been loved from the moment she was born.

The rest comes through as fragments: the truth of her career. Yeji.

The balcony, the breeze, the bitter-fucking-disappointment.

And what came of that -

When Ryujin isn't a million and one words per minute, it feels, almost, it feels - she'd swear there was less noise in her own head: this thrumming in her brain has settled out; the walls around her and the echo coming off of them - the booming and pulsing - it's, gone.

Because even though there was an indistinct shape for where she had landed, in the aftermath, and nothing much had changed - all that did. You listen, and that alone makes it so you're both exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if this, tonight - you are unsure, if it will actually fix anything - if anything needs fixing at all.)

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 7

[prompt: praise kink]

male reader x shen xiaoting

7k words

Well - from a glance, Xiaoting is flawless.

Every photographer makes the same movement as soon as she steps foot onto the stage - almost as if she's commanding them - but it's not a fair competition and she knows it.

The tiny black dress wrapped around her waist, hugging every meticulous angle in its stretch, isn't exactly the most practical of options, but then again nor was the sleeveless cut or the low-backend, nor the slit in the skirt that shows however much leg you're curious to see, nor the five-inch Louboutins with little ribbons at the ankles, crystals in their mesh like a real-life glass slipper - so, truly, anything about this outfit.

But in this industry, red carpets are about one thing: image.

(Something Xiaoting wields in excess.)

She pauses the subtle sashay of her hips mid-way across the stage, and pivots around, straightening out the waves in her hair, done-up and perfect-in-pink, over her shoulders. She lets the flash of every camera illuminate the swell of her lips in full - reflect and shimmer in the sequence of diamonds dangling under her ears. But it's all in that little smirk, the tilt of her chin. Everything working together to sell the moment; how breathtakingly beautiful she is, how proud, confident and seemingly indifferent to all the commotion happening around her - to every person calling her name and pleading for her to look in this specific direction.

You can watch how deliberate she holds her posture. See it. Understand it. Watch how she tips her head. The genuine kind of smile that could drive anyone to absolute ruin.

Maybe the more obvious: how the cameras love her - love the flash, the shine and glitter and sparkle of the fabric, love the turn of a heel onto where her legs are poised, her profile a perfect angle for every shot and more and more and more.

There's not even the slightest suggestion of just how overwhelmed she is.

-

"You're not supposed to be back here," is the very first thing you hear, as soon as Xiaoting catches your reflection in the vanity mirror.

You hold up a press pass with a headshot that loosely looks like you. Like in a really dark, kind of out-of-focus photo sort of way. Xiaoting simply lets out a slightly disapproving sigh.

"Someone's probably looking for that, you know."

"What's the worst thing that could happen? Someone doesn't get to ask you what your favorite color is, or what you had for breakfast? God forbid we need to know your TMI."

She slips the crystal bracelet off the end of her narrow wrist and places it gently next to the red carpet gear strewn across the surface in front of her. A necklace. The earrings, similar in their shimmer. A matching headband, an evening clutch in white. It's all sitting, not necessarily disorganized, but it's in the mess that Xiaoting is all the while searching for things; lip gloss and makeup, small hair clips.

"You could get us both in trouble, for starters."

When she looks up at you, briefly, there's an attempt at a scolding expression - a short-lived one, how it quickly gives way to a grin, a laugh, all the things she can't help when it's you in particular.

"I'll make sure it finds its way back where I found it," and with a hand over her shoulder, "or at least somewhere close enough. If anyone asks."

Xiaoting bounces an impossibly sweet smile off the mirror at you when her eyes find yours again. And while she starts unclipping pins from her hair, lifting and tousling and adjusting the curls into a more familiar shape, you're almost entranced in the way her shoulders loosen and her eyelashes flutter. In this light, she's even more devastating: an illusion of something both fragile, and immensely resilient.

"At the very least," she says, "I won't hold my breath for anyone else to find their way into my dressing room anytime soon."

She gets a hold of a simple clip, pulls a stray strand of pink off her cheek, and tucks it behind her ear. The gesture is fluid, elegant even, and so singular.

She really is, gorgeous.

The fact that you have to occasionally remind her of that is a different maddening issue entirely. You've always wondered - and always will continue to wonder, really - why it is the prettiest girls seem to have the hardest time understanding they're beautiful. It makes you crazy, makes your head hurt.

There's an entire world worth of things for her to fixate her attention on: her job, her fans and career; a hundred more names and faces to learn - people who would probably agree to hang the stars in the sky for her, given the chance, the mere opportunity. But instead she can only bring herself to stare into a mirror and compare notes and point out all these things she doesn't feel ready for.

This interview, or her performance, or the next.

"They're talking about me. Those 'insiders'," she explains, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the voices in the hallway. "Said, my styling this past year has been too 'soft.' Too 'girly.' No one's buying it," and with a pout: "now, or then, apparently"

"Always works for me," you tell her, in a way that implies it's absolutely none of their business at the end of the day; what colors Xiaoting shows up in, how she wears her makeup and dresses, her shoes or perfume.

She floats her fingers up to the dip of her collarbone, weaving them into your hand. The contented look on her face, now a near permanent fixture in the space she keeps between the two of you, suggests that of all her accessories - gifts and borrowed things she wears in a perpetual game of dress-up - you're the one she would prefer most.

"Well," she says, fixing you a mischievous twist of her brow, "you'd say that if I was up there wearing nothing at all."

"Oh, not a doubt in my mind."

(As usual, the both of you laugh far too much.

As usual, neither of you manage to care.

Your lives have always been about soft edges. A little nonsense here and there, so long as it means having more of her.)

She brings your knuckles to her lips, careful and reserved, and holds the tips of her fingers gently to your neck. "How much more do you have tonight?"

"The rest of the hour is probably asking too much." You help Xiaoting onto her feet, arms wrapping her middle, and with a kiss dropped into her hair, you tell her, "should probably report in, let someone know I haven't gotten myself expelled."

"Thought you said you were a terrible liar."

"Oh, I am," you say. "That's just how much trouble I've already been making for myself tonight."

Xiaoting watches you kiss her shoulder, her neck, all in amusement, eyes never breaking contact as your lips brush and linger against the delicate shape of her wrist. A shiver in her exhale - almost a laugh, an 'I'm listening,' in a form of its own - and you find her body shifting into a natural and familiar hold; the outline of her mouth so unbelievably tempting when it parts so naturally - that when it comes down to a choice: Xiaoting against you, you and her in her private room, the hustle and bustle, and rush-hustle of the building and people and machines outside your door -

It really doesn't take too much convincing.

"Fifteen minutes. They'll start wondering," you tell her, already dipping forward to capture her in your arms. She falls right back, perfectly content as though she doesn't belong anywhere else. "We'd have to be really quick."

"You're bad," Xiaoting hums, winding further into your arms, smiling between the warm, warm kisses you're trailing along the collar of her dress, where the zipper is resting and ready to be drawn down.

The moment is candid: you pressing your lips into the bare skin of her shoulder, following it up with something that's part laugh, and part the kind of sigh people make after too long without sleep. You're already struggling against the curve of her waist - the swell of her hips, all her curves - while your nose nuzzles in deeper, a delicate exploration into the bend of her neck, against her shoulder, the hint of perfume. 

"Only one of us can be perfect, sweetheart." The damn truth, even if she hears it all the time and from everyone else. "You're gonna have to settle.”

You watch her expression melt into that self-composed, self-confident mien when you say it - in a quiet, contented kind of way; an ethereal sort of assurance. As though she was never meant to be touched by anyone, much less held by you, but somehow decided to allow it nonetheless. That look in her eye, it makes your heart twist. Every damn time.

"What about an accident," she muses, "something keeping you longer. Twenty maybe?"

"Oh," you chuckle. "Those happen in the hallway and parking lot. Where everyone can see. Never behind the scenes, for a totally unlikely and unrelated reason."

"Technicalities."

She turns to face you, fully, eyes lit and shimmery under the room's lighting; pink hair, all shades of glitter and silk and the smoothest, warmest skin. Your touch grazes up her sides, palms smoothing over the fine print, the sequins in the fabric, her hands all the while busy weaving, needily, around your waist, underneath the line of your shirt, finding and tracing along the ridges in your hips and spine.

Xiaoting wants you - plain and simple as that. The look on her face says as much.

And if you don't touch her now, kiss and feel her against you - all of it at once - she'll make sure you regret ever prioritizing anything over her. Over the two of you, and how perfectly and neatly you fit together, even if that means you're both absent for press calls, or a segment, or an interview she can't be late to. She'll blame you and it'll be okay.

"Fourteen minutes now," you inform her. "If it’s something you're counting."

"Give or take a few," Xiaoting smiles. Her words slip against your cheek, hot and honey-coated. It's tempting. Her teeth find your jawline and the gentle nip against your skin is hard to ignore. "Did you lock the door?"

"Believe it or not, that was the first thing I did."

And with her hips in your palms, you steal a kiss, because you can - because she's kissing you right back - her forearms wrapping over your shoulders, holding you tight around your neck, and, ahh - Xiaoting's mouth - how eagerly, so desperately, she parts your lips and slips her tongue over your teeth, humming, mumbling happily into a second and third and fourth kiss. Then, once the heat of the moment sweeps in, melting into something slower, sweeter, lingering, a little deeper, it's another.

And another after that.

She leans into you, the rise and fall, slow-down-then-start-again, of her chest and of her breathing and of the tiny, stifled noises she’s kissing into your lips. Only you're pinching the fabric around her waist, slowly lifting the hem of her skirt further up her thighs and reminding her that there's a promise for slow later, that she can take all the time in the world to map and remember the planes and edges of your body; trace the curves of every little sensitive spot and learn again how she fits into your hands, in the time and space that's left to the two of you alone.

"Thirteen-"

"Minutes," she echoes breathily against your ear and over the sound of her fingers in your belt. "I know. Got it."

Xiaoting's hasty. She has to be; reaching and fumbling to pop open your pants while the heat of her mouth finds you first, her tongue sliding smooth across your throat, chin, the warmth and the taste, then along the corner of your mouth - your tongue chasing hers and turning it into a mess that's as intimate and satisfying as it is clumsy; breath catching in both your mouths, hands intertwining, needing the contact with just as much fervent abandon.

Off, off, off, she's murmuring into you, thumbs perched dangerously on your waist, dipping into the fabric, tracing the rim, taking a tease down a little farther with each lazy caress, and, in the very back of your mind, there's a small voice in agreement that insists you are most definitely in no hurry at all.

It grows louder when the small shape of Xiaoting's palm is all the way down the rise of your pants, all over where you're beginning to grow hard - straining and twitching and almost painfully, impatiently interested. You hold her closer and clutch harder because the need is like a burn - one that's seared itself comfortably, wonderfully between your hips, where you feel each brush and curve and fond stroke of her touch.

Her eyes lift to meet yours, gleaming and knowing and laughing, no doubt aware that you're both going to be wrecked no matter which of these games she wins.

"Nothing we can't solve here and now." She tells you.

"True."

"I'll get my mouth on you later, make it all better."

"Later?" Your voice, completely a mess and breaking just enough, forces its way between a kiss that feels anything but. You're pleading for her, into her lips. "Oh, is that a promise, sweetheart?"

"A promise," Xiaoting gasps. "Or a threat. Depends how fast you're ready for me."

"Hush." And you hold her mouth open with yours, devour and drink the sounds falling from her tongue, each one that starts off shallow then trails deeper and deeper and deeper, until her hands have settled over you, and her fingers are finally pushing below the hem, and working the length of your cock, up and down and along it all.

"Hey,” she says, far too inviting, “aren't you supposed to be, like, tearing off this dress by now?"

Xiaoting smirks up at you. With a slight motion of her hand, the other having come to wrap fully around your shaft, the two fingers twisting along your tip, spreading the beading moisture into a long stroke.

"Very gentlemanly of you, wanting to keep it all nice and put together-" and with a wiggle of her brows, "-unsuspicious."

You clench your teeth through a gasp - a jolt at the sudden brush of her fingertips over the base, further down. Xiaoting has that mischief to her - she always has - a certain inclination to press and test the boundaries until they're unrecognizable, to poke and prod where she shouldn't, only the slightest bit concerned.

"Trust me, I would. Only this is a dress I can't afford to ruin, sweetheart." You're leaning her against the vanity, freeing one of her hands to press around behind her, against the cold, cluttered countertop, feeling how the sharp breath in her lungs goes soft and hot immediately, wanting.

"In that case," she tells you, a knowing tilt in her mouth, "you'll just have to ruin me in it."

That's a little closer to your budget given how fast your arm slips under her hip, pulling her up onto the vanity and angling her into you. Her skirt ruffles and follows, the material all too eager to keep you and the lithe frame of her body nice and snug together. There's that sharp gasp in her chest again, at the hand you're running up her thighs; an approval to your arrangement in the sound of her laughter, to your kiss, and all the fever-filled strokes jerking your cock that she's busying herself with again.

You can feel an urge you both share and want to make real and tangible, to peel down and past and over those tiny black panties; feel the heat rising, the wetness there, and all the eager, eager noises of her pleasure.

"Ten minutes." Your teeth are grazing into her lip, her mouth, while she whimpers so pretty into your throat. "Does that put any ideas in your head?"

"Nearly everything." Xiaoting lets your pants fall and uses the back of her heel to skid them down around your feet. "But maybe, especially your cock right here, if you’re going to slide it so slowly over me-" she sucks on her next breath, holding her hand where her panties are; smoothing against you with her hips rocking forward.

You feel her head drop, slightly, when she whispers into a heated kiss, "right between, the most tender way, where I'm aching the most."

"I bet you'd look beautiful with it," you say, all kinds of things, leaning and mumbling into her neck, all that exposed skin. "My cum on you. Sitting so good right here, in such a tight little-"

She stops your teasing with her kiss, pushing forward to the point where her ass is bumping right against your hips, your hand, your cock; coaxing you in closer.

And then, a particularly stern warning, probably warranted, sneaks out through the bite of her lip; just barely restrained: "I swear to god if you make a mess anywhere - don’t, if you know what's best for you.”

"That's a pretty roundabout way of asking me to cum inside you, Xiaoting. Wording matters."

"Telling." Her smile is all kinds of sly; all for you to witness and tuck safely in your pocket later. "Not asking."

"We’ll see what we can do with nine minutes," you tell her, and your cock is snug against the lace of her underwear - right where she's so fucking wet - you can already hear it in the little, jerking huffs in her voice and on her breath and how your hands are touching her through the fabric. How between hot, clumsy kisses, she's lifting and drawing her body as close as possible and curling into you.

(God.)

"Easy," she mouths, all hot and hazy as she drags the lacy band of elastic aside. It's your turn to inhale and jerk and gasp, but there's hardly anything there to catch you, just her whisper that says, "there you go, honey, fill me up real slow. Right to the very, very top," her voice arching high when you've begun to nudge your cock into her, opening her up and up and up with a slow, steady thrust. "Just - like - that."

And in the seconds, maybe minutes (you’re trying not to lose track), that follow, you are holding your breath against the heat blossoming through her cheek. Against Xiaoting, flushed and whimpering, hands buried in her dress and her hips starting to roll back on your cock. It's a tiny adjustment; nowhere to go but deeper, further - grinding together however you can manage.

It's one thing to love each other quietly, discretely and with all that discretion.

It's another entirely, in times like these, to give in to a raw-edge impulse that hits suddenly and leaves just as fast. Your hips snap in and in and in, Xiaoting's chest rising and rising, her head turned and pressed into the shoulder of your shirt, her hand already caught in a fistful of sleeve. And you - the friction is so soft and so good, a slick, easy glide of your cock - full - all the way to the very last inch.

Just her seedy, whimpering whine fills the back of your neck and your ear, and her arms and her legs locked in around you, like a coil ready to burst, that ache coming to a head.

The ends of her hair are soft and sweet where you gather a fistful of pink around your wrist, hold - pull, like a taut string. Xiaoting gasps a fluttering note as her chin tips up, the smooth canvas of her throat begging to be kissed and roughed up in just the right places. Reddening like the insides of her thighs, the heat there, where they're pinched around your waist - delicate little marks of where you're fucking her open and bare and deep and so well.

You could drink up each and every noise - all the keening and humming, the ruffled, strung-out sounds; how you're both breathing into a shared mess of gasping and panting, of Xiaoting whimpering into your throat, clinging on like she'll die otherwise. "Faster," she pleads all desperate and urgent. "More. Fuck this pussy like it deserves, don't you want it? So wet, can't you feeling how I'm aching?"

You can. Hot and wet and absolute.

You can feel the shudder-wreck, the absolute throe - there's not an ounce left between you; nothing but her slick, warm cunt clutching and hugging your cock, letting it stretch her apart and fill her again and again, the little ridge between your hips slipping over her clit on a forward, upward stroke and grinding there, with a shaky hand cradling her lower back for support while you drive back into the thrust.

"Ting, fucking christ - Ting, your tight little pussy is incredible." You groan into her skin. "Taking me, fucking, taking every, last, inch-"

"I can feel you fucking throbbing," Xiaoting tells you, all teasing and exasperated as she lets your name turn into a series of vibrating hums against your lips. "You're going to make me fucking lose it, the way you're hitting me inside."

See, you fit together, inside-and-outside so perfect; that when you begin to really fuck Xiaoting, when she's making it clear, over, and over, yes, harder, give it to me, and the table she's sitting on is giving away each-and-every one of her whimpers, you lose yourself in the rhythm and pace and the fact that Xiaoting's creaming cunt is working itself hot and messy and pulsating around you; so fucking tight, tight, - slick all around - almost drawing you in, then resisting and tensing every-time your cock finds just the deepest angle.

It's something to push, something that makes you greedy and drive her ass into the cabinet even more; make sure you're slipping along her walls just enough, and doing so with every few inches or less that you're managing to drive, working over a pressure so sensitive it might be making her see stars, every time a thumb digs a little deeper into her hip bone.

"All the way, baby," she's saying, whispering, making you want to fuck the words out of her in broken pieces. "So. Close. Just a little-"

She's gone, her back arched - bending into an incredible sight. And there's the most beautiful look on her face, even under the frantic-urgent rush. Your hands are all over her: pressing into the divots above her hips; petting the expanse between her tits, then down again, feeling out her ribcage, her belly, in between her thighs and parting them wider - like if she were any more spread open, she'd be coming right off the table.

Then, the thumb tangled into the sleeve of her dress, the rough pad of the other rubbing circles over her swollen clit - here you'll figure she'll cum; she's never shy about it - but it's more a question of how many times. How it always builds up and comes apart.

You're obsessed, really, with the details: her eyelids fluttering, the sounds of her skin sliding down onto the cabinets, her lips that can never get themselves closed.

"Oh, Ting," you're panting, licking all over her parted mouth, "do you need-"

Her nails begin to cut half-crescents into the small of your back, where she's been gripping at you; a moan falls straight out from her tongue, straight into your own, the closest she'll ever come to asking for anything: but it's easy.

"You're so fucking pretty, baby, I'll give you whatever you need-"

You slide your fingers higher up her folds, pushing onto her hot cunt right over the spot where your cock is disappearing inside her.

"I know that's what you need to be fucked silly, right? Need some extra friction so I can have the entire inside of this fucking cunt dripping-"

Xiaoting makes a noise that tells you, good guess. And you're playing her closer and closer to her orgasm, watching her teeth sink into her own lip, knowing that she's the one on a timer - which makes it all the easier, because you know exactly what to say next, because you've played this game enough - when you've already been fucking her and fingering her through one or two and her noises are telling you her body needs just one more, and then, the words usually roll right out, not the slightest bit contrived:

"That's it, sweetheart, you look so fucking good. So, so pretty cumming on my cock, baby. You're fucking gorgeous, you know that? I can't get enough of you."

Her mouth falls open, eyes screwing tight with it - the praise, the way you can talk her right into it every fucking time - the way it all but kills her: even when she's getting pumped full of pre-cum and sleeved around your cock like a glove, you know that sometimes the words are the only thing she's chasing, and her jaw starts to trembling just like the rest of her. This full body tension, head to toe of perfection you're whispering in her ear. She's pressing her heels harder than before against the back of your legs, digging, her whole chest shaking for a gasp of air she doesn't seem to ever be able to fully catch.

"But god, I wish you were looking at me," you're begging, sincere, with a deep sort of pining, when you get the the sharp twist of her neck, like it takes everything in her, then, like it's a miracle - those lidded, still-water eyes focused right on you. "I want to make you fall apart, just looking at me, sweetheart."

(Your poor heart. An obsession. So in love with her.)

The kiss you steal from her lips is deeper, your tongues playing a familiar song, the push, pull - how easy and perfect she fits.

When she cums, it always starts quiet, not like what she's just started doing: the kind of cries and moans that begin to make it past her teeth, desperate and panting, her fingers crushing down in place where they're pressed to your skin. Those whimpers that start quiet, get loud, fast, and then Xiaoting's arching right up from the table and clenching her entire body. With you inside her, she's so wrapped up in how good it is, the pleasure spiking past her pussy and into her veins.

"Shh," you soothe her, lovingly brushing her hair to the side when her breath shudders hard; the mess you made, sliding a palm against her cheek when the first few tears gather, the way they always do when Xiaoting's overwhelmed and torn down in such a good, beautiful way. 

You could kiss her, when you feel the curve of her trembling lips. You do, again-again; slip and wet and parted and sliding when Xiaoting lets you hold the base of her chin between your forefinger and thumb, and bring your mouths together like that.

You could hold the moment longer. Keep kissing her and not moving - except Xiaoting has that meek, "Fuck me," mumbled into your open mouth, her half-wits returning and giving her the very start of a wicked grin - all sloppy with orgasm. "However you want, whatever will make you cum fast-"

"Turn around for me. I'm going to show you how pretty you are, looking just like that-"

"Y-Yeah- '' Xiaoting is trying, her joints trembling as she moves her body. She's so good, listening, rolling onto the surface of the table with her ass up, palms spread out and supporting her into this perfect line. Xiaoting's defining the curve: where her lower back and tight little ass begins and ends, right up into her shoulders and spine. Her hair has fallen across one side, and now you can finally see how much she's blushing in the mirror, the messes that her eye makeup has smudged into, how good she's been, and now how sweet and pliable and worked open her muscles are.

The view alone could have you blowing your load before you can even do it properly inside her.

But, god - the fact that her dress was hanging down on one shoulder, then on none, exposing her naked skin entirely; the fact that you can't resist grabbing a hand around a waist-full of her body and dragging her back closer, slotting your thighs under hers and her ass up against you, cock sliding into her still-clenching cunt without the help of your hands, just finding it where it belonged. You give it to her like she's meant to take. Fast. Hard. Deep. Making sure each-time your cock is in its base-deep place and sliding right back out, pulling slick, creamy strands out from her fucked-out pussy. Bathing you in her want, her need, pooling along the base of your cock; seeping everywhere.

There's just so much of it. The sounds echoing off the empty walls, so distinct, unmistakable, so full and thick. The way your whole body seems to tighten and tense along with hers - everything tight, you can see it, your eyes sweeping from Xiaoting's thighs to the reflection of how she just takes you. Shaking each time, the lines of her body wobble forward when your hips land a heavy thrust and slide along every bit velvety-wet inside her: no room for your cum when she's this overflowing, you figure, wondering how full of it she could even get.

"Fuck," the word just slides off you. "Fucking god, you're the best fuck," you praise her. Like heaven.

Because Your hand is in her hair again, wrapped up in and smoothing over the tangles; feeling her like silk. But now you're grabbing too - holding her steady, a fistful between the roots; you want her back arched, canted just that one angle higher that you know would push her past all limits.

“Oh my god,” she gasps out, once your get her knee planted up on the counter - once she's spread herself even further for the weight of your body. "That's it - holy shit, please-more-"

There are little whispers too - stuff that makes your cock twitch a few times, pulsing in warning - not even fully aware that she's cumming down all over your waist, praises like the hottest of filth, please and yes and I need it and fuck and fucking christ, keep going and don't stop don't stop please baby I'll do anything anything-

Xiaoting's voice reaches the same high pitch she does when her clit is getting hit, not sure what part of her body you're touching or just the overwhelming sensation, but god she doesn't know which way to turn her neck and face. She just ends up taking it all in, breathing in the gravity of the moment - her reflection, yours, the feeling - a tremor building up, her eyes flickering back-forth when she realizes they've started to close, forcing herself to look at the both of you.

You fuck your cock through each inch of her quivering cunt, each one hotter, tighter, wetter than the last - until you're spilling cum - cumming deep and fast inside her -

Reaching so far she can feel the thick pool of it getting fucked further into her with every shallow snap of your hips; her ass flushing back up against your stomach. Filling her to the brim - enough to feel it drip and seep and slide.

And she doesn't stop, the way she has her hips rolling down your length and staying there, your cock rooted into her deepest spot. If there's one more thing she gets off on it's being filled, milking the remnants, emptying you, and - because she's almost fucking teasing you, you feel it when she's clenching the remaining dredges right out of your body; out and leaking hot along your over-sensitised skin. The sharp sting of it has your hands tight on her waist, her ass spilling through the gaps of your fingers - deciding what you'll do.

"Three minutes," she says, panting, "is enough-"

You squeeze through the sculpted round of her ass. Spank it. Knead it.

"You want me to fuck another one into you - can you take that? You'd be such a good girl if you can take a fucking like that."

"I mean it," Xiaoting rasps, hips still lifted and angled toward you, as she meets you in the mirror; her eyes looking past your reflection, still coming down, wrecked and fucked raw, but making the message clear. "I'll make it easy for you."

And with that's she got her hand on your still-hard cock; not nearly enough softness in her voice for the rough grip and the sloppy pumping - fucking filth out of her still, if there was ever any hope of getting it out the way she's pulling and using and moving the slick all over you, spilling it onto the floor. "Think I can make you cum again, right here and now."

The thing about Xiaoting is:

She makes bad decisions, but always with the best intentions. That's why you always know what she'll say.

Because it's almost always the same answer: a pair of crossed wrists and a coy-eagerness that's enough of an invitation for you to make use of what she's given.

And this is the exact way you find yourself dragging the fabric of her dress down her shoulder, her middle, her breasts falling back down from their bounce when you unwind it, then twisting the end tightly into itself before shoving it into the soft valley of her mouth.

I love your tits, you know that?" you tell her, mouth open and hot against her shoulder blade. “So fucking pretty all over, Ting, your entire body's amazing and it does things to me-if I could, I would keep my cum inside this tiny little pussy, over and over, keep filling it. Make your tummy swell for me, sweet baby, and never let a single drop-"

"Do it-" she moans out, words garbled by the fabric. Her eyes are wide and full of the darkest innocence, like anything could happen; anything you wished. "Do it, your fucking cock, want to feel you-"

You spank her again, and she keens.

The mirror is showing you how her chest reddens under the rush of your hands kneading at her, almost violent, before sliding down the back-insides of her thigh, pushing, "But, what you look like with my cock buried inside you, stretched out and still so fucking tiny around me."

It's not new. It's what makes Xiaoting give you the dirtiest, sexiest little hum around the cloth wedged inside her mouth.

Then her cunt clenches down on your cock, and you're groaning, "christ," watching the way her face tugs at the stretch, watching, when her back is pushed out again - the angle. You're lining up, sucking in the full and naked and glistening display of her body before letting your hips fuck into hers again. It feels even better than the first time: tightening like a vise around the thickness of you, your cum pouring back inside her, then with her eyes fixed to yours in the mirror, you get to watch her lips straining; a drooling, whimpering mess.

Then. You're slamming her waist into the table. Rough, reckless. Desperate to reach another edge, rough enough that she can barely look up from her bowed elbows, elegant features twisted into something a little more awful, a little more pretty - just there, and - and - 

A third time. Four. More.

Xiaoting's whimpering, just so spent she has nothing else left, your cock filling her up so full and hot with your spill; she's sloppy and flushed and you're pressing her up into the cool surface of the mirror, with her legs giving in when she collapses over her heels and nearly tumbles over; her own body weighing nothing.

If she asked, "carry me," in any way, you'd be on her like clockwork; you'd get her turned around into a loose-limbed pile, a leg thrown over each of her waist; she'd already have her cheek nestled against your jaw, halfway asleep, a warm bundle pressed up and waiting to get tucked into bed and swept into all of the things that would make her purr and melt; blankets and warm-clothes and showers and tending.

You'd always make a show out of sweeping her off her feet. Because the thing is, Xiaoting deserves it.

And you let her know that:

"You're always the sweetest, aren't you? Taking a fucking like that," you tell her, burying the dying gasps of a laugh right into the sweat-sticky back of her neck. You can feel her throat vibrating out a small sound, her brain almost definitely not able to formulate words, maybe only just registering the tones of your voice. "You are just so breathtakingly gorgeous, babe, the prettiest baby. The fucking world must be upside down, because no one tells you nearly often enough."

And -

Xiaoting - really, above all else, is fucking gorgeous. Because her tired laugh echoes a small part of itself straight down your spine, filling all the dips between each of your vertebrae. Genuine smile and all.

It has your skin crawling back to life, warming up.

There's a murmured 'thank you' said somewhere into the back of her hand, between her pinky finger and her ring, a small, stifled breath that pulls on her tired voice; it's a sleepy sound, like honey, and maybe that's why you choose to tell her one more time.

You glance at the clock on the wall. It's been a good fifteen-plus-extra minutes. You can live with that.

"Told you we'd be late," you say, smoothing out the fabric of her dress.

Which means this is the second time she says: "Nothing there we can’t solve with a little..."

"Carelessness?"

"Misdirection. Pretty convenient for some of us," Xiaoting murmurs with the lingering sweetness of your kiss on her lips. "Who have that charming talent with words."

She looks up, wincing and dabbing at the dried tracks on her cheeks where her eyelashes have swept away all the makeup and tears, like a soft brush sweeping away the layer of snow, she lets her head rest there in your palm and the other soothes, warm, on the back of her neck - her shoulders a little slack when you feel her whole body relax.

"Love you," Xiaoting says, after a heavy breath; a shaky exhale, just under her tongue; "even when we're a little crazy."

Your cheeks warm as they squish themselves around her grin.

"Love you. Now hold still," you say - taking it slow, kissing the damp pink curls right behind her ear. Then, for the most part, it's back to business. Back to normal.

Makeup wipes and wet washcloths. Clearing and setting the furniture upright. Hastily undoing the locks, so that to anyone who's passing by and smelling the raw, irrefutable evidence of sex and sin, they can turn away and think twice - no one's fault except the wicked thoughts swirling and forming in the back of their thoughts.

(No matter how many times you do, it's no different with Xiaoting; her smile turns the wheels in your head - still spinning. You can't help it when she laughs with her eyes still half-mast - fucked-out; a headiness, her tone like velvet.)

And the 'yes, we do,' on her breath when she hums again, is the beginning of an I-told-you-so, when you tell her, "c’mon, we've got places to be."

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 6

[prompt: blowjob]

male reader x hyeju

12k words

“I mean, don’t you think,” Hyeju says, wagging a finger at you, “that when you suffer through a bad date, the world ought to owe you something?”

"Like what?" you ask.

"Better taste in women - maybe more orgasms; I dunno, a blowjob?" She shrugs. "The general idea is just that someone gets to cum."

You nearly choke on the air in front of you. "Jesus, Hyeju, warn a guy."

“What? I’m trying to commiserate with you,” Hyeju laughs. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Being able to kiss someone who actually, you know, might love you back, and at the same time. Imagine not hooking-up just to forget a shitty day. Sounds wild, right?"

"Utterly deranged."

"So wild."

-

The first time you hook up with your roommate, it’s because of genetics - though not in the weird, uncontrollable way your body gets rigid and sensitive to any pretty girl who wears nothing but a towel moving between her bedroom and the bathroom, or how her eyes might flick fast from your chest up to yours - or given that the absolute shape of her is a blessing from one god or another (benevolent, clearly). That's not why Hyeju and you find yourselves only a few months later grinding on each other after the clock ticked past midnight, making out on New Year's Eve.

No, it has to do with the fact that Hyeju's nearly failing the nine AM section of molecular genetics because she's spent every lecture doodling stars and planets and planets shaped like asscheeks and planet-ass constellations while everyone else writes notes or doom scrolls twitter or whatever and she is somehow simultaneously the only student who never slept with her face on the lab desk or missed an assigned reading and the only one who absolutely needs a tutor.

It's just cosmic odds that you'd be that one: her roommate, who shouldn't be talking so loudly in the library about sex (in a sort of non-sexy, Mendelian kind of way) or be thinking the kind of things you've started thinking when Hyeju wears one of her more sleepshirt-esque long sleeves, her voice getting lower as you rattle off, "fruit flies and thale cress, definitely, it's just an error of fate or chromosome splitting..." before trailing off into a question.

"This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me," she finally tells you. You listen to her sigh into the binding of her textbook, facedown. "I'm really going to bomb this exam."

You tap her hand twice with your highlighter across the desk. "Then you're pretty damn lucky, if you think about it."

She turns to you, smiles a bit. "Okay, point. The worst thing will be having to retake this stupid fucking class."

"Why didn't you ask for help or go to office hours if you knew you were... failing?"

"Maybe because doing anything more than the bare minimum to get through a class I don't care about is my definition of, failing," she mumbles. "Why didn't anyone tell me a single lab is worth half my grade? Or that the TA is this fucking unreliable? How is this the one thing, really, beyond the basics, that can't be taught by wikipedia, a wikihow article and a youtube video?"

You scoot your seat closer to her. "You really need to relax."

"Fucking tell me about it."

You turn it over in your mind a few times, capping the top of your highlighter.

"Want me to get you off?"

And it’s not like you really mean it, when you say it, which is the strangest thing: you wouldn't actually suggest it, normally, wouldn't mention it in passing and then leave yourself open to the follow up and cross examination; yet there it is, after three, four hours of cramming notes on heterochronicity and the sloshing of gametes - you actually did propose it.

Hyeju jerks up, surprised.

"Are you serious?" She looks around, nearly snorting. "In the library?"

The face you’re giving her makes her scoff.

“You’re absolutely nuts.”

You have character flaws; the inability to admit wrongdoing chief among them. Hell, maybe it's from your mother - or maybe all your brains are just scrambled by the fact that Hyeju's sitting there with her pen against her pretty lips, hair glossier than usual as she scans your face and makes your entire body feel like a reactor core in meltdown.

Maybe you can blame what comes next on that.

"I'm always serious. I'm asking a serious question," you whisper, closing the textbook and resting your elbows on top. You look around quickly, like you're sneaking something in instead of this perfectly reasonable exchange, the perfectly platonic - except maybe not so much - way for friends to help each other.

"And I'm wondering what you're asking." Her cheeks are definitely pinker, you think, or the way it fills out her face, from the bottom up, is just that easy to imagine.

“I’m saying you haven’t gotten laid in months.” Here, you realize, these blocks of mental logic that definitely weren’t there when you blurted it out start to coalesce into something solid as you go on.

And you hadn't been wrong when you thought no one had given Hyeju a helping hand in a long, long time: you've heard through the walls or the floorboards at odd hours of the morning that she spends far too long fingering herself to a mind-numbing, tear-worthy frustration that leaves her knuckle-deep but never, ever sated or satisfied.

"No one's around, you'll feel better. You said it yourself."

Not a work of your imagination here - her ears are fucking burning.

"Wait a minute." She pushes her chair back, away from you and your gleaming offer. It clatters on its back legs, and a librarian waves her finger in warning. You wave back, sheepishly, until she stops and Hyeju stands and moves away from the table to talk, hands crossed over her front.

She turns and asks in a hushed-down-voice, "how did you know - did you hear something last night?"

"You couldn't keep it down even if you wanted to, honestly."

Hyeju turns further and throws a glare at the library doors, because obviously her noisiness and their collective noisemanship, or whatever the hell the word is, is clearly the root of the whole goddamn problem.

"Look - if not, no big deal - but I'm just saying you'll probably get over it and at least think less about sex. Or at least the wrong kind of sex."

You expect her to turn, sigh, and ask if you've lost your mind. Expect her to gather her jacket from the back of her chair, take her books and stomp out the room. Or even burst out laughing at the insanity, before slapping your arm lightly, in playful retaliation - anything other than the serious look she gives you in return, tilting her head, pressing her lips.

She turns up at the ceiling for a moment, contemplating something. And it's cute. It's so very, very cute, how her mouth pouts as she considers the possibility, right up until she says, "okay, fine."

The moderate twist of surprise taking hold in your brow must be visible.

"Oh, don't tell me that was all talk. Get me thinking about the right kind of sex or whatever."

You laugh, which has the librarian staring at both of you - until the librarian stops staring and probably sees Hyeju sliding back into her chair, the full, pent-up weight of her concentration pointed your way, knees inching apart - you, and Hyeju waiting, your knee bumping into her inner thigh, leaning closer as the textbook hits the floor.

"Don't laugh."

"Not laughing, seriously. Not laughing," you stammer. “I just think you’re just full of surprises.”

She spreads her knees further and sits taller, looking right at you.

"So then, surprise me," and then presses her cheek to the crook of your elbow.

You slide your chair right into the space next to hers, nuzzling up into the space under her ear. “Keep studying, Hyeju, you’ve got shit to do.” And then you slide your hand beneath the waist of her sweats, knead the swell of her thigh until you find the seam where her leg meets her body, press your palm down on the place just next to her center, your thumb in the middle. All this perfect pressure.

"Fuck," Hyeju says under a shudder. She's breathing heavier when your hot, open-mouthed kisses start landing at her neck, and she probably tries to read her textbook for about forty-five seconds longer. But there's the clench of her jaw right as your middle finger begins tracing circles beneath the fabric of her panties, and her gaze is blurring until she can't tell the difference between an allele or your fucking name.

"Shh-shh," you quiet her, finger tapping harder, playing with the slick wetness beneath all those layers of thick cotton and pressing two fingers there until her knees part like they’re not interested in resisting at all. Your lips press a kiss to the shell of her ear and she tenses all at once, hand shooting up to cover her mouth.

She simply leans back, closes her eyes, and lets you take care of her.

“Okay, you’re right,” she says, shaky and uneven, “that really did take some of the edge off. Did we ever review - poly- uh, pol-polymers here?"

The sweatshirt sleeve falling off your shoulder is a hindrance to any actual reading; her shifting against the chair isn't helping either, but you manage to push down the thoughts of stripping her down completely and giving her your tongue as yet another distraction.

"What did the syllabus say? I don't know if we need to read too far on 'polymers'," you say, having going through an entire afternoon without considering this once, but as you curl your fingers and take an honest crack at cramming the remaining chapters into her head, the knowledge that no one else is getting her this wet - except for whoever she's got in her mind's eye at three AM - is enough to get you feeling a little dizzy.

-

It’s probably supposed to be weird, given that you’ve never gotten any of your other friends off spontaneously in the library, or there's the fact that you can't really avoid each other afterwards, how she shows up in a silk negligee when you're pouring coffee before sunrise to prep for another day and you have the opportunity to notice - yes, she has amazing taste in underwear, yes, you might not have really appreciated her chest and figure enough before - yes, fuck it. She catches you noticing that first time, after coming downstairs with nothing but one of her cropped t-shirts and her board shorts, and she smirks when she realizes you're still thinking about it that afternoon, when her foot grazes yours while you're both washing dishes, and she dries the plate in her hand with a slow swipe.

And it is weird, actually, to describe what’s going on between you in words. 

A few words, anyway, like a one-word label to describe what it was: friends or roommates-with-benefits, or - fuck buddies - god, it's even worse. Fuck buddies? Fuck friends? Something equally terrible and stupid that still makes sense, like something out of a shitty rom-com: it doesn't capture any of the rest of the myriad ways in which things can feel less or less friendly between two people.

So, friends was never, ever going to cut it. Roommates - although technically correct - is just this side of too clinical. And let's be clear: strangers don't wake up every morning together, walk to the same class, sit close together in the middle seats, secretly flick a strangers' skirt up in an empty lecture hall and get on their knees and work your mouth onto her pussy and watch the legs of the desks shake when her feet arch into the floor.

"The notes you've got are better than mine," is how Hyeju tries to put things, the next day and every time after that, standing in the doorframe, or at the foot of your bed and looking every bit the disheveled and hopeless mess you imagine she might spread out over the sheets of her own.

-

It gets complicated, which isn't really a surprise.

"You think your roommate is going to be home tonight?" is the question that comes up multiple times - from a revolving door of pretty names and faces. Hyeju has at least one opinion, if not more, on each of them.

"Tell Jinsoul I say hi," she says once, watching you get ready for a date, and you nearly bang your knee on the edge of the bathroom vanity. 

It's one of the more harmless comments she's offered.

Another, backhanded: "if you’re just looking for a blowjob everyday between lunch and our physics lab, let Hyunjin or Heejin or whatever-her-name-is know she's easily my favorite," Hyeju says on your way out one morning, still under her covers.

Or,

Hyeju's texted a simple "uh, Chuu? really??" when you mention, once, how much fun you've been having - and what kind, as you make a round of self-conscious and rambling phone calls the next day that land you with only one prospect for the night - but your roommate's also no longer being your roommate by the end of it, bouncing against your thighs in the bathtub and moaning something about please more and fuck or fucking make me cum; the details escape you a bit.

That's what friends are for, probably.

Still, in the same, bare-bones explanation, friends also aren't for falling asleep on you - or letting you hold her - or fucking you awake in the middle of the night. Friends aren't for pushing down your jeans when the early-morning dew settles on the back patio, or jerking you off in the seat beside yours with a sweatshirt over your lap when a group project is due later and you all should probably work on that and instead get yourselves off and leave the mess of what you're doing half-finished. Friends aren't, probably, for offering to watch you rub your palm up and down your cock the night before next semester's exams when you can barely sit in a single chair and you can't think about molecular biology or neurochemical transcriptions when your whole body aches to do the transcribing. (If you can catch that drift.)

The lists of who are and are not good enough for you goes on and on - the latter longer than the former.

So, there's Choerry, who according to Hyeju is 'straight up, a total slut'. Yeojin, who gets mistaken for your little sister enough times that Hyeju refuses to - in good faith - let you keep sleeping with her. Both Heejin and Gowon are apparently too pretty for you. "Kim-lip?" she asks, in the middle of peeling garlic, "is that one name or two?" And laughs into a bottle of beer, loud, while you're telling her to quit being nosey and watch her fingers with the damn knife.

"You have a problem."

"Why, because I asked a few simple questions? I think anyone would be a little curious with the -" she pauses to wave her fingers - "I'd be remiss to not be interested in the very drama that unfolds literally across the hall."

She waggles her eyebrows.

You look up at the ceiling. God save you, you think. "Hyeju."

("Seriously," Hyeju chimes in one evening, arms around you, and a mouthful of the dinner you'd cooked.

"You need better taste in girls. Don't waste time on anyone too dumb, or who drinks the milk straight from the carton, or doesn't wash her socks with the same load of laundry. Oh, and - no one who chews loudly. No one who can't tell you're going to cum. The worst is someone who doesn't know what you like, trust me on that. And remember the last rule: don't do anything with someone who eats at a really slow pace, it's incredibly depressing."

You rest your chin on her shoulder from the spot behind her. "Duly noted, oh Master of all Knowledge."

She sighs into your arm, but in the next moment, her voice gets a lot softer, her hips fidgeting slightly against you. "I just mean you're the kind of person people would want to sleep with again," she says, before turning to say your name and kiss you again and again as your bodies curl inward.

"I wonder what that means, Hyeju," you say.

"Fuck," Hyeju groans as you slide further into her, pushing her back into the sofa - hands on her shoulders, legs bent on her either side, "don't tease me like this.")

-

The first snowfall of the year is mild, a tiny dusting, nothing that sticks on the pavement in the alley or on the sidewalks - or the lintels - or in Hyeju's hair, but by evening, when the snow picks up and everything goes quiet, Hyeju has changed into flannels and wool socks in anticipation, curled up like a cat at one edge of the window ledge as the world begins to go white. It's enough that you even pull on a thicker sweatshirt, open up a book, and join her.

She turns toward you, quiet.

You've reached a point in the semester where this, the silence, doesn't unsettle you anymore. It's the space you fill up with time in-between, where you can see the contours of her body against the orange lamplight of the space heater, or watch her kick off the top half of the duvet at night as you fight over space in her bed and wonder about the bare skin peeking out from her shorts.

"Feeling bored?" She slides her foot a little closer to yours, almost imperceptibly. "Am I keeping you entertained enough?"

Her lips pull up at the corner. You chuckle.

"Oh, no."

She scoffs and puts her hands on her knees, pushes herself closer to the window sill and bumps her elbow into your shoulder. The bare skin of her neck and shoulders and face is getting a little redder as she cranes it forward. "Okay, if not, do you need someone to entertain you, maybe."

Your mouth twists, fighting a smile.

Hyeju is so close to you, you could kiss her really, really easily and not care how she'd feel about that. It's not a habit, not as often as it used to be, but every once and a while - she starts this game. Every once in a while, Hyeju just starts smiling like that, and leans into you like she's daring you to play along, hard round of chicken until it's clear what the two of you are doing with each other; the minutes pass by, one, then two, and then - maybe she pushes first, her leg on yours, or a kiss to your jaw or a palm on your back as she walks behind you - and then you'd turn and kiss her full on the mouth and pull at her clothes like nothing's holding you back.

She cocks a smile, and says, "why don't you go and call what's her name."

"Because."

You glance out at the cold, gray light outside. If you had a better understanding of any of the workings inside you, you could reach forward and tell her everything that's stopped you.

-

You're supposed to meet the girl-of-the-month at a New Year's party. Hyeju looks disgusted within the first ten seconds of the whole story.

"Heejin dumped you once, like, two months ago? For no reason."

"It wasn't a break-up. We talked about what we did wrong and we're doing better," you say, lifting one finger.

She glares, then, tilts her lips into this unamused purse that you can't take seriously at all when she starts walking back and forth across your living room, hands moving emphatically to the sides as she speaks, like she's in the process of unveiling a brilliant argument and is using both palms to guide your eyes toward the unquestionable logic. "God, you're the worst. You're just her easy fuck and you'll still answer her late night calls, really."

She leaves the rest unsaid - that she's just not that into you.

"I don't tell you which boys or girls you can call up," you try, putting on a boot. "If you'd like, I can. Name off the list, and make sure that the right name leaves my mouth this time."

Hyeju doesn't blush when you glance up, which is the surprising thing. No - her cheeks have grown a little more sullen, and she stares down at her socks in contemplation. You're in the middle of fastening up the lace and getting to your feet, waiting, wondering if Hyeju's going to continue this conversation, when Hyeju takes one small step forward.

And her hand goes out to touch your chin, thumb at your lip, fingers holding it in place - like you'll turn if she lets it go - the sharp shock of the sensation like a short circuit, before her knee comes between yours, and your body tingles, at the root and stem. "Hey," she says, eyes meeting yours. The edge of her nail flicking gently as she drags the curve of her thumb downward.

"Hyeju, please - I need to get going."

When you start walking toward your car, she calls out from the window. Something about how you better have the time of your life, fun for the two of you - it’s only fair.

(You feel, somewhere, a certain strange loss.)

"What, are you going to stay up and wait until I come back? Or am I interrupting your session for the night."

You can barely make it out, the smallest look passing over her face. "Maybe," she says, and then: "god, it's fucking cold."

-

New year's parties have this sort of quality of being simultaneously the most thrilling, exciting prospect on earth and the absolute worst fucking event in the history of the planet - depending on the venue, how egregious the racket is for a gin and tonic, the guests - oh, and the company.

Jinsoul and Choerry are both in attendance; in separate corners and in equal states of undress and intoxication, which seems fine by every present party, who are for the most part busy ogling one or the other in the full spirit of the New Year - as you would too, if the stars are aligned and Heejin hasn't already gone upstairs with half the guestlist, her arm wound with someone else's, as per her recent habit; if you haven't been tossed aside for any of the usual, less forgettable prospects and for something bigger, better and certainly much more enjoyable.

Which, if there were any way to track these things down with math, you'd already be reaching for your pen and notebook, as Hyeju would describe this sensation in a phrase she picked up from some podcast. Inevitable means necessary, or something.

"Good party," says Heejin, throwing back another drink.

"Yep. You said that," and you finish yours in one long draw, hissing through your teeth.

Heejin is a goddamn delight, of course, in all the simplest of ways. When she looks up at you - mouth pink, hair framing her face - she is so clearly and completely aware of what she is, and exactly what the world has in store for her, what it has set aside.

"Do you want to know what happened at the other New Year’s party we went to last year?"

"I - yeah. Hit me. Tell me all about (another date you were on) Heejin, that’s exactly what I’d love, let’s hear it."

She throws her head back and laughs, before starting into an overlong recount of her latest, greatest conquest, you on the outside. This is the thing - this is how a pretty face, with just a hint of a flirt, will make you feel for a beautiful, attractive, vivacious - absolutely shameless, raving sex-crazed lunatic of sorts who, apparently, loves to run around town and make a bunch of your closest friends fall in love and heartbroke-er, with every passing notion of her beauty, her charm - just the tilt of her chin, and some poor fucker is lost, absolutely lost.

 Even she knows it's a bad habit of hers. 

But who doesn't have a weakness? You've got plenty of your own - plenty, Heejin can admit - everyone does, in a way, and so Heejin, the other sloppy drunks milling about the party, and Choerry and Jinsoul all agree - someone like her just happens to have the best kind of weakness - so, so many of them, in fact:

"Can you believe how easily a few words get Jinsoul riled up? Or how it only takes a couple drinks for Choerry to pull up the hem of her skirt, not knowing the effect that'll have?"

And as for the last, and arguably worst kind -

"Hyeju, huh? What a great start to the New Year," is her final word. Heejin reaches across and downs your drink. Her expression turns just shy of grave, a pensive look. "Not your smartest idea, the living-together situation. Who in their right mind would put themselves in such a mess?"

"Thanks for the great advice." You wave her off, irritated.

There's another laugh before Heejin leans her face onto the table.

"Though maybe she's onto something, now that I think of it. Who needs anyone for the New Year?" and it's almost convincing the way her mouth, lined up with the rim of the glass, smirks when she drinks. "Mm. All a matter of taste."

-

The snow is halfway up your calves when you realize you need to find a cab at 11:30 PM on New Year's Eve. (Which, categorically, is the worst time to need to find a cab on New Year’s Eve.)

Or just:

11:36 PM and the nearest bus stop is too far away.

11:41 and the temperature feels like its dropped by fifteen degrees, like you should start wondering what hypothermia symptoms look like and what signs to look out for in yourself, your future wife and your children. You try not to think about why, but you get your phone out and immediately call Hyeju, so you're not sure what you think you're denying.

"No party?" she asks. Her voice is distant and sleep-ridden, but Hyeju's quick to pick up, like always.

"It sucked, I'm trying to find a way home early. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year." There's a long pause, filled in by the squeak of snow beneath your boots. "Get a kiss?"

"Uh, not yet. In the market, I guess."

Hyeju's low hum isn't reassuring, either. "Well, you're kind of missing your window. Bad time to start looking."

"Says you, and here you are - still up for someone to spend the night with. Look at you," you respond, all this snark in your voice that she clearly hears. There's a long sigh.

"Actually," and Hyeju, much to the confusion of you and possibly the whole world, doesn't respond, and for a few seconds, the line goes completely silent, leaving you hanging.

She breathes once and comes out of her sleep with a yawn.

"I actually," she begins. There's a lot less preamble this time - this tone - and when she speaks again it comes through not nearly as sleepy, "was sorta wondering. Are you on your way home?"

"If I don't freeze to death, yeah."

"Yeah - no, yeah," and that's it. That's the sum total of what makes any difference between where you were a moment ago, and where you are right now, head spinning, fingers buzzing. Hyeju waits and there's the wind on the line, snow settling on your hat and in the corners of your face.

"I - sorry. I probably woke you up. Are you expecting someone else," you say, very small. Your foot drags behind the other. The cars whizz by you faster, passing.

"Hm. You're the only one, I guess," and after that - just static and the muffled sounds of her footsteps on creaky floorboards - or the tick of her ceiling fan? You can't make heads or tails of the rest of the background noise. All those words she said.

You bite your tongue to stop whatever curse words start pouring out from the jumble and cross streets, or the pedestrian underpass; snow gets stuck in your lashes and burns, but your chest is like a molten furnace. You consider telling her right there on the line, everything you're feeling - so hot, it feels like fire, Hyeju, I'm not used to getting heated and desperate and impatient - that even if you're not here now - just imagining your face - the sound of your breathing, it feels like I'm on the cusp.

"Yeah. Sure - good - okay, Hyeju."

"I guess, see you soon?"

"In a bit."

(It takes 33 minutes, trudging through cold and wet. It's all very dramatic, you think, and there's no one there to even watch you suffer for it, or - though you try not to think about that particular line - really, no one at all.)

-

You hear the way your key grinds in the lock - it's been like this, jammed since summer, when you pushed the front door in late at night a little too hard and something came undone and made a sound like a small stone tumbling down the world's deepest well. The hinge squeaks, and there's ice on the stoop, on the doormat, on every nook and corner you can see, all the way up your neck.

And your face, too. You shake off your hat, undo the buttons on your jacket, and pull off your boots before hanging them and all the layers to dry.

You can make out the outline of her profile at the edge of the door frame, right in the kitchen - barefoot, hip pressed against the island, pajamas - the dim lights illuminating the shadow of her head, hair over her face -

- but you don't pause. The next layer. There's nothing left to say. You're too cold for excuses, too smart to use the same ones you'd been taught, like: this is a normal, acceptable circumstance; everything, anything, will be perfectly normal if the two of us act as though that's the case; pretend we're both acting within the norms of reason, within our senses and logical thinking and I won't make myself go out in the cold a second more - won't stand for more than five minutes with your eyes looking like they're waiting.

So you move instead toward the kitchen, where the heating is better and she's already pouring coffee. There's a heat radiating out of the oven, and it smells sweet in there, like cinnamon and warm butter, and you wish you weren't still shaking, blood barely thawed, but there it is - her face, watching you - eyes gleaming as you wrap your hands around a mug, steam rising up - a shiver running up your arms; her knees skirting yours when she takes one step back and there's the cabinet door shut, then open again, and then a palm on your back.

Hyeju presses a cup of the fresh coffee, now warm enough to drink, to your chest, and says, softly. "What the fuck happened out there?"

She starts reaching out to wipe the frost and slush from your face. You let her hand hold you still, eyes wide.

"Oh you know," and her palm stays, even though it's obviously - suddenly - gotten warmer, and wetter too, and the longer she stands there and lets her fingers warm the pale bones of your cheeks, her wrist, the base of your forehead and ears, the more expectant the look on her face grows. "The usual."

Her eyes go as narrow as they ever can. For just a moment. "You're gonna die a slow, pathetic death someday, just for the record."

"Don't forget how this starts," you try, and feel your neck go warm, throat and breath tight. And not even when her shoulders shift, her mouth going smug - just looking at you.

“I mean, don’t you think,” Hyeju says, wagging a finger at you, “that when you suffer through a bad date, the world ought to owe you something?”

"Like what?" you ask.

"Better taste in women - maybe more orgasms; I dunno, a blowjob?" She shrugs. "The general idea is just that someone gets to cum."

You nearly choke on the air in front of you. "Jesus, Hyeju, warn a guy."

“What? I’m trying to commiserate with you,” Hyeju laughs. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Being able to kiss someone you actually, you know, might love you back, and at the same time. Imagine not hooking-up just to forget a shitty day. Sounds wild, right?"

"Utterly deranged."

"So wild."

When Hyeju sighs and gives a long, nonchalant hum, leaning her body closer, pressing up until her waist hits the cabinet top and you're pressed together chest-to-chest, she looks at you and her hips settle, the heel of her foot reaching around your calf.

There's that tingle. Again and again. You're not even trying to not think about what it might mean.

But then, you start, silently and unconsciously, trying to answer the question: why don't you, maybe. Why don't you, actually - Hyeju kisses you, pulls on the loop of your jeans and lets your lips brush the corners of hers and pulls away, suddenly, mumbling and head-turning. And just as abruptly, your nose buries in the space between her neck and her shoulder, where it's all warm. And when she puts her palms on your hips and squeezes and twists her knuckles into the fabric there, it seems she wants your hands up her shirt and under the small of her back.

And her hands - they're fidgety tonight, fingers curled up to keep their nails and the chill away, moving lower - one on your ass, while the other comes forward and begins rubbing circles, a handful of times - enough so you're letting a deep, low breath escape into the space just above her collar, your knee working its way between hers.

"That," Hyeju breathes, lips at your ear, hand reaching down to trace the hard curve of your cock pressing in the spot right between you, and there's that small rush again, familiar now, like you've caught a rhythm and she wants to feel it in its fullness: "is how you can make it up to me. For making me stay up. Worrying about you, god knows why. Waiting."

You're still half-frozen in a way, slowly thawing. "Hyeju, I've been trudging through the consequences of my actions this entire night. What am I about to suffer through now?"

"It's no consequence, honestly."

You squint.

"Just an idea, but," she breathes again; your bodies getting closer, and looking up at you, she grins and reaches down to touch the very root of you, her fingers drumming. You make a sound, and at that she says, her voice coming out thick, low:

"Want me to get you off?"

She squeezes again for good measure, just to be clear. Just a slight curl of fingers that's enough to send a flash of heat and the transient thought: why, why, why is she always wearing those fucking shorts, even in the winter?

Your blood thrums through the pulse at the end of your cock. You shake.

"Alright," is the response you let out.

And at that, Hyeju takes your wrist and leads you upstairs.

"There's that look. Don't worry. We'll find a way," is all she says as your feet walk forward, up step-by-step and higher and further up to her room. "After all, isn't that what we've always done?"

"It's usually whatever will make me stop talking."

Hyeju puts her chin on your shoulder. Her eyes follow the lines and shapes in the patterns of wallpaper as you turn onto her side of the apartment, and even through the wall and behind the doorway, her arm still around you, she pulls at your chin until your faces turn and you both can share each other's heat.

"Who, you and your awful habit of talking out-loud in your head while you work through equations?" and she brings her lips to yours, close and warm.

"Hey. Fuck you," and your voice breaks into an odd, low laughter when she kisses you harder.

"Yeah, I know," she whispers as her hand dives past the band of your boxers, palm sliding easily until she's gripping you fully and letting her fingers rub. She holds you there, in her room, her arm looped through yours, another arm resting at your belly.

And she stops there. She stays like that: holding your gaze.

"Look, Hyeju," you say, unable to not, though this can hardly count for anything; this, what you're about to admit, is nothing new. You swallow. "The thing is - you shouldn't."

"Don't want me to touch you?" she says, finger to your lips.

"Well, that's different. Maybe. Is there - maybe it's not the best thing to ask you right now."

Hyeju considers for a brief moment and tuts under her breath. "Can you at least do me the decency of waiting until I'm done wringing you dry before you say shit like that."

And she moves then, toward the bed.

So:

No. Yes. Maybe. Who knows, you tell yourself. Maybe, but only because you'll do anything if it makes you feel less sick, like a creature standing over its own skeleton - an abandoned shell; a relic, something to be feared and disgusted, as you let her go between your thighs, kneel beside the bed.

"I mean - since when - have you felt," is just as far as you're allowed to go before Hyeju presses her nose into you and pulls you out of the thin, cold fabric - palm, thumb, all those slender fingers swiping over your head - and now there's just the smell of her room and the shock, the buzz that runs down your spine and settles somewhere, somewhere inside the small and desperate movement of your hips and the tension building just below.

And god, fuck, Hyeju’s lips.

These soft, wet, pouty fucking things that could suck you straight off if you were feeling any less stupid or inexperienced or sentimental - if she wasn't solely intent on teasing it out of you first; a slow drag of the tongue up the underside; the tip of it poking, tracing the rim, like she's figured you out, just where to lead you. She's ready to smoke you out - always - until you're not taking in a breath every ten seconds but starting to close your eyes to the overwhelming, needling pleasure, too sharp, the way she knows you like best.

"Now you're finally - mm - starting to sound hot," and that smirk comes back to the corner of her mouth, teasing the sensitive belly of your cock and tracing her tongue everywhere. "With the voice and -"

You're losing track, her thumb and fingers circling the whole length of you - just, one after the other - mouth a hair-breadth away, her breath hovering like a promise.

"- that face."

"Don't, fucking tease me-"

The sound of your cock going in is like nothing else.

Wet and filthy in all the right ways.

Just the suction in her throat has your eyes nearly roll back into your head - Hyeju's gaze calmly watching the terrible sort of helplessness that washes over you like this: her lips wrapped around, bobbing - her hair falling into the wet mess of her mouth and sticking there. Hyeju likes being a little sloppy, likes feeling that spark run up the length of her tongue when she slides. It's the wet and the heat that gives everything away.

"I don't have much of a choice -" her jaw and chin is smudged when she pulls back off of your cock, mouth glossy and glistening, "and honestly, wouldn't it be a better use of our time, or my talents if I actually do that thing?"

“Which is?”

She looks up for a bit and sighs, the flush blooming pink to the tip of her ears and into the rounds of her cheeks and all across her neck. "Since, as far as I can see, what you really like - is, oh I'm just spit-balling here," and she stops just to bite her tongue and look into your eyes, "it's letting the girls take care of you? Isn't that right?"

You want to tell her, no, not always, that it's not as though you enjoy giving control completely - that that would be completely and unarguably, the opposite of true -

That most of the time you love it when the person you're with is a little bossy, a little crazy for you. You know some guys really get off on a strong woman and maybe, maybe if a girl's pretty and dressed up, and - sure - a little wet, but that's hardly -

“You know I’m right,” she says, a flicker of mischief skittering across her features. “These walls are paper thin.”

You want to tell her, perhaps remind her, that she likes someone in charge just as much as you do - to be taken care of, told what to do - to have a hand curled up around her throat and the other at her tits while a guy fucks her the right way and takes the reigns when she needs. So who are you, when it comes to knowing her better? And who, really, are you fooling?

But before you can get any words in: Hyeju dips, lips parting where the head of your cock throbs, and then disappears; and the hot wet warmth, enveloping all around your shaft and back; the curve of her throat contracting.

You moan - a lot, and louder this time - into the whole feeling. The way her fingers work the distance from the base, twisting and twisting and twisting into the pout of her lips; or how the sound is like nothing - a whimpering, messy sound - almost a whine and definitely not a slurp as your cock sinks further and further, until it's all one big, heavy throb.

And it's like Hyeju can read your thoughts, the visual you have of her lips screwed tight around your shaft - cum leaking from the corners, and her eyes scrunched up tight, as she looks up to watch your face unravel - this perfect image of her taking you, all of you, swallowing each drop as your hips start rutting up into her and - and - and.

Or else she gets impatient, because then Hyeju gives one long pull off the tip of your cock - saliva mixed in the precum there, and that shiny string of fluid hanging, caught in the middle between your bodies - a disgusting and irresistible sight. Her jaw slack, lips swollen and full, and her mouth gone wide open, wanting.

"Fuck - that's good. Don't stop," you start to whimper, desperate, at the sight, the smell. Her hot breath coming quick over the red wanting wetness left behind - then touched by the cold air - fuck -

She slaps your cock to the corner of her lips as she speaks.

"Can you believe what's going on down here?"

"God, can you -"

"And to think most guys wanna jump straight in. That or fuck a load out between my tits."

"Hyeju, shit, come on -"

She kisses the soft tip, right where it’s most sensitive, rolls it along her lip. Then, back down the length of your shaft where she's generous with her mouth inch after inch - lapping, licking, laving - and Hyeju begins working her way down and downward, nestling in at the edge of the bed and between your thighs.

Your eyes blow up the first time she dips low enough to put your balls in her mouth. 

“Mmhm,” she hums.

It’s killing you and she knows it; it’s killing you and she can feel the pre-cum leaking from your slit - the thumb she has moored there, keeping everything right where she wants it, running circles up the length with such little intention - she could bring you to the end just like this. 

"Am I supposed to believe it?” she asks out from beneath the shadow of your cock, looking up at you with her eyes all wide and brilliant - pupils dark as sin. “That not a single one of those girls ever did you proper?"

You curse under your breath. Hyeju seems amused, at least, like she can't help but love doing that to you, which is almost worse and honestly the sexiest thing a girl can be. You groan - wanton, raw and desperate and feeling exactly what she wants you to feel when her nails drag along the dip of your hip bones.

"Did they not leave you fucked-up the right way?"

Her wrist flicks out these twists and turns, making your spine bend to her control. Like even when you're sure to be bundling her hair in your fingers and fucking the whole length of your cock down her throat, all of this is the worst kind of power-trip for her - not the other way around.

Her tongue runs through the tangle of your balls, slowly, lasciviously, as though the plan is to memorize and map every detail. 

And the worst part is, how much it's making you desperate for the warmth of her mouth - where she'll run her tongue up and down and over and around and inside - before sucking you off nice and slow.

"Or maybe," she laughs; another flick to the top and then suddenly her hand goes faster and the fist pumping the rest of you tightens. "They left you so needy you're resorting to having the bestie suck you off so that you won't be desperate the next time you date. Oh my god-" 

Hyeju breaks into this fit of laughter, and you're nearly cross-eyed at the feeling of your entire existence - not just your cock - so wholly held within her mercy, and her pity, and you're breathing so shallow now you'd think this is the real reason people have died and will die - this exact moment where you're choking and stuttering at the edges, so very close to cumming and going absolutely bonkers with how good Hyeju is with her hands, her tongue, her mouth - everything - how much she's wrecking you, and your jaw drops, wide open, her name dripping like molasses off your lower lip.

"Are you going to cum?" she asks, curiously. All as if she can't see you nodding, collapsing under pressure, and then and there: "should we make it official?"

Her nose tickles the seam of your balls. And your toes begin to curl and uncurl - all this anticipatory, coiling pleasure burning from her throat, shooting from the pit of your stomach; the tightening spiral, twinging and stretching every nerve - as her lips enclose around the end of your cock, softly.

And oh, just excruciatingly slowly.

You watch the irresistible shape of her mouth travel down until her throat feels so incredibly, beautifully, and unbelievably tight, and then, just like that - Hyeju starts fucking herself onto you; pushing forward and down the full, rigid length of you, hard and fast - each time hitting deeper inside her - all that sticky, messy, wet squelching.

"Unh-unh, yeah. Unh. Mm-!" you say, or moan, or some animal version of that, maybe, it’s incoherent.

But regardless:

It's messy and your hands scramble for purchase in the sheets of her bed when you feel that snap, the tightening of a trigger; when your balls roll up and it builds, and builds, and it comes faster - harder and -

"Hyeju," you pant, and it sounds so, so filthy. "I'm gonna cum, if you - gonna cum-"

Hyeju pulls you free from her lips, quite possibly at the most final of final moments, to rub the base up and down, just right, between her fingers. Your cock is resting right on her cheek when it all happens. When she squeezes her fingers around your balls just enough to hear you wheeze and make a sound no sane man should have the right to. And fuck, you're cumming all over her face - or just one side of it - which is already just -

Okay, fuck.

She makes a startled sound and her fist closes tightly around your shaft when you pump another fresh load of white up onto her eyebrow.

"I'm, ah-shit," your mouth moves faster than the blood in your veins - and now the shame - oh god, the humiliation, it's pulsing right behind you. "Hyeju," you apologize.

Only, Hyeju has no interest in any of it. She doesn't seem offended or disappointed in proportion to how you're ruining her pretty face: "no, just do it, cum wherever you fucking like."

Which isn't what you're expecting at all, because Hyeju makes no effort to close her lips, let alone avoid any of it; nor is she making a fuss about the sticky mess in her hair, her mouth, nor as another stream of cum throbs from your cock, all tangled up in the long dark eyelashes that sweep down across her cheek.

It’s fucking filthy: you're cumming all over her and she's just kneeling there, telling you, "good boy."

See, she pushes through it, languidly - all those filthy sounds, and those watery little tears gathering at the edge of her eye and all of that, mixing up together until you're rolling your head back with your orgasm, shuddering, feeling weak - drained dry -

Except,

Hyeju's pushing a finger to your chest, kneeling up tall from the side of the bed. She turns her body toward the center of the bed and wipes a bit of the cum on her knuckles into the sheets. Here you feel like you've done something terrible or at least regrettable, like that last round at the bar when you have a test the next morning; a dick move, all of the sort that requires apology.

"You gotta give me a minute, if you're thinking about hopping on."

"Hmm. Sounds like a lot to ask."

"Wait," you grab her arm. Hyeju grins and there's nothing stopping the shake of your knees now, that weakness between your thighs: "let me get you a drink."

"Or."

"Or?"

Her tongue peeks out, running along her upper lip. Her eyes drop again, hands dipping below, beneath the hem of her shorts and oh. She slips a hand past her bra. The whole outline of it. And you -

"Mm, I could show you what that actually means." She lowers her chest, her breasts, and a lot of skin to the mattress while keeping your cock firmly in her hands. "That look tells me you wanna stick around a bit. Stay up past New Year’s, you know?"

You're almost unable to parse her words, there is so much to look at: the jutting curve of her chest, cleavage pressing into the mattress as her body settles between your knees. A soft chuckle; a sigh: "you are seriously the best lay, no-one else can get hard the minute after they just fucking exploded all over me-"

"Fuck, watch it," you hiss, because there's oversensitivity - and then there's Hyeju's mouth on the line of your cock, polishing you clean.

And it’s not that she isn’t trying to prove a point. Or that she's not trying to tease - that's an inherent quality of her character: a naturally dominant position with a high appetite for your lust. That much, Hyeju gets from you, whether you've got your head down between her thighs or the other way, too, so that her neck is arched around and her ass pushed up high in the air, legs open, and if she had any idea you would spend the next twenty minutes or more just going down on her, licking into her creaming cunt while two fingers work over her aching clit, then really, Hyeju would only encourage it - maybe get on top, force you to gag - and so you don't know where it comes from - how and why you want nothing more than to drive your fingers inside her and work her until she's a wet, squelching mess, not when this was always Hyeju's role of being the aggressor; and yes, sure, even the aggressed.

Surely not because you came so hard, still somewhat shivering with the remnants of a rather abrupt, painful, sudden and all-consuming orgasm.

"We're not doing anything else," she says, lips pulled up into a smirk right at the crown of your cockhead. But before you can respond she pushes a hot open kiss, and goes lower. She presses the flat of her tongue to the seam, just below the head. Licks a line right up to the tip and finishes with a tender flick that sends you fisting the bedspread in your fingers and leaning back as your mind begins to disintegrate -

"I'm not going to ride you yet, or going to get my hips in your hands so you can fuck my pussy real hard until I cry and pass out. Nothing of that sort is gonna happen." She licks one long drag of her tongue. Then, the other way. "I want to make this very clear: this isn't some huge favor - and if you want it - want it so bad, you can stay there and I'm going to do everything for you. We will get there - together," and with her voice shaking as she brings the wet, glistening skin of your cock just inside her mouth, she looks up. "We'll get each other off, just like this," and it's the deep, dark, throated moan that makes your thighs and all the nerves in between stiffen and buck when she swallows you again.

Hyeju's hands tug, pull her whole body closer still as it slowly bends, curves - her ass raised, her stomach lying on the bed. Her mouth takes you another few inches, until the tip of her nose is barely visible, but when she pauses to lick the cum still left over - the cum that's starting to leak out again - to breathe through it, then squeeze her palm and bob her mouth down, take another inch, until the sides are stuffed and emptying out again, that's when she finally has something to say: "got anything left? I'm a little starved."

"I. Christ, yes-" you whine, which doesn't help your case at all: the image, the image of you lying flat - back with Hyeju's head tucked between your knees, her hand pulling out your cock.

Sloppy, slimy-wet.

She presses an innocent, not-at-all-innocent kiss right to your tip, puckering - 

"You know what I did learn in that genetics class?" she muses, tongue flicking over her lips. Hyeju's about ready for a second helping - you're losing it. "When I first saw that DNA diagram - the double helix and all those little base pairs, and everything - it made me think of your cock. Your cock and me. Specifically our DNA. Did you know-"

She presses her palm over the head and rolls it - teases and strokes her palm - her knuckles - her fist - the whole nine. "When I hold your big fucking cock, mm, and just get it right - up in here, rubbing all along my walls - so deep, it gets me in my fucking ribs, makes me choke like I never been choked before, ah-mm," and it's this thought sliding toward the front of your mind, this perfect picture: Hyeju, getting fucked hard and open and stuffed full and stuffed good and stupid; you’ve got more than a few inches on her, can make her feel small and delicate; you know how to do her right.

But here you have Hyeju stroking the shaft - holding her hand tightly up near the head, rolling and twisting and sliding down and pushing her whole body right into the side of your legs: the soft, solid length, warm flesh and curves everywhere pressing into you.

You sit back, and just watch Hyeju with her eyes cool and composed, like half of her fucking face isn't streaked with your cum, mouth wrapped and looking fucking satisfied to be a total, gorgeous mess. She makes a dramatic display of kissing the tip again, just before telling you words you probably dreamt up at some point - either sleep deprived, or, during three AM jackoff, fantasizing. "Sometimes, just from riding your cock, I can't sit up straight."

"Fuck," and you feel your whole body run rigid, because apparently that's something you’ve been aching to hear.

You're covering her mouth again. White streaking onto her lips - where she's catching it in the well beneath her tongue and letting it spill out of the corner of her mouth. Into the crook of your thumb, which catches a drip here and there and rubs it down the length - down the curve - and pushes it back between Hyeju's pert little pout.

"Doesn't count, mister, just more pre-cum," she says, all with the audacity of a wink and smile; her words are a little garbled around the head of your cock between her teeth. And when you nod and realize just how painfully your jaw hurts, your throat becomes tight and raw, a knot pulling the underside from the center. Hyeju slides her lips lower, lower down, to the hilt and stays there, just like that - one hand holding down the flat of your belly to keep your hips still, her chin hanging - bobbing-as she feels every pulse, every twitching shift. You curl one hand around the side of her face, over the sharp edge of her jaw; rub a thumb into the delicate skin of her throat.

She shifts. You start to tell her what you like: how hot the rush comes when a girl puts her tongue against the slit at the very tip, and licks at the precum in nice, quick circles, soft and fluttering. And how her fingers shouldn't hesitate either, Hyeju's not even struggling to give it to you - god - just giving and -

She jerks her head up, swallowing down her next breath like it's one of her last. "I'm serious, if you're going to fuck a hole, start with my mouth - we can move onto everything else after."

"You're ridiculous -"

She meets her lips to your head, kissing once. Again. Kissing every inch, letting her mouth wrap around and then just - staying, just - staying like that and humming, with you, enjoying the fullness, the smell of you, the taste, the shape, just the weight and size and you.

There is spit fucking everywhere.

And if it's not clear what you're supposed to be doing - her fingers weave through yours, squeezing hard at the wrist and you can imagine: pulling her forward by her hair and holding her down while she chokes on your cock. "Fuck, Hyeju," you say, and your voice comes out way shakier than you'd like, "when, how did it get like this, huh? You always - always did, shit, always want your mouth filled."

"Never figured you to be someone who'd get turned on watching their friend sucking their cock like this."

"Doesn't everybody love the sight of their cock in a pretty girl's mouth?

"You were really convinced they weren't lining up behind you? Or anyone in the queue who can't keep their eyes off of this thing. Tell me, and try not to lie, try not to bullshit this one out: how many girls have you come home and fucked and creamed their brains out - then asked for the sloppiest, most -"

"Honestly."

"- Filthiest, nasty, ball-busting, gut-wrenching blowjob ever to make them think - to make them really start wondering what the hell it was you did - like it's gotta be something that leaves them so ruined, they can't ever not compare - can't ever not compare this moment, right here. Ever. When you give them the hardest fucking of their life, compared to any other guy - can't not, because no-one, literally no-one's cock can fuck like you do-"

"Fuck-"

"Any harder. Come on, seriously, tell me it isn't true. Come on."

Her voice - her fucking words, the tone she uses and how her words roll: honey-warm and soaking with sweet, thick degradation - she talks like sex, and that's exactly what gets you harder, like it’s something else; like it’s nothing, like it’s less, so much worse - you feel this guilty-dirty heat pool at your tailbone and push down the hard press of you throbbing all the way to her nose. And Hyeju smiles as much as she's capable around the fat, round stretch, humming around the warm taste of you, before opening wide and sinking her throat on it.

There's nothing like it.

You've got two fists in her hair; she's so tight and wet around every god-damn inch. Her cheeks flush - hot to the touch; her tongue laving in slow, long drags, slicking your shaft nice and warm until you're balls-deep and pushing her further: a small shift to the hips, a push here, a harder, faster pull, and Hyeju's feet behind her go curling like an angry cat, wanting the tug.

A long, satisfied breath slips from the hollows of her throat.

There are tears threatening, thickening her lashes, and though she doesn't choke - you're just afraid. Every sound that she pulls out, her eyes blinking up to you as if it's only natural to love getting used by her friend's cock, like the very premise of it - swallowing down the very shape of you, dragged over her tongue and brushing cum into the back of her throat - is something she can’t go without.

But this is nothing compared to the noises from where her lips are pressed tight around you, where you're hearing and even feeling:

That gluck, gluck - where her chest spasms just the slightest when her nose gets nuzzled right into your belly and you remember how much she likes to hear you talk dirty, how fucking wet it gets her. The heavy, deep breaths, gasps; the strangled moans when your hips just buck - the heat and the thrill, and this is better than every other time because there's just something in this moment -

"I'm not gonna come again, not like this. Not in your mouth. You can’t-"

But Hyeju refuses to hear a word; just pumps your shaft faster, feeling it's familiar hardness grow and throb and ache and retch, all her effort paying off: you're slick with precum and spit, hard and straining, the whole shaft begging for release - all because of her. And Hyeju won't stop, she pushes her cheek onto your thigh and then taps a hand there to pull your hips. The motion drives your cock further still inside her. Until it’s bathed in her spit, your cum, all this mess.

Until it's reaching, choking her, and the muffled sounds she's making are filthy and wet and so incredulously hot.

But god. Hyeju has something of a temper and a habit, too: with those big beautiful eyes and the perfect plump of her pouting lips, her tits swelling up around, when your grip slips on her shoulder, and her mouth goes tighter - how the pleasure begins to make you unbearably cruel and you push her away from you, only for a second -

She doesn't wait or seem to care; Hyeju follows the cock with her whole head and whimpers so hotly in her throat when it plops right back on her tongue. "That's more - more like - fuck, oh, there we go," her nose and fingers prodding.

You groan through a high, strangled whimper, a helpless shiver that turns into an uncontrollable roll of the hips - you can't believe it: she's already so thoroughly debauched and defaced; just fucking painted with it. Your cum dripping off her chin and rolling down her neck.

"Fuck - gonna make me - ah, Jesus -"

When Hyeju seems to have reached her fill, the feeling, you're cumming - pumping the length of your shaft. And the moment she feels you twitch and throb and that first hot spill lands in the bend of her mouth, it's as if she understands and holds herself tight - her legs going stock-still while your eyes blow up behind her, your cock spewing another and then another thick, milky load into her mouth, over her tongue: all along the topography of her throat - sticky cum landing in every ridge and valley -

Hyeju catches as much as she can. What little she can. You cum and pump and gush so much that when you're finally finished - done - every last drop spent and given - your cock throbs soft between her fingers; her chin is a complete and utter mess and her chest heaves with the sound of her catching her own breath. Hyeju groans softly and just swishes the load around in her mouth for a bit as if wanting to remember its feel and weight before lifting her eyes to look into yours. You can just barely see the color.

"Jesus, Hyeju-"

The entire bit of it, slick and shining-wet. With a small moan, a sound from the back of her throat: one swallow and the cum is gone, disappeared, vanished. She smiles like she didn't just ruin your entire goddamn life and, with her body limp and exhausted beside you - her gentle hand rubbing a flat stroke over your thigh before yours slips up to meet her chin.

"You," you curse and roll your eyes, catching the mess at the edge of her jaw, the very little left in the corners of her lips. You feed the cum over her bottom lip - her chin, her throat - watching your friend: Hyeju's throat, bobbing. "Really didn't have to," you start, but you realize just how useless a point it is to make.

She's smiling and biting and showing you what's left between the tips of her canines. "Do you always do this to the people who suck you off?"

"That's an awful habit. A pretty girl's lips aren't meant to get that messy," you reply.

"Oh." She frowns. "Well, I do a lot of things I shouldn't."

"God, seriously," and you think there's no greater hell, no sweeter pain than whatever's lingering in these little aftershocks - this fizzling and dying sort of pain, where the body is buzzed with all you're aching for. It's impossible to stop this train of thoughts, is the fucking feeling of her-

But just then, Hyeju rises to her knees, a new spark in her eyes, as she grabs ahold of your wrist and tugs you off the sheets, a few inches closer.

"And you," she purrs as she drags the palm of your hand across her neck and collarbone, collecting what remains and making the perfect image, "well - you are going to help clean me up, like you said before." She sits tall; the arch of her spine is pronounced - her back, so, very, slightly tapering, to where your hand slips right off the last of it: the wide flare of her hips. "Now isn't that the gentleman's thing to do?" she asks.

"Of course." You sigh, resigned and in desperate need of water. "Of course," you add and smirk a little and slip your hand lower, toward where her skin is getting hot, and her body, "let's get you clean."

"Mm." She's already grinning. "You know what wasn't in those textbooks?"

"Oh, I can only guess." You bite your cheek and start to lower yourself back. "Give it a try."

Hyeju drags you by the wrist toward the hall, the bathroom, ostensibly the shower -

"There's no way in hell you don't want to put a baby in me, like, right fucking now."

"Is that what we're doing?"

Hyeju makes a face like you're stupid - she might've grabbed a towel on the way out. She wipes her chin a little while walking - the corner of her mouth where, well - where it looks like a little dribble has somehow remained. "No. But you’re going to fuck me like it is."

-

(There's got so much on her mind. 

The door of the shower rattling in its frame as she struggles standing up against it. Getting fucked so fast and full, the feeling of both your hands cupped beneath the weight of her breasts. It's not the fact of where you are and your situation, per say - more about the immediate, the imperative nature. About fucking you. She was already feeling herself like, leaking the moment the door shut, so all that waiting, all that patience, really - and it's what drove her insane when you were, well: like that, after she put her mouth around your cock, made a right and proper mess of herself, and sucked you off.

Though there's less on her mind, clearly, when she cums all over your cock.

She's crying with her tits up onto the glass, your palm holding her ribs. Your cum-slick cock working itself hard again as it slips, back and forth, as you're fucking her open, spread apart. It's your finger in her asshole. That's what's on her mind then. How the press of your knuckle lights her entire fucking spine on fire - how the other hand finds her clit in all this, too, when you're no longer supporting the both of you but rather Hyeju is folding on her bent knee and trusting, on shaking and shivering, raw nerves, that you're not going to collapse.

"Fucking. God, please-"

There's the harsh slap of flesh - skin on wet skin, your palms against the sides of her ass and the curve of the breast. But otherwise - it's you, sighing - soft and gentle, like you can't get over the feel of her. "Hyeju, oh-fucking, god, fucking," is what you're saying, and it doesn't end up really mattering which one of you came last because she can feel you twitching, squelching in and out with how badly you're wanting to explode inside, but also you can feel her cunt absolutely begging, this fucking fluttering and clamping down on every thrust and the moment you manage to grind this angle she loses her ability to speak properly because you're not just, like - fucking her-

Just, absolutely, completely pounding her pussy, stretching her insides, dragging and sliding along the walls; each rough rub and thrust makes her knees quiver until her body is trembling and falling. But mostly her voice, the sharp gasp that shakes into her, how her nails are scraping the walls of the shower stall and she's saying - telling, crying and asking and wondering and pleading - just utterly astounded:

"Amazing," she huffs, breathes coming out cloudy and true onto the pane of glass, "you - it’s, fucking amazing.")

-

“And I am… Ironman.”

Your eyes flicker awake, hazy, as Tony Stark snaps his fingers, killing himself alongside Thanos’ army in the process.

The TV's long been running on background noise, though not as ambient. Its characters now bickering between the rubble and ruins and being picked up for the end credits. In the dark of the screen, you see Hyeju had nodded off and slumped over the side of your body. A new year means new beginning means resolutions and diets and gym routines -

Maybe no sooner than the sun can come up, apparently.

You lean over to grab your phone from the table: 4:14 A.M.

There's a lot of things you want to say, even more you want to hear, but your mind has begun to settle a bit - a lazy and dreamy thing that fills you with this sort of, tired kind of - not sad, or empty - no, of course not. That's hardly fitting; not after tonight. You want to wrap this in an idealistic sort of sentiment - maybe hold Hyeju close and let the hour carry you and the comfort be enough to forgive whatever there is to miss: like the fact, it's still really dark, so dark even outside. The moon reflecting off the sheet of snow on the street. And not even a distant dog barking, or car driving by or someone playing loud music in the early hours of the new year.

As the film drifts off into another set of commercials, you slip into an easy sleep that feels effortless. Your head drops, landing on the cushion by the arm of the couch, where Hyeju's hand begins to slip mindlessly across your belly, tickling your waist and causing you to slightly squirm - things are cooling down, but still a little agitated.

"Don't tell me you're waking me up, cause I just -"

She kisses the pulse at your throat and answers, mumbling half-words into the spot below your ear. "A kiss for a new year."

And maybe the world doesn't owe you anything at all.

Maybe it just gave you more than enough.

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 5

[prompt: face sitting]

male reader x ahn yujin

3.5k words

Yujin is giving you shit when it happens.

It’s been a little over an hour since she turned to you, bored and pouty about it, and asked if you wanted to fuck again.

She gives you shit in the way only the prettiest girls can get away with. Perfect smile, like she's innocent. And all low and breathy in her throat. Hitched around the vowels of your name. Threatening enough that you thought about just immediately capitulating. It was tempting. 

"Or you could stay on the floor like a lame loser bummin’ around in your pajamas." She leans up on the arm of the sofa. "Either way."

Yujin stretches and her sweater is huge. One of those cozy campus crewnecks that everybody seems to have, oversized and inviting and right. Her shorts are ridiculously small, just enough of her stomach peeking out over her waistband for you to want to feel it, touch it, have the pleasure of sinking your tongue into the shallow groove.

She's teasing you because she never quite knows what to do with her energy. Lacks an outlet big enough, really, but is also selfishly delighted in getting any response at all, no matter how halfhearted it might be. You stare at her. You watch and don't speak when she runs her fingers up her stomach to pull her sweater up with it. You groan. She grins. She is pretty, her lips full and eyes soft. The laugh that follows her is because it's always obvious when she's won and you wish your body wasn't so prone to giving away your weaknesses.

"Hey." She blinks slowly, lifting one leg up. Her bare foot, warm, toes flexed, against your thigh, nudges against you once, and again.

"How many orgasms until I feel a little more forgiving towards my good friend who, I know, is super super sorry that he can't afford the pizza money because he chose to use his own allowance to do something as silly as pay rent, I wonder?"

"I paid half last time."

"Doesn't make sense because you ate it all.

"You said you weren't hungry." You start to object because you do have an objection. A list, actually, prepared, of instances you think you're owed. But Yujin arches, and when a separate but related complaint rises swiftly to the foreground, your throat goes dry -

"Orgasm tax."

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” she asks, and you’re struggling to answer truthfully, honestly.

She rolls over, lets you see everything she has, the tiniest shorts in the world tugged even higher, the generous curve of her ass and thighs in silhouette. You didn't ask for this but you weren’t about to die without it, you think, looking up from the floor and staring, wetting your lips, absolutely sure. She does it all on her own and it takes an absurd amount of effort to peel your hands off the ground.

"Stay where you are," she snaps, seeing it too - and in a second of deliberate slowness, hooks two fingers into her shorts, tugging them aside before looming over you. "Or you're not fucking me today. At all."

You let your head thud down against the rug beneath you. "That's not fair."

"You've gotta come up with something better than that. You could suck up, beg, maybe I'd forgive you if you just told me how much better I was than the cash I could use on literally whatever."

Your eyes cut down.

Part of you wonders if you've always been such an easy mark - whether being here has changed you, if all these months of dangling carrots in front of you are paying off or if you're just a willing accomplice to your own exploitation.

Part of you isn't stupid. Yujin's taken an almost disturbing amount of pleasure in flaunting herself since the first night you drank too much, said too much, resisted too little - you can tell the way it starts, a smile toying in the corner of her mouth, before she taps the band of her bra, waits to hear you swallow - to hear how hot you get - before she casually asks what it would take, "to convince you", to change the conversation from whether she wants something from the vending machine, or she just forgot it was laundry day, or where the hell that note from Wonyoung had gone, to what she'd like the answer to be. What would you let her do if it got you another chance to get under her shirt, see her all bared, eyes dark and hair like a veil across her collarbones, pretty nipples and swells of her breasts pushed up, until you put your mouth on her.

Yujin tilts her hips so it's easier for you to follow, her hand snaking beneath her body as she speaks. A gentle grunt gets muffled in her sweater, her toes curling into the space between your knees and it hurts, stings a little, the desire you're holding back, and then it goes right through you like fire, sharp.

(Part of you is incredibly stupid - but you think the truth is it doesn't matter.)

Yujin's kneeling over your chest, and her bottom lip, plump and lush, catches between her teeth. "Can you think of anyway to be useful?"

"A lot," you choke. It's true.

Yujin makes a noise. "Proof. Evidence. Put up."

The movement she makes - twisting of legs and stomach flexing and the fabric of her shorts down off her ankles - is one single, fluid motion and for a second you're distracted by how quickly she's gotten you there. Thighs resting over your shoulders, the only thing your lungs seem to remember how to do is want.

"Come on." She bounces her knees a bit. "Dick or mouth, get going."

You should really say something smart, show her how clever and charming you can be, how you've actually got a lot to show the hottest girl in the world - and sometimes Yujin giggles like she's shocked  about it all herself, but right now her eyebrows are raising, expectant and challenging and it makes it difficult to think when there's an open invitation inches away for you to bury yourself in. Your lips feel like sandpaper when you kiss the inside of her thigh. Her hips stutter and drop an inch as your tongue works its way out, thick and obscene and it shouldn't be so thrilling to hear her so low, so urgent when you have no say, really, in how this is going to go -

"Take care of me, yeah?" she practically whispers the words - all while your fingertips drag along her outer thighs until her spine straightens, gets her shoulders pushed back, her breathing louder, somehow, as if you couldn't feel her need without knowing already exactly what you can do for her.

And the most honest thing you could say in the moment, because Yujin has her panties stretched to the side, revealing the inviting creases where her long legs meet her hips - for god’s sake, her pussy is right fucking there, inches in front of you; glistening slightly in her own slick and looking so, so pretty - the words get kissed right into the curve of her thigh: "It's not fair."

The look she gives you makes it worth it. "Excuse me?"

"You asked, didn't you. It's not fair that your pussy's so good that I can't think about anything else."

She huffs, her thighs shaking just a little with the effort of staying put. "So, what," and your mouth closes in, kiss deep, your nose pressed in right at the peak of her folds, her entrance, and you try not to drool as you inhale and drag the flat of your tongue in, hard, where she's desperate for you, "you think this should all go in reverse or something, like I should worship your dick until you stop being a useless perv - "

But the insult dies in her throat. A moan comes out instead, harsh, deep, loud and enough that Yujin slaps her palm over her own mouth before throwing an impatient scowl down at you.

Here's what you'd tell her, if you weren't busy licking circles into the ache leaking from her core, eating her cunt like a starving man, if you had the audacity. Yujin can't control herself. Doesn't help that she's sloppy. When her orgasm hits she will get louder and she doesn't even like the things that come out. That's the thing about Yujin, really. She says all this shit, and really, in the end, she wants a good fuck so bad she can't keep her mouth shut, but the noises she makes are exactly the same as the sounds that you choke on -

Because as pretty and easy and fun to kiss as she can be, the absolute best thing about your relationship is that the more orgasms she gets the less she can breathe, much less control what the fuck she's saying to you. It's cute and hilarious and beautiful, when she forgets, when she gives everything up because in the end it's never any competition, the way she fucks, is so desperate. Her hips work themselves into your grip, over and over and over again, like they are meant for this. 

For getting off on your mouth alone.

All you know right now is that with the way you have your hands on her - one still holding her panties open and the other squeezed tight around the muscle of her outer thigh - it's like her clit's directly in line with the back of your throat. If you press your lips around her pussy and hold them firm, just like the way her knees are starting to tighten around your face, she's going to come. It will hurt her and it will leave her completely boneless, and you've fucked this much to the point where you have learned, well, she can never complain.

Not that she would. The slick dripping down your cheeks and throat and down to the front of your shirt - it's fucking everywhere - makes it obvious: any ability to talk is replaced with her just grinding her pussy against you, bucking and shouting, riding and writhing until you decide her pretty little pink slit can have another taste. 

Her only other option, really, is clenching and throbbing and cumming as hard as she can all over your waiting tongue.

"Hey. Get your fucking mouth back down," she breathes, taking her fingers out of her cunt and then promptly pushing your head back in, "and - uhnn, I - yeah, exactly. Mmmnghh - "

You smile, muffled and hot against the fabric of her thighs, her fingers twisting in the hair behind your ears and tugging firmly. "Oh."

"What did you want again?" she asks - except her body tells a different story, all flushed and keening and, fuck, absolutely soaked from your touch - she rocks against the base of your chin, slumping and dropping down and letting gravity do its work. You work your tongue over her throbbing clit, again, again, and Yujin moans loudly. So pleased.

Just this mess she's made of you. The smell that coats your nose, and chin, the way it feels when she ruts her whole body against the place where she's worked the hardest. Her breath stalls where you start to breathe in, and looking up at the cinched look in her face you press further.

It’s every little circle lick and lave and gentle nudge of the tip of your nose, where the feeling makes her cry out, where the sensation, overstimulated, is close to that perfect balance between too much and not quite enough, all while working your fingers into the swell of her ass, and finally her hips make small, greedy, selfish thrusts into your mouth.

She sobs for you. You sigh, contented, because you don't even need to ask.

"You're so fucking good," she murmurs, heel of her palm pushed into her eyes like she's struggling with a headache. "God, fuck, do that again."

It's so wet on your chin already, but you do it again, just for the way she bucks into it.

You give her the closest thing you have, your thumb riding the rim of her ass, tongue rubbing, stroking her pussy faster. Yujin's teeth work against the insides of her mouth as her hips shift forward, and she is clenching and begging for the cock you know would make her scream if you just stood her on her hands and fucked her from behind - it's such a cruel way of making her work to feel so fucking amazing - but you're here to indulge, and really, when she shivers and pleads the exact way she does, your mouth still full, how are you supposed to do anything besides fucking obey.

Yujin reaches up to grab onto the edge of the couch, anything to brace herself as her cunt sloppily gets wetter. The thickest part of your tongue is good enough for this. Everything about her clit is just this dull, swollen throb. Begging to be worked over the way you're licking at the entrance to her pussy, inside and all, kissing, sucking, kneading, pulling, - fucking her just right - until she starts fucking cursing up a storm.

"Oh god, god, oh fuck fuck, fuck," her hips shift until she's the only one riding, the only one fucking. Until you just get to lay there with your lips slack, drooling open, hands a frame for her entire body while she works your face, and nothing could be better - "yeah, oh, fuck, fuck yes - yeah - fuck, hahhh. You're going to make me fucking cum-"

And you almost say it: that's your line - it's not enough, you'll never have enough of her cunt - her clit or the slit, where she leaks, thick and sticky. Her slick tastes heavy on your tongue, and you can't swallow fast enough. Your fingers are so deep into the pliable skin of her ass - digging and needy and reaching for where she's tightest. Her hands pull sharply at your hair. You feel her, tightening her ass around your finger, cumming wet across your cheekbones and -

It goes on, her body pressing into you, until with a sudden snap of a cry, she cums.

“God, fuck-”

If Yujin doesn't have to see the look on your face after getting her off this hard, it's only because the pressure in her body has her knees across your eyes forced shut. A spasm clenches, almost rhythmic, through her thighs, and god, Yujin just cums her brains out. It's pretty hot. You make it count: pushing your fingers just as deep into her pussy, working, exploring - right as her whole body is tensing and coming apart and your other hand circles, two fingers, dipping down and through the cleft of her ass and into her tightest, hottest hole -

You know better than to rub at her entrance once the ripples and waves start - instead, it's more pressure.

Pushing up as deep as you can and your lips mouthing at her folds while her hips squirm for something harder, something stronger and with intent - like, maybe, if she thinks she is trying to push away, she will start to believe that the mess running from her hole isn't hers. It's yours. All that liquid heat pooling below her and what could ever make sense other than she needs more? She needs the way she trembles and shakes, the way her pussy weeps as you wring it for the pleasure that's well on its way -

You always feel like an idiot after, stupid with how much you enjoy this, what she gives you, but how could it be anything but fantastic, your vision dizzying when it swims from lightheadedness and the lack of oxygen to your brain. Yujin's holding you right where she needs, right between her thighs and next to perfection, just tight enough for you to groan, to make a low whine build in the back of your throat and that gets her, too.

There is the rush and a wave, the heat, of something that crests and breaks in her that has to match the absolute loss of control she seems to have all along - the only part you feel you are sure about is that Yujin always rides her cunt - all dripping lips and aching holes, swollen and flaring and practically begging to be fucked harder and more thoroughly - into every orgasm she's taken from you, until there's no where to run.

Even through your nose, and you're suffocating, her legs trembling with the rush of it all. You're gasping and shaking but she's shaking apart and you need that: to feel her melt from where her body collapses all its weight onto you and the way the aftershocks have to make it seem, at least for a moment, that she’ll never, ever recover.

"Fuck," Yujin sighs, "I fucking hate you."

(Translation: she can't fucking live without you.)

"Any time," you murmur and her entire body falls into you, straddled across your chest and slumped there, sweaty and spent. Your heart beats the moment, trying to remember when it was you could stop feeling this way about your roommate.

A part of you believes that, once upon a time, before all of this started, that your desire, your lust was rooted in seeing a friend who was beyond hot and simply unavailable.

A bigger part of you knows that asking for clarity isn't the point - because maybe, right now, in the way your hand has started massaging the soft skin under the curve of her spine, you should realize you can't live with it never happening again.

"What's my balance," you ask, rubbing your thumb into the crook behind her knee.

"Mm?"

You exhale.

"Two. I think you're good for two."

You laugh. "For real?"

She stretches.

"Or I suppose we can go for four or five, but that means you're paying for dinner, too." Yujin does this thing with her hair when she's excited. Swings it back, smiling wide.

Which is fair, you think, given the pulse between your legs throbbing and twitching as you picture it: the curve of Yujin's waist and the drop of her lower back, her bare ass. Her soaked little slit that can't help but beg to fucked and fucked and fucked, until she's trembling and quivering and leaking-

"Then I'm gonna eat," you promise her, "every last inch. Going to taste you and swallow."

Yujin shifts, sitting astride you.

You hum. "Still interested."

She simply kisses you - breathes you in - tasting herself on your lips and tongue, before leaning back with her palms flat against your chest and taking it slow as she starts to ease you into the kind of sex that doesn't leave either one of you with a throat quite so raw and dry.

So it's quiet in your apartment, just for a little while, when the afternoon starts to settle in and she rolls back onto her heels, not able to support the rest of her. You fuck her deep and it's amazing how quickly you both fall into rhythm. Yujin's clutching hard on either side of your hips. Folding herself back. Trying, by the end, to bury you where her fingers have been.

By the time she gets herself up on the couch, belly flat against the cushions and her hips arched back as she fucks herself with the length of your dick, you're just desperate. Aching in a way you know will happen any moment and even so, you can't even bring yourself to consider stopping because this is perfect - it's everything, really. To push her down, hold her still, and fuck her so thoroughly that she cries and shudders as you spill into her.

To have her.

Yujin holds a part of yourself so tender, something you have kept close for far too long, and watching her with her arm reached behind herself, clutching blindly with her fingers, as her moans go quiet with just these whimpery, little things, a thought occurs to you, of exactly how dangerous your roommate is -

Because with you fucking into her like this, this is more than sex ought to be. More than it’s ever been.

(More dangerous yet is thinking: maybe - perhaps - it is exactly what Yujin wanted, from the start.)