lalo0

[lalo0]

You're under arrest

Male reader x Ningning

Word Count: 6.5k

Tags: handcuffs, dom/sub, rough sex, dirty talk, teasing, squirting

The late summer heat is dense, pressing against your back as you walk the side streets of Gangnam, hoodie clinging to your skin, bag heavy from whatever errands you didn’t finish. You’re not really paying attention. It’s one of those days — too hot, too quiet, and your brain’s half-fogged with sweat and leftover thoughts.

You’re almost past the alley when a voice cuts through the still air.

"You. Stop."

Firm. Clear. Female.

You freeze.

There’s a moment — not even a second — where you think no way, and then she steps into your line of sight.

Boots first. Then toned legs wrapped in fitted navy pants, a matching belt, a black walkie dangling at her side, and a crisp short-sleeved shirt tucked in tight. Shiny badge at her chest. Cap tilted just enough to shadow her face.

And sunglasses. Of course.

She’s in full uniform. Not sloppy. Not casual. It looks official. Too official.

She lifts a brow. “You’re ignoring a direct order from law enforcement?”

You glance around. No one else in the alley. You look back at her.

She doesn’t flinch.

You swallow. “Uh, no, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” she echoes. And there’s something dangerous in how she says it. Something entertained. Like she’s waiting for you to fuck up further.

“I mean—officer.”

Her mouth quirks. Not quite a smile.

She steps closer. Not fast. Measured. You feel yourself stiffen, posture going awkwardly straight, like some old muscle memory from high school kicking in.

“Empty your pockets,” she says.

You blink. “Seriously?”

“You've been drinking?”

“No.”

“Drugs?”

“What? No.”

She stares. Too calm.

“Then you’ve got nothing to hide. Empty your pockets.”

You hesitate. Then sigh and start digging. Wallet. Keys. Phone. A stick of gum.

You hold them out like a student showing a teacher clean hands.

She glances down, barely even registering them. Then her gaze flicks back to yours.

She lifts her shades — slow — and it finally hits you. That face. That mouth. The curve of her cheek, the shape of her brow. Familiar in a way that tugs somewhere deep in your chest.

But it doesn’t land. Not yet. Like a dream you forgot the second you woke up.

She clicks her tongue. “And what were you doing loitering back there?”

“Just walking. Not loitering.”

She steps forward.

Close.

Her presence is heat and authority, and it’s ridiculous how your pulse reacts. There’s nothing playful in her posture — just calm control.

“Turn around,” she says.

You hesitate. “Are you actually—”

“Do you want to be detained?”

The back of your throat goes dry.

You turn.

Your bag slides off one shoulder. You hear the soft click of cuffs.

Cold metal. Real weight. Around your wrists.

Your heart kicks up.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, trying not to panic. “Seriously, what is this—”

She steps in close behind you. You can feel her body at your back. Not pressed, but there. Solid. Present.

Her breath brushes your neck. “You really don’t remember me?”

You freeze.

“What?”

She hums. Low. Like a private joke.

“I’ll give you a hint,” she whispers. “We used to build blanket forts. You always made me the bad guy.”

Your breath hitches. You turn your head slightly, but she doesn’t let you see her.

Too late.

Your brain scrambles, reaching — old memories, old summers, a girl with scraped knees and a laugh that made your chest ache even when you were eighteen.

But it doesn’t make sense.

She presses the cuffs tighter.

“Still nothing?” she says, almost pouting.

And then she bites your ear. Not hard. Just enough.

You jolt.

She lets out a breathy laugh and finally circles back around you, face full in the light now, shades gone. Hair a mess, smile wicked.

And goddamn — the recognition finally punches through.

But before you can say her name, she tilts her head and says, “Don’t say it. Not yet.”

Then, while you’re still stunned, she tugs you by the front of your hoodie and pulls you deeper into the alley — out of sight, out of breath, out of time.

The alley stretches longer than it should, or maybe you’re just too stunned to track distance. You’re half-walking, half-dragged, wrists still cuffed behind your back, tripping a little over your own feet. Her grip is firm on your hoodie, knuckles brushing the bare skin at your throat as she holds you close, like you’re some idiot who might run.

But you’re not running. You can’t. You wouldn’t even know where.

She stops suddenly and turns. The back wall of the alley is just brick and shadow, and your chest brushes hers with how close she’s pulled you.

You look down at her. She hasn’t said another word.

Just staring.

There’s a flicker in her eyes—something waiting to see what you'll do now that you’ve had a second to catch up.

“I—” you start, but your voice cracks.

She raises a brow. “You?”

You look away, chest tight. She doesn’t give you time to regroup.

“Still confused?” she asks softly. There’s no mockery this time. Only heat.

Your breath catches. The realization of who she is still hasn’t settled. She’s older now. Sharper. Everything that used to be soft has been carved into something dangerous. Something magnetic. But that smile, that lilt in her voice—it’s still there underneath, like a ghost.

You nod, slow. “Yeah. I mean... yeah.”

She leans in just enough to brush your cheek with hers, the cap brim skimming your temple. “I didn’t think you’d actually forget me,” she murmurs. “That’s the part that stings.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

She exhales sharply and pulls back—less playful now. Her hand slides down your chest, fingers skimming the hem of your hoodie like she’s testing it for weak spots.

“You always used to stare when I wore your clothes,” she says. “I used to wonder if you knew.”

“I didn’t—”

“But now?” Her fingers curl at your waistband. “Now you’re doing more than staring.”

You flinch at the contact. Not because it hurts. Because it doesn’t.

And that scares the hell out of you.

She tugs your hoodie up with both hands, exposing your stomach. Her eyes drop there. You’re breathing too fast. Your arms are still behind you, and she hasn’t even loosened the cuffs.

“You’re really not going to say anything?” she asks, voice quieter, throatier now.

“I’m trying to figure out if I’m hallucinating,” you admit.

She lets out a small laugh. “You’re not. You’re just in trouble.”

Then she drops to her knees.

Your brain lurches.

“Wait—” you start, but she’s already unbuttoning your jeans, slow, fingers confident. Not rushed. Not uncertain.

You look down at her. Her expression is pure mischief, tempered by something hotter. Hungrier.

She doesn’t break eye contact as she pulls your zipper down.

“Ning,” you say her name like it slipped out without permission.

She stills. Just for a second.

Her eyes flash.

“You weren’t supposed to say it yet,” she whispers.

And then her hand is inside your waistband.

Everything in you goes tight.

You stagger slightly, cuffed hands straining against the metal behind you. “Shit—”

She hushes you with a single glance.

“You’re not in control right now,” she says, fingers wrapping around your cock. “So don’t act like you are.”

You groan as she strokes you once, slow. Then again, firmer.

The heat in your stomach is immediate.

You feel fucking helpless—cornered, locked up, twisted in place by memory and need and whatever this is becoming.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” she says, almost to herself. “I didn’t plan to. I just... saw you. And you didn’t recognize me. And I thought, fuck it.”

Her thumb swipes across the head of your cock and you nearly choke on a moan.

“And now,” she adds, voice like a promise, “I’m not stopping until I’ve made sure you never forget me again.”

She’s still got you cuffed. Wrists locked tight behind your back. Chest heaving. Jeans half-off. And she’s looking up at you like this is the first time she’s ever seen something worth worshiping.

And for a second—one long, blistering second—you feel powerful.

But then she tilts her head, and you realize she’s in control of everything. Even that. Especially that.

She gives your cock a slow stroke, base to tip. Her thumb presses down against the vein with maddening pressure before circling the head with just enough slick to make your knees almost buckle.

You hiss, breath jerking out of you like she punched the air from your lungs. “Fuck…”

She hums like it’s a satisfied answer.

Then leans in, just close enough for her breath to graze the tip of your cock without letting her mouth touch.

You twitch in her hand. Your whole body feels strung up, wired. She’s barely done anything and already you’re starting to break apart.

“You’re quieter than I expected,” she murmurs, voice low and sweet and unbothered. “I figured you’d talk more.”

You try. You really do. But the words catch on your tongue.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, thumb brushing lazily under the head. “Too much?” Her tone is soft mockery, but there’s something beneath it. Warm. Intimate. A little cruel.

“You’re fucking insane,” you manage.

“I’m thorough,” she corrects, still smiling, still not letting up.

She tightens her grip for a moment—not to hurt, just enough to command your attention—and then strokes you again, slower. Like she’s savoring it. Like she’s tasting the reaction before even taking you in.

You press your back to the wall, legs shaking. “You’re seriously just gonna… do this? In an alley?”

“You want me to stop?”

You hesitate.

She waits, gaze never leaving your face.

“…No,” you admit.

There it is. That wicked little grin spreads like wildfire. “Good boy.”

The phrase lands harder than it should.

You don’t even like being called that.

But when she says it—

God.

You don’t get to dwell. Because she shifts forward on her knees and finally puts her mouth on you.

No warning. No build-up. Just heat and pressure and wet, perfect suction. Her lips seal around the head and she sinks down slow—inch by agonizing inch—until her nose is pressed against your skin and your knees are fucking shaking.

You grunt, hips twitching despite yourself, and she lets out a low hum like she’s encouraging it.

Her tongue works you like she remembers every sensitive spot you never told anyone about. She bobs once, twice—then pulls off with a wet pop that makes your head thunk against the wall.

You’re gasping now. Hard.

“I said don’t act like you’re in control,” she murmurs, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. “That means no thrusting.”

“I didn’t—”

She cuts you off by wrapping her mouth around you again, this time faster. Her hands settle on your thighs, fingers splayed like anchors, and you get the message: stay still.

And you try.

But she’s relentless. She sucks like she’s proving something. Like she’s been thinking about this. Like she needs to know what sounds you’ll make when she finally pushes you past the edge.

Your cuffs bite into your wrists with every shaky breath. Your spine’s bowed tight. Vision blurring. You moan—loud this time—and her eyes flick up to watch your face while she does it again.

It’s unbearable.

And fucking perfect.

“Ning—” you breathe, but she doesn’t let you finish.

Instead, she pulls off and rises to her feet in one fluid motion, grabbing your jaw with one hand as she leans in, lips just brushing yours.

“I want you to remember something,” she whispers.

You nod, dazed. “Anything.”

She bites your lower lip. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just enough.

“You don’t come,” she says. “Not until I say.”

You groan, hips jerking forward. She slaps your stomach lightly with the back of her hand.

“Don’t test me,” she says.

You believe her.

She shoves your jeans the rest of the way down and kicks your ankles apart. Her hands are rougher now—impatient, greedy—and you can’t stop the shiver that runs through you when she grabs your cock again and gives it a possessive pump.

You’re leaking. Desperate. Your brain’s not working.

And she knows it.

“Didn’t think I’d come back looking like this, did you?” she mutters as her hand works you with firm, punishing strokes. “Thought I’d stay small and sweet forever, huh?”

You pant, shaking your head. “I didn’t think—I wasn’t—”

She cuts you off by squeezing right under the head until your legs nearly give out.

“Quiet,” she says. “Let me enjoy you.”

You fall silent. What else can you do?

Your breath comes in shallow bursts. Her hand is merciless. She jerks you off with all the control in the world, letting your tip brush her stomach every time your hips jerk forward like you’re chasing friction.

And then, right when your abs start to tighten and the pressure starts to crest, she stops.

Lets go.

Steps back.

You choke.

“No, no, don’t—”

She tuts. “I said don’t come. You were getting close.”

You nod furiously. Too fast. “I didn’t. I swear.”

“Good.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, she sinks to the ground again and opens her mouth, tongue out, eyes gleaming.

You make a sound that’s not even human.

But before she lets you in, she says one more thing:

“If you so much as twitch without permission…” She drags her tongue up the underside of your cock. “I’ll stop. And you’ll walk home like this.”

You nod.

She smirks.

And then she starts again—faster this time.

No teasing.

No mercy.

And you realize you’re going to die in this alley.

Or worse—survive, and never stop thinking about this moment for the rest of your fucking life.

You don't know how long she keeps you there.

It could be seconds. Minutes. Your sense of time’s completely shredded—dissolved somewhere between the way her mouth moves and the way your arms are still cuffed, tension building in your spine like a snapped wire just waiting to recoil.

She’s working you like she owns you now.

And maybe she does.

Because you can’t remember ever being this hard, this desperate, this fucked up over someone with nothing but a mouth and a voice and a memory she’s dangling just out of reach.

You try not to move. You try not to breathe wrong. But it’s getting harder every time her tongue slides under the head and she sucks, cheeks hollowing like she’s draining the resistance right out of your body.

You whimper—actually whimper—and she pulls off again, lips wet, spit stringing from her mouth to your tip. She grins like she’s proud of the mess she’s making.

“Still holding it in?” she asks, breathless.

You nod, too frantic to speak.

“Good boy,” she murmurs again. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

She rises without warning and pulls your hoodie the rest of the way off, the fabric catching at your elbows while your wrists are still cuffed. You stumble slightly, exposed, vulnerable, the damp heat of the alley clinging to your skin. Your cock’s still out, still leaking, pulsing with every heartbeat.

You’re fucking ruined, and she hasn’t even taken off her uniform yet.

She shoves you back against the wall, hard enough that it knocks the wind out of you for a second. Her hand lands flat on your chest to keep you there.

“You always thought you were the careful one,” she says. “But look at you.”

You meet her eyes. There’s something in them—wild, electric—but under that, something else. Something that flickers the moment your gaze softens.

She sees it too. And it pisses her off.

“Don’t,” she snaps, voice dropping. “Don’t give me that look like I’m still the girl you remember. I’m not. I’m the one you forgot.”

“I didn’t—”

“Shut up.”

Her mouth is on yours before you can argue. Hot. Messy. Nothing delicate about it. Her teeth drag against your bottom lip. Her tongue pushes in like it belongs there. You kiss back like you’re drowning.

Because you are.

You lean into it, as much as your cuffs will allow, and she moans—actual sound this time, full and guttural—and fuck, it does something to you. The way she grinds against your thigh, still in those tight navy pants, breath catching, like she’s the one coming undone now.

You chase that.

She breaks the kiss with a gasp and shoves her fingers into your hair, gripping hard. “You think you can turn this on me?”

You nod. Then shake your head. You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to anymore.

She laughs. “Pathetic.”

But she doesn’t sound mad. Not really.

She steps back, grabs your jaw, turns your face to the side. You feel her mouth on your neck, teeth scraping skin like she’s trying to mark you. And she might be. You wouldn’t stop her.

You’d let her do anything right now.

She palms your cock again. Just once. Just enough to remind you how fucking close you are.

“Don’t beg,” she whispers. “It won’t work.”

You almost laugh. But then her other hand snakes between your legs and cups your balls—gentle at first, then not—and the sound you make isn’t laughter at all.

“Sensitive,” she murmurs, almost admiring. “God, you always were.”

You want to say something. Anything.

But then she reaches behind herself and undoes her belt with one smooth pull. It clinks to the pavement, loud in the quiet. Your mouth goes dry.

She keeps her eyes on yours as she tugs her pants down—just enough to sit low on her hips. Her underwear’s black, soft cotton. No lace. No drama.

But you can already see the damp patch spreading across it.

Your breath stutters.

She notices.

“Touch me and I’ll break your fingers,” she says.

Your wrists are still cuffed.

You couldn’t even if you tried.

And that makes it worse.

She presses against you, crotch to thigh, grinding slowly, her slick soaking through. She grabs your jaw again and kisses you hard, biting at your tongue this time like she’s daring you to flinch.

You don’t.

She pulls back.

“You’re shaking.”

You are.

“So close it hurts?” she whispers, hand sliding between your bodies, brushing over your cock again with maddening care.

You nod, jaw tight.

She strokes you twice—firm, slow, cruel.

Then stops again.

You groan. Actually groan.

“Ning…”

She smirks. “Say that again.”

You hesitate.

“Say it.”

“…Ning.”

She kisses your throat. “Louder.”

“Ning.”

She strokes again. You thrust helplessly into her grip.

“Tell me how much you missed me.”

“I—”

She squeezes. Your breath catches.

“Tell me.”

“I missed you,” you gasp. “Fuck, I missed you.”

She hums, pleased. “Good boy.”

She doesn’t let you come.

Not yet.

Instead, she turns you around again—slow, intentional—and presses your chest to the wall.

You feel her unzip her own pants fully behind you, hear the shift of fabric.

Her hand reaches between your legs, lifts your cock from behind, jerking it with ruthless control while she ruts herself against your ass, panting, soaking, still half-clothed, the two of you hidden in this goddamn alley like feral animals.

And when you twitch again—when your body starts to seize from the edge—

She stops.

Again.

“Still not yet,” she whispers in your ear.

You let out a broken noise. Barely a word. Barely human.

She licks the shell of your ear, lips brushing the curve with something almost tender.

And just when you think she’s done—

She unlocks the cuffs.

Letting your arms fall forward. Numb. Shaking.

And then, stepping back into your line of sight, she says:

“Your turn.”

She’s in front of you now. Pants undone. Shirt still tucked in, badge still gleaming, like this is still her scene.

But the second the cuffs click open, something shifts.

Not in the air. Not in her stance.

In you.

And she knows it. You see it flicker in her eyes the moment your arms fall forward, wrists red from where she held you. She straightens, but doesn’t move back. Doesn’t run. Just watches.

You step forward.

Slow.

Measured.

You reach for her face — not rough, not sweet — just certain. Fingers curling under her jaw, thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth, still wet from everything she just did to you.

“You don’t get to start something like that,” you murmur, “and walk away when it turns.”

She smiles like she doesn’t believe you.

But she doesn’t stop you either.

You kiss her.

And this time it’s yours.

She makes a sound — a small surprised breath against your lips — and you don’t let up. You grab her wrist with your free hand and shove it above her head, pinning it to the brick behind her. She gasps, and that’s when you use the moment to step between her legs, pressing into the wet heat of her core.

Her hips twitch.

"Already soaked," you whisper against her lips. "And you’ve barely even been touched."

She grins like she’s still the one in control. “You’re not that scary.”

“Good,” you say. “I’m not trying to scare you.”

Your mouth dips to her neck. You bite her there — just hard enough to make her flinch, make her gasp — and she grabs at your shoulders, nails digging in.

She pushes back, but not to escape. It’s the kind of resistance that’s begging to be overpowered.

So you do.

You hike her leg up around your waist and push her hard against the wall. Your cock’s still out, still slick, and she’s right there, heat and wetness pressed to the length of you, still caged behind her underwear.

She pants in your ear.

“I thought you weren’t gonna beg,” you murmur.

She huffs, laughing into your shoulder. “I won’t.”

“Liar.”

You drag your hand between her legs and rub her through the soaked fabric, the friction making her tremble.

She tries to stay quiet.

You don’t let her.

You find the edge of her underwear and tug it aside — slowly, deliberately — baring her to the humid air and your fingers. She’s drenched. Swollen. Pulsing.

You slide two fingers inside without warning.

She bites your neck to keep from crying out.

“Still want to pretend you’re in charge?” you breathe against her hair, curling your fingers inside her just right.

She grabs your shirt like she might rip it.

But she doesn’t answer.

You pull your fingers out and shove them into her mouth.

“Suck.”

She does.

God, she does.

Her tongue swirls over them, lips tight, and you almost lose it right there. Her eyes flick up to yours, dark and defiant, and the sight of her like that — uniform half-undone, panting around your fingers, still pretending not to need you — it shatters something in you.

You yank her panties down with one hand and line yourself up.

She pulls off your fingers just long enough to mutter, “Don’t make me wait.”

You don’t.

You thrust into her in one deep, sharp motion — and she gasps, back arching hard against the wall, legs tightening around your hips like she’s trying to keep you inside forever.

You brace one arm behind her back and fuck into her — deep, steady, mean. No softness. Just the sound of your hips slamming into hers, wet and filthy and real.

She moans into your neck, biting to muffle it, and you feel her walls clench around you.

You kiss her again, devouring her moans, your fingers still holding her jaw as you rut into her like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

She whimpers — actually whimpers — and that’s when you know.

She’s close.

So you stop.

Dead still.

Her head jerks back in shock. “What—”

You smile. “You don’t get to come yet.”

She groans, hips rolling, trying to chase the friction.

You pull out halfway and slam back in, slow and punishing.

Her voice breaks.

“Please.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Say it again.”

She stares, defiant.

You pull out. All the way.

“No—fuck, fine—please. Don’t stop.”

You lean in close, breath against her lips. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

And then you give her what she begged for.

You pound into her, this time faster, deeper — all frustration and heat and all the things she stirred up the second she walked into your life again. You watch her come undone — nails scraping your skin, body trembling, voice cracking into gasps and moans she can’t hide anymore.

When she breaks, it’s messy.

Loud.

Raw.

Her head drops to your shoulder, and she curses your name like it hurts.

You hold her through it. Fuck her through it.

And when you finally let yourself go — when you come inside her so deep you swear you forget your own name — it’s like everything goes still.

Like the world narrows to the two of you in this alley. Tangled. Sweaty. Shaking.

You stay there, forehead pressed to hers, breath mixing in the sticky air.

Neither of you says a word for a long time.

You’re still buried deep inside her when her breath starts to steady. Her grip on your back loosens, legs falling slightly from around your waist, but you don’t move. You’re not done.

Not even close.

You lean in, voice a low rasp against her ear. “Don’t think that was it.”

She shivers. “No?”

You draw your hips back slowly — not out, just enough for her to feel the drag — and then slam forward, sharp and brutal, knocking a gasp out of her.

Her hands scramble against your shoulders. “F–fuck—”

“Keep up,” you growl, catching both her wrists and pinning them above her head again. She’s slick, trembling, stretched to her limit, but her expression is wild now — open and needy, every bit of her screaming yes even if her mouth won’t.

You move again. Harder. A brutal rhythm, each thrust landing with obscene sound. Her body jerks with the force, head falling back against the wall, mouth parted in shock as you fuck her like you’re trying to break her in.

And maybe you are.

Her cuffs dangle forgotten near your feet. Her badge is still clipped to her shirt — barely hanging on — and you can feel the heat of her through every point of contact.

You press your forehead to hers. “You’re mine right now.”

She moans, voice cracking. “Then take me.”

You do.

You grab one of her thighs and lift it again, angling her just right, and drive in deeper — punishing, relentless. She cries out, loud, raw, fingers clenching your forearm as her entire body bucks into yours.

“I missed this,” you mutter against her jaw. “You ruined me back then. And now you’re gonna pay for it.”

“Then shut up,” she snarls between gasps. “And fucking ruin me.”

You slam into her so hard she knocks the back of her head against the brick. Her eyes roll back, a stuttered curse flying from her lips, and you catch her by the waist before she can slump.

You flip her around again.

Face-first to the wall.

No warning.

She yelps — surprised — but arches her back, grinding her ass against your cock with a filthy little whimper like she was hoping you’d do this.

“Look at you,” you whisper, grabbing her hip. “Dripping down your legs and still begging for it.”

“Shut up,” she pants.

You spank her. Once. Sharp.

She gasps.

“Say please.”

“No.”

Another spank. This time harder.

Her breath shudders. Her thighs are slick. Her hands press flat to the brick like she needs it to stay upright.

“Say it.”

“…Please.”

You thrust back into her like a threat.

She screams.

You fuck her with everything you’ve been holding back — anger, memory, lust, the years between you crashing into a single vicious rhythm. Her moans are ragged, desperate, punched out of her with every slam of your hips. You snake a hand around to rub her clit and she jolts like you hit a nerve.

“Gonna come again?” you growl.

“Yes—yes—don’t stop—”

But you do stop.

She wails, slamming her hips back against you, trying to chase it.

You grab her by the hair and pull her upright, flush to your chest, your cock still buried inside her.

“Not yet.”

She’s sobbing with frustration — breathless, furious, soaked — and fuck if she doesn’t sound more turned on than ever.

“I hate you,” she pants.

You lick the shell of her ear. “No, you don’t.”

She laughs — broken, wrecked — and slams herself back onto your cock anyway.

You bite her shoulder and fuck her from behind, hand between her legs, working her clit with ruthless precision.

“Now,” you whisper. “Now you can come.”

And when she does—

She screams.

You hold her through it, riding her out while she clenches around you, shaking so hard you have to pin her against the wall just to keep her standing.

But you’re still hard.

And you’re not done.

Not until you’ve made sure she can’t walk out of this alley the same girl she was when she came in.

You slam your hips up into her, and the sound she makes is damn near broken. Her nails dig into your shoulders, then drag across your back as if she’s trying to mark you, but you barely register the sting. All you can focus on is the heat of her, the grip of her cunt, the way her voice cracks each time you hit just right.

You're fucking her like your sanity depends on it. Because maybe it does.

Her head falls back against the wall with a dull knock, and you lean in, lips grazing her jaw as you thrust harder, rougher. She’s soaking around you—wet, tight, relentless—and her breathless little gasps are nothing like the smug control she had earlier. You’ve got her unraveling now, squirming, writhing, clutching at you like she doesn’t know where the ground went.

“Eli—fuck—too deep—”

“Take it.”

You grit it out against her throat, biting down just below her ear. She whimpers, legs tightening around your waist, and your rhythm doesn’t falter. Not for a second. You’re inside her so deep it feels like there’s nothing else, no outside world, no heat, no alley—just this. Just her. Just the way she opens up around you like she was built for it.

She tries to grind her hips against you, tries to ride your cock even though you're the one in control now, but you pin her tighter to the wall with a savage snap of your hips that makes her cry out.

“You started this,” you growl. “You wanted my attention? You got it.”

Ningning moans, eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet yours—and god, there’s fire in them. Wild. Desperate. Beautiful. “Then don’t fucking stop,” she pants.

You don’t.

Your thrusts turn ruthless—deep, punishing, hungry. Her nails are leaving lines down your back, her legs are trembling around your waist, and her moans have turned hoarse, like she’s losing her voice with every pulse of your cock inside her.

You feel the way her body starts to lock up, how her pussy flutters around you like she’s on the edge again. But this time you don’t give her permission.

This time, you pull out.

She gasps, eyes wide, like you just yanked air from her lungs.

“What—? Eli, no—”

You flip her around before she can protest, her chest smacking against the rough wall, hands scrambling to steady herself. Your hand snakes into her hair, not cruelly, but firm—anchoring her in place as your other hand guides yourself back in from behind. She sobs out your name, high-pitched and cracked, and you bury yourself in her again with one brutal thrust.

She screams.

Not from pain—from need. From shock. From sheer fucking want.

Your hand slides down her spine, pressing between her shoulder blades as you fuck her into the bricks, her cheek scraping slightly against the surface as she whines, helpless now, wrecked.

You lean in close, lips to her ear. “You made such a big deal about control earlier,” you breathe. “Thought you’d tease me a little, play the cop, make me squirm. But look at you now.”

She whimpers as your hand slips down, finds her clit, and circles it once. She almost crumples.

“You gonna come like this?” you ask. “Pinned, fucked stupid, dripping down your legs?”

She can’t speak. Just nods.

You spank her once—sharply, fast—watching the way her ass jiggles, the sound echoing off the alley walls. She gasps.

“You don’t get to come yet,” you whisper.

“Eli—”

“You’ll come when I tell you.”

She trembles.

You fuck her harder.

Each thrust is brutal now, no pretense left. Just bodies colliding. Just hips slamming. Just need. You feel her start to shake again, her walls clenching around you, her legs almost giving out.

She’s babbling now. “Please—fuck—please, let me—let me—”

You twist your fist in her hair and yank her back just enough to whisper, “Now.”

She comes like an explosion—loud, desperate, like her body’s folding in on itself. She clenches so hard around you it rips the orgasm from you too. You groan as you slam into her one last time and spill inside, filling her with every pulse, every twitch, until your whole body is pressed against hers and you’re both shaking.

Silence hits.

Just panting.

Heavy breathing, sweat dripping, the slow cooling of fevered skin.

You don’t let go of her right away.

You keep her there—against the wall, against your chest, arms around her waist now instead of her throat or hair. Her body sags against yours, boneless and quiet.

Then she laughs.

Soft. Wrecked. Beautiful.

“You’re fucking insane,” she whispers.

You press your lips to the nape of her neck. “You started it.”

Her giggle’s lazy now. Content. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Guess I did.”

She leans back into you, breathing slowing, head resting against your shoulder now.

You don’t remember sliding down the wall. Just the way her body went soft against yours — like the fight had finally drained out of her, or maybe you’d both left the last of it in the air between you. Your knees give a little, and the next thing you know, you’re both on the ground, tangled in each other and sweat and the faint smell of city grime.

She’s half in your lap, legs still hooked loosely around you, head against your shoulder. Her cap is gone. Her shirt’s riding up, bra strap twisted. Your jeans are unzipped, your boxers sticky. Her thighs are a mess between them.

No one says anything for a while.

Just breath. Wind. The faint buzz of traffic somewhere distant. The world still exists out there — people living lives, eating dinners, watching dramas, never knowing two idiots just fucked each other half-conscious in the back corner of Gangnam.

Eventually, she shifts. Not much. Just a slow drag of her fingers along your arm, brushing past the edge of your sleeve like she’s testing if you’re real.

You let her.

Then you clear your throat. “You okay?”

She huffs a breath against your collarbone. “...Guess.”

“You were the one who cuffed me and dragged me into an alley.”

“And you liked it.”

You don't answer. Because yeah — you fucking did.

But there’s something quieter now, in the space between you. The adrenaline’s gone. The bravado too. She’s not the playful cop anymore. You’re not the half-lost, hoodie-clad boy wondering what the hell is going on.

You’re just… two people. With a long, messy, beautiful history stitched somewhere between the sweat and bruises.

“I didn’t think it would feel like that,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“All of it.” She swallows. “You. This.”

You look at her. Really look. There’s no smirk now. No sunglasses. No teasing voice. Just a girl with wrecked makeup and tangled hair, breathing slow in your arms, like she’s not sure what comes next.

“I still can’t believe it’s you,” you say.

Her lips twitch. “Then say my name.”

You hesitate.

And then, gently: “Ning.”

She closes her eyes. Just for a second. And when she opens them again, there’s something unguarded in her face. Something almost soft.

“God,” she mutters. “It really is you.”

You lean your head back against the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“Because I didn’t know if I wanted to.”

You look down.

She shrugs one bare shoulder. “You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t come back for closure or a grand reunion or some epic scene. I saw you. I was in a car—on my way somewhere I didn’t want to go—and I saw your face on the street like it hadn’t been ten years. And I thought... fuck it. Just once. Just one time.”

Her voice cracks a little on the last part. She catches it quick, breathes through it. But you notice.

And it sits in your chest like a stone.

“Ning…” you start, but she cuts you off.

“You didn’t write,” she says. Not angry. Just… honest. “After I moved. After that summer. You didn’t call. Didn’t try. And yeah, I know we were basically kids. But still.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

“I thought you hated me,” you admit.

“I did.” She looks up at you. “But only because you stopped being the one thing I thought was real.”

Your stomach knots.

She sits up slowly, tugs at her shirt, fixes it absently. Not shy. Not modest. Just trying to breathe.

“I don’t know what this is,” she says finally, gesturing between you. “And I’m not asking for a label or an apology or a second chance. I just… I needed to see if you were still you.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

But you reach out anyway. Not with words — with your hand. You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture’s awkward, a little clumsy, but she leans into it all the same.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

She nods. “Me too.”

Then, quietly: “Did you really not recognize me?”

You shake your head. “Not at first. But… I think some part of me did. Deep down.”

She exhales. “That’s something.”

You sit there together a while longer, legs tangled, bodies cooling. At some point, you pull your hoodie off and give it to her. She slips it on without a word, pulls the sleeves over her hands. The smell of sweat and sex and summer wraps around her like a second skin.

When she speaks again, her voice is almost sheepish. “I don’t really have anywhere to be tonight.”

You glance sideways. “That a question or a statement?”

“Bit of both.”

You hesitate. Then: “You want to come back with me?”

She raises a brow. “That a question or a statement?”

You smirk. “Bit of both.”

Her laugh is softer now. Real.

“Yeah,” she says after a pause. “I’d like that.”

You both stand, a little sore, a little slow. She adjusts the hoodie, and you zip your jeans. She takes your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And as you leave the alley — her beside you, not behind or ahead — you realize the night hasn’t cooled much.

But it feels different now.

Like maybe, just maybe, this isn’t over yet.

Not even close.

-------

Author’s Note: This started as a one-shot, but… I thought of leaving an open ending in case you like it. If this hits 1,000 notes, I’ll write the continuation. Thanks for reading!

[lalo0]

UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT CH. 1 ┃ Damsel in distress

Sana x male reader (smut)

word count: 12k

The thing about these events is that no one actually wants to be here.

Not me, not them, not even the poor souls pretending to be fans screaming from behind the barriers. It’s just part of the deal: put on a suit, smile, act like you’re honored to attend another rigged award show where the winners are decided weeks before anyone even pretends to vote.

I flash a practiced grin at the cameras. Just enough teeth to seem charming, not enough to seem desperate. They eat it up. They always do.

Inside, it’s colder than necessary, not for comfort, but to make sure no one starts sweating through their designer suits before the main event. I recognize the usual layout: round tables close together, champagne that’s all label and no taste, plastic smiles stretched across faces polished within an inch of human.

I find my table. Karina’s already there, glued to her phone like she’s solving world hunger. My manager, Karina Yoo. Full-time job: Making sure I don’t publicly crash and burn.

“You’re late,” she says, not even looking up.

“I’m fashionable,” I correct, sliding into the seat beside her. “Try to keep up.”

She hums under her breath, something between disapproval and exhaustion, and taps at her screen a few more times before glancing at me. “You’re third. Stick to the script and smile.”

“I always smile.” I flash my teeth at her. “You think I’m out here winging it?”

Karina just gives me that look. The one that says she doesn’t get paid enough to argue. I lean back in my chair, scanning the room. Same faces, slightly different brands of fake.

And then there’s Sana.

Of course.

If South Korea had a national treasure, it would look awfully much like her. She’s draped in a dress that cost more than some idols’ entire discography budgets, shimmering under the lights with an ease that looks accidental and isn’t. Perfect smile, perfect hair, legs crossed in a way that suggests she doesn’t have to try, she just exists. She’s laughing at something, head tilted, hand brushing through her hair like it’s all just a natural accident. I know better.

And because the universe is nothing if not predictable, a few tables down sits Kang Jihoon.

Perfect skin, perfect smile, perfect product of fifteen million dollars in marketing campaigns and enough plastic surgery to qualify as a construction site. The kind of rival whose existence is an insult. Our eyes meet. He nods, that tight little smile that says, Congratulations on your award. Hope you trip and break your teeth on the way to the stage.

I smile back, all teeth.

Karina nudges me under the table. “Don’t start anything.”

“I never start anything,” I say, sipping from a champagne flute that tastes like someone bottled hand soap and chilled it.

Jihoon’s laughing too hard at something one of the producers said. Probably another joke at my expense. He’s not subtle.

The lights dim and the host starts his opening bit. I tune it out. Same script as last year, just different names plugged in. When they call my name, it’s with all the fanfare you’d expect for someone already halfway to an EGOT.

“Leon — Male Solo Artist of the Year.”

I stand, smoothing the front of my jacket with a deliberate, oh, this old thing? kind of air, and make my way up to the stage. Flashbulbs pop like fireworks, but I pretend not to notice. The trophy’s lighter than it looks. Cheap, like the ceremony. I step up to the mic and smile, not too big, not too smug, just the right angle to keep the fan edits flattering.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll keep this brief. Thank you to my fans, my team, and to everyone who made this possible.”

I bow. They applaud. Pavlov would be proud.

On the way back to my seat, I catch Sana looking. She raises her glass in a slow, deliberate toast. The corner of her mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. I raise mine back, then hold her gaze for a few more seconds.

—

By the time I make it into the afterparty, an overpriced lounge in Gangnam with too much glass and too little oxygen, half the eyes are already on me. A few heads tilt together, a few girls whisper behind raised hands. All that wasted effort, as if I can’t already feel it in the way the air sharpens around me.

Sana's also here. Of course she is.

I spot her immediately, curled into a corner booth like she’s the headliner that doesn’t to be introduced. There’s a drink in her hand, something clear, expensive-looking. She’s laughing at something one of her friends said, one of those bright, polished laughs that sounds so effortless you almost forget how practiced it probably is.

Sana’s good at playing innocent. Better at making sure you know she isn’t.

She’s exactly the kind of person you learn to spot early in this business. The kind who doesn't just walk into a room, but recalibrates it around herself. A professional manipulator, disguised as a professional sweetheart.

I don’t blame her, I respect it.

Still, I don’t head toward her right away. That’d be too obvious. Too eager.

Instead, I weave my way past a few clusters of people, industry kids mostly, managers, producers, B-list actors desperate to be mistaken for A-list. The kind who try too hard to look like they belong here. I smile at a few of them, nod once or twice, let them think I’m being polite. The truth is, I don’t remember half their names. the other half aren’t worth remembering.

It doesn’t take long for Karina to catch up to me. She’s dressed for business even when she’s pretending not to be, black blazer, sharp lines, sensible heels. She looks more like she’s here to close a deal than babysit a soloist with too much media training and not enough patience.

“You’re late,” she says under her breath, flashing a smile that’s for everyone else’s benefit.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, offering mine right back. “I wasn’t sure if I should come.”

Karina sighs, just audible enough for me to hear it.

“This isn’t optional,” she reminds me. “Show face, shake hands, act grateful. You know the drill.”

“Relax. I’ve been doing this for longer than I can remember.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She’s right, technically. I’ve been in this business long enough to know exactly what tonight is: a networking event dressed up as a party. A chance for people with too much money and too little shame to decide who gets to be famous next. It’s not about talent, it’s never about talent. It’s about leverage, perception, the right smiles, at the right moments, aimed at the right people.

Speaking of which, Sana’s eyes catch mine from across the room. It’s not obvious, just a flicker, a slight tilt of her head, but it’s enough. I don't smile right away. I make her wait for it, let her wonder if I’ll bother. Then, slow, deliberate, I offer the faintest nod, barely a movement. But she sees it. And more importantly, she understands it.

I let Karina wander off to do whatever it is managers do at these things, probably networking, maybe praying. It doesn’t matter, she’s not the one I’m here for.

I grab a drink from a passing waiter without asking what it is. It could be champagne or window cleaner for all I care. It’s not about the drink. It’s about having something in my hand, looking just casual enough to pretend I’m not watching her.

But of course I am.

Sana doesn’t make me wait long. She slides off the leather booth with a grace so natural it has to be practiced, leaving behind two of her group members who immediately start whispering the second her heels click away.

I don’t move. I don’t smile. I just let her come to me.

Up close, she smells expensive. Something sweet and sharp, something no stylist could’ve picked. It’s the kind of thing that clings to your clothes if you let her too close, the kind you’d notice hours after she’s already gone.

"Leon," she says, all polite sweetness, tilting her head like she’s genuinely surprised to see me. As if this wasn’t planned. "Didn’t think I’d run into you here."

"Sana," I reply, letting her name sit on my tongue a second too long. "Small world."

She laughs, soft and airy, a sound designed to make people lean in closer. I don’t. I stand my ground, sipping whatever poison’s in my glass.

"You look good," she says, and it feels like a test.

"You look expensive," I answer, because she does. Every inch of her, hair, skin, makeup, is curated to perfection, not a single thing out of place. It's the kind of polish you can’t fake. It costs money, time and blood.

Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. "Same old Leon," she says. "Still charming as ever."

"Still lying through your teeth," I shoot back, and this time she does smile. A real one, sharp at the edges, not the kind she gives the cameras.

"You’re not gonna be nice to me? I thought you had an image to maintain."

"I’m off the clock," I say. "Besides, you don’t want nice. You want me."

She laughs again, softer this time. She’s enjoying this. Of course she is. Girls like Sana don’t chase boys, they chase puzzles, and I’m not about to make it easy for her.

She shifts her weight, leaning in just a fraction. "So what’s it gonna be tonight?" she asks. "Leon the idol or Leon the asshole?"

I shrug, taking another sip. The drink’s starting to taste less like paint thinner now. “Whatever gets you wetter.”

Her eyes flick in surprise, blink-and-miss-it sharp. Like she’s checking how deep the water is before she dives. She taps her glass against mine. Little clink. Too sweet to trust. “Surprise me.”

I let a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. “Careful,” I tell her. “I might.”

Sana takes another slow sip from her drink, eyes never leaving mine. “You know, I forgot how much I hated you.”

I grin into my glass. “Come on, we both know you’re obsessed with me.”

“Obsessed is a strong word,” she says, but there’s that curl of her mouth again, like she’s chewing on something she’s not ready to spit out yet.

“You’re the one who came over,” I remind her.

“Pity,” she says, tossing it out like it was obvious. “You looked lonely.”

“You’re confusing lonely with selective.”

She hums under her breath, amused, like she’s seen this movie before. “Selective, huh. Funny way to describe standing alone with your drink going flat.”

“Funny way to describe stalking me.”

“You wish,” she shoots back, but her hand grazes mine when she reaches for her glass, and she doesn’t move it right away. The corner of her lip glistens when she speaks again, too casual to be innocent. “Anyway. I figured someone should save you from dying of boredom.”

I laugh, not bothering to hide how dry it sounds. “If I was dying of boredom, talking to you would only speed things up.”

Sana leans in a touch, just enough to really make sure I smell her perfume. “That’s rich coming from you, Leon. Aren’t you supposed to be the life of the party?”

“Off duty.” I swirl the drink in my hand, let the ice clink against the glass. “Besides, you don’t want the real me. You want the version you can brag about to your friends.”

She looks at me then, really looks, head tilted like she’s deciding whether to really say it. “Maybe I want both.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

The way her mouth curls tells me she doesn’t care. Or worse, she does. “Try me,” she says.

I toss the rest of my drink back, the burn sharp down my throat, and I feel it catch, slow and deliberate, when she leans closer and drops her voice to a murmur. “Come on. Be interesting.”

I don’t answer right away. I let it hang there, just a second longer than is polite, and smile like I’m thinking about it, like it’s some big favor. “Maybe later,” I say, setting the empty glass down on the bar. “When you’re drunk enough to forget.”

Her fingers trail the rim of her glass, slow, absentminded. “And what if I don’t want to forget?”

I shrug. “Not my problem.”

Sana laughs under her breath, low and dry, then tosses her drink back too, straight-faced, like it’s water. Her hand brushes mine again, deliberate this time, knuckles grazing. And maybe it’s the burn of the liquor or the glint in her eye, but for a second, it feels easy to forget the part where I’m supposed to be working.

I check my phone instead. Flash a smile she doesn’t buy.

“Midnight already?” I say, slipping it back into my pocket. “Guess I’m getting old.”

Sana just watches me, eyes a little too knowing. “Leaving already?”

“Big day tomorrow,” I lie.

“Shame.” She taps her glass against mine, gentle little clink, like she’s toasting something only she knows about. “I was starting to have fun.”

“Yeah,” I say, pushing off the bar. “You should get out of here too. Never know what kind of creeps hang around these places after dark.”

—

Her laugh follows me as I walk off.

The sidewalk’s quieter than it should be. I don’t rush. The trick is never looking like you have somewhere to be. I hear the door swing behind me. Heels again, faster this time.

“You forgot your manners,” she calls out.

I don’t turn. Just slow down a little. “I said goodbye.”

“You said ‘you should get out of here too,’” she says, catching up. “That’s not the same thing.”

I glance over. She’s got her arms folded, jacket barely draped over her shoulders, heels digging into the concrete like she’s got something to prove. I sigh and keep walking, but she matches my pace like it’s a challenge. We’re two blocks out when the tension hits me. Background noise shifts, too quiet on one side, too fast on the other. I look ahead. There’s a guy leaning against a wall, hood up, trying too hard to look casual.

Sana notices.

“Leon?” Sana’s voice rises.

I don’t answer, just stare at the guy. He tilts his head. No mask, no warning, just lunges a punch that grazes my jaw. Instinct sharpens everything. I shift under his arm, grab his wrist, then slam him into the wall. Hard enough to echo, but not enough to stop him. He surges forward, elbow into my ribs. Winded. Pain flowers across my side.

He then pounces forward and tries to grab Sana “Move!” I bark to her, stepping between her and him. He’s circling me now. All of a sudden, three more guys show up, their hands grabbing at my arms. I snap a swift elbow back, crack against one’s jaw. He stumbles. Two of them close in, fists clenched, going for my throat. I swallow past the soreness in my chest. Drop low, grab one by the shirt, whip him into the other two. A crash of limbs and grunts, bodies sliding on asphalt. I’m not winning this with finesse. Not tonight. I land a knee, hear a crack, and then I’m up, fists short and sharp.

But there’s another. He strikes from behind. My vision blurs, and for a second the world goes gray.

“Leon!” Sana screams. I hear her, but can’t answer. I duck another punch, blood spitting where I snap back with an uppercut. I taste metal—blood—fuck I hate that taste.

I catch a glint—a knife now. He’s reaching. I lurch, scoop my jacket off my shoulders and wrap it around my arm. He swings. The cold blade bites the leather, nothing more. I sidestep, stomp my boot into his foot and grind it there. He hisses and drops the blade, but not fast enough. I grab him, twist hard, and drop him against the pavement.

And then—silence, broken only by distant screams.

Sana is behind me, frozen. I spin around, chest heaving and hands bloody. She stares—eyes blown wide, the color drained out of her face. “Oh… my god.” She sways forward, collapses against my ribs. Knuckles white on my arm. I hold her, feel her tremor through my side.

A siren wails, closer now. The city knows, they saw. I wipe my hands on the pavement without thinking. “You okay?" I ask, voice rough. Too rough.

Sana’s grip tightens like she’s grabbing onto a lifeline. My jaw throbs, ribs ache. I’m shaking—partly from the adrenaline, partly from how her body sags against mine. I press a hand to her back, steady. Witnesses come closer, murmurs rising.

And the next moment, I realize, every eye in the street is watching us.

Phones up. Lights flashing. Murmurs thick in the air. Half of them didn’t see the fight, just caught the aftermath—blood, scared girl, bodies on the concrete like someone forgot how gravity works. And me, standing over it, like we were filming a movie.

Sana hasn’t moved, still curled in on herself like her skin’s not fitting right, arms locked around herself. Her heels are uneven on the sidewalk, and it’s not because they’re cheap, but because one of them seems be cracked. Security splits the crowd. One of them goes straight for one the guys on the ground, checks if he’s breathing. He is. Unfortunately. Another glances at me, hesitation loaded in his posture. His eyes do the math—celebrities, blood, cameras, and he decides not to ask questions.

“Is she hurt?” someone barks behind me. Not police.

I don’t answer.

She still hasn’t looked at me. Not really. But she’s closer now. Just slightly. Her shoulder brushes mine when another guy tries to come up and someone yells at him to back off. Flashing lights again, blue and red this time, police. They show up just in time to make it look like they were involved. Reporters circle like flies. A few of them already have the headline drafted. Top Artist Defends Fellow Star from Late-Night Assault. Or maybe something dumber. Hero or Hype? Leon’s Street Fight Goes Viral.

I hear my name in a dozen voices, some shocked, some excited. No one’s checking if I’m okay though. No one cares, and I don’t blame them, not when Sana’s here, shaking so subtly it barely shows unless you’re looking.

I am looking.

One officer steps in, clipboard out, tone all business. “What happened here?”

I tilt my head toward the guys on the ground. “They did.”

He gives me a look that tells me it’s not enough, that he wants more. But I’m already giving the cameras a different angle, just enough profile to look sharp, not smug. Another officer crouches beside Sana, softer voice. She doesn’t answer him either. I shift closer, just enough that the gesture reads on camera. Protection, familiarity, maybe something more. She finally moves closer, her shoulder brushes mine again, this time staying there. And that’s all they need. Flash, flash. I hear someone mutter my name like it’s holy, and for a second, everybody was focused on me.

—

The cameras follow us all the way to a barricade the police made in order to secure the scene. Some idiot shoves a mic past the line and it almost clips Sana in the face. I block it with my hand and shoot them a look. They already got what they came for. Girl clinging to my side, blood on my shirt, four bodies on the ground. It’ll go viral before I even make it home.

A cop waves us through like he knows who we are, maybe he does, maybe he just saw enough to not want to slow us down. I nod once and keep Sana close. She’s quiet now, not still terrified quiet, more like all the words got sucked out of her lungs and haven’t come back yet. Her heel catches on a curb and I catch her before she falls. She doesn’t even look up, just mutters something that might be thanks. They pull us aside behind one of the cars and another cop shows up with a pad, asking questions. I give the short version, four guys, I didn’t like the way one of them looked at us, they swung first. He scribbles without looking up, nodding like it checks out. The bodies get loaded into an ambulance.

Sana hasn’t moved from my side, she hasn’t let go either. Her hand’s curled around my jacket like it’s the only thing she can use to balance herself in a world that just shifted under her heels. The officer glances at her. “Miss, did you see what happened?”

She doesn’t answer. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out, just this low sound like she forgot how to breathe right. He tries again, gentler, still nothing. I watch her face, it’s not blank, it’s too much, everything still happening inside. You can see it behind her eyes, the split-second replay on loop.

“We’ll talk later,” I say. The cop shrugs, maybe he knows better than to push.

Reporters are getting closer and someone’s yelling my name again. A girl tries to push through the line, phone in hand, red light blinking. I turn slightly and block Sana from the angle. She doesn’t notice, or maybe she does and doesn’t care, hard to tell. A few more suits show up, one of them’s definitely management. Not mine. He spots us and jogs over like he’s actually worried. His face does that thing where he tries to look concerned and not furious. Fails.

“Sana. Are you okay?”

She blinks. Doesn’t answer. He tries again, crouches a little to meet her eye. “Can you walk? We have a car waiting.”

Still nothing.

He glances at me. Then at her hand still on my jacket. His jaw tightens. “Leon, thank you for stepping in. We’ll handle it from here.”

Sana flinches. Just barely, but it’s there, and it’s enough. I don’t move.

“She’ll tell me when she wants me to go,” I say. My tone doesn’t change, it doesn’t have to.

The guy hesitates, then backs off. Probably running through all the possible headlines in his head.

Another officer approaches. He looks at me, then at Sana, then at the blood drying on my knuckles. “We’ll need you both to come down to the station tomorrow. Just statements. Routine.”

I nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

He gives a tight smile and leaves, but we’re still not alone. Phones up, flashes still going off behind the line, one guy’s livestreaming. I can hear him narrating. “...she’s not saying anything, but she looks freaked. That’s Sana, right? Holy shit...”

—

I guide her away from the light, the noise. She follows, doesn’t speak, doesn’t stumble either, just walks like the world’s too bright and her body doesn’t know where to hide.

When we hit the corner, out of view, she stops, finally her hand loosens from my jacket. She leans against the wall like her legs gave out, but she’s pretending it’s a choice. I stay close, don’t say anything.

She doesn’t look at me, but she finally speaks up. “Can you...” Her throat works around the words. “Can you stay? Just for a bit?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

She exhales like she’s been holding it in the whole time. Doesn’t say thanks, but she doesn’t need to. I slide down the wall next to her, feeling the cold concrete under me. Sirens still in the distance, phones still out somewhere nearby. Sana stays silent again for a while. She’s staring ahead, breathing a little too shallow, like she’s trying not to fall apart on camera even though there’s none left. I let the silence hang, she’ll talk when she’s ready.

Her voice cracks first. “That was… insane.”

“Yeah.” I wipe my lip again, still bleeding, or maybe I just keep reopening it. “Not quite the night I had in mind.”

She finally looks over, eyes a little less wide now, less glassy. “You’re bleeding.”

“No shit.”

She almost smiles, but it dies before it fully gets there. “You could’ve gotten killed.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

That earns me a small chuckle, but air catches in her throat like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to find anything funny yet. Then she looks down at her hands like they’re not attached to her, nails dug into her palms so tight I’m surprised she’s not bleeding too.

“I really thought I was gonna—” She cuts herself off. Swallows. “You know.”

I don’t reply to that one. No need. She knows. I know.

The sirens have mostly stopped, just distant flashes now, the crowd moved on to whatever version of the story their friends will find the most interesting. Someone’s already writing their thread, I can feel it.

She wipes under her eyes, quick, like she doesn’t want me to see it, still shaking, just less. Her voice drops again. “You were... really fast back there.”

I shrug. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug.”

She stares at me for a second, then she leans her head back against the wall, finally letting herself breathe. “I mean it. You saved my life.”

I glance over. “Don’t make it weird.”

That gets a real laugh out of her. She closes her eyes for a second, just sitting there, like her body’s finally caught up to the fact that she’s safe.

When she opens them again, her voice is lighter, not fully back to normal, but getting there. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?”

“Old news.”

She turns her head, rests it against the wall so she’s looking at me sideways. “Still, thanks. Most people would’ve run.”

“Yeah.” I glance at her. “But then I wouldn’t get all the attention.”

She huffs out something and snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”

I flash a smile. “I try.”

The cold air bites a little more now that the adrenaline’s burning out, my ribs are gonna be a problem in the morning. She watches me shift against the wall, her eyes narrow for a second like she’s inspecting something.

“You're in more pain than you're showing.”

“No cameras here,” I say. “I can afford to wince.”

Her expression softens. “Still, you should rest.”

I stay quiet for a while. “What,” I mutter. “You gonna take me home and patch me up? Make me soup or something?”

She doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

I stare at her. Waiting for a punchline, a smirk, anything that would tell me she’s joking. There’s nothing.

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

I stare at her. “You just got jumped by four guys and your first instinct is to invite me over?”

“You’re the one who saved me.”

I exhale through my nose, leaning back against the wall. “You always make decisions this fast or is this just a post-trauma thing?”

She sits up and shifts her weight onto her good heel, the other one’s still cracked from earlier, tilted at a weird angle like it's given up completely. “I don’t really want to be alone right now. That a crime?”

I glance down at her hands, she’s clutching the hem of her jacket, there are little tremors in her fingers she probably thinks I don’t notice. I sigh, finally standing, my ribs immediately reminding me why sitting had been the better option. “Alright. Lead the way.”

—

The streets are quieter now, not empty but less people. Most of the crowd’s dissipated, police are still wrapping up, reporters shoving mics in the faces of whoever looks available. My name’s still getting thrown around in hushed conversations like I just cured cancer or shot someone live on air. Phones keep popping up every few feet we walk, people think they’re being subtle. They’re not.

Her apartment’s not far. A tall building that screams money yet tries to pretend it doesn’t. The kind of place where the lobby smells like fresh flowers even though nobody ever sees them change. The doorman barely raises an eyebrow when he spots us, just nods, like seeing a half-beat-up guy with a girl clinging to him is the most normal thing he’ll witness all week.

Elevator’s empty, thankfully. The second the doors close, she exhales, like she can finally breathe again. I lean against the mirrored wall, watching the numbers climb, and we finally get off the elevator and into her apartment.

“You sure about this?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

She glances over at me, hair falling across her face as she tilts her head. “You’re bleeding on my floor, feels a little late to kick you out now.”

I huff a quiet laugh, more air than sound. “Fair point.”

Her apartment’s exactly what you’d expect from someone like her, minimalist, expensive, but somehow not lived in. Everything’s perfect, neutral colors, oversized windows, some abstract painting on the wall that probably cost more than my last three endorsement checks combined. It’s the kind of place that looks ready for a photoshoot, but not for people.

“Sit,” she says, pointing toward the couch like she’s scolding a dog. “You’re ruining my carpet.”

I drop down onto the edge of the massive sectional, ribs protesting the movement. She disappears into one of the rooms and returns a minute later with a sleek little white box that she tosses onto the coffee table.

A first aid kit.

“Don’t expect a miracle,” she mutters, popping it open and pulling out some antiseptic wipes. “I’m not a nurse.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She drops to her knees in front of me, carefully inspecting my face like she’s about to grade an art project. “Jesus, Leon.”

“I know. Gorgeous, aren’t I?”

She doesn’t take the bait, just starts cleaning the cut on my lip. The antiseptic burns worse than the punch. I grit my teeth.

“Don’t be a baby,” she says softly, dabbing around the edges. She’s close enough now that I catch the scent of her perfume again. Her fingers are steadier than I expected, but I can feel how tight her shoulders are, still tense from earlier, still running on whatever leftover adrenaline she’s got.

“You’re quiet,” I say after a bit.

She presses her lips together, focused on my knuckles now. “Trying to concentrate.”

“Didn’t realize dabbing a wipe took this much concentration.”

Her eyes flick up. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not really.”

She huffs something close to a laugh. “Unbelievable.”

She keeps working in silence for a bit. The scrape across my cheekbone, the split at my eyebrow, the raw skin on my knuckles, every time her fingers brush my skin, she slows down like she’s checking if she’s hurting me.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says finally, barely above a whisper.

“What, punched them? I thought it was pretty effective.”

“You know what I mean.”

I glance at her, but she’s still focused on my hands, not meeting my eyes. “Would you rather I let them hurt you?”

“That’s not—” she cuts herself off, exhaling hard. “I just… you didn’t have to get hurt for me.”

I let that hang for a beat. “Didn’t exactly think about it.”

She finally looks up, eyes softer now. “Yeah…”

I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

Her hands are still resting lightly on mine, bandage half-finished, but she doesn’t move. Just stays there, kneeling on the floor, like she doesn’t want to break whatever weird moment this is.

I clear my throat. “You done playing doctor yet?”

She smiles. “Almost.”

She pulls the last bandage tight, smooths it down with her thumb. Her hand lingers on mine a second too long. She notices. So do I. Neither of us moves.

“You’re kind of an idiot, you know that?” she says softly.

“Old news.”

She exhales again, finally standing. “Come on. You’re staying here tonight.”

I arch a brow. “What, you need a security blanket?”

“No.” She crosses her arms, but her voice stays light. “I need you where I can keep an eye on you. In case your macho hero thing makes you pass out.”

I smirk. “You just don’t want me walking out and making another scene.”

“That too.”

She walks off toward the hallway, tossing the first aid kit onto the kitchen counter on her way. “Wait here, I’ll get you something to wear.”

I lean back into the couch, watching her disappear down the hallway, and let out a slow breath. My ribs still hurt, my lip still stings, but for the first time tonight, everything feels a little less loud.

She comes back with a shirt and sweatpants that don’t look like they’ve ever been worn. Tags still dangling. Probably bought for a boyfriend that never existed or some stylist’s emergency backup. She tosses them next to me.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, second door.”

I push off the couch, slower than I want to be, my ribs reminding me I’m not as indestructible as I thought. The hallway’s quiet, same soft lighting, same expensive everything. Even the towels folded on the rack look like no one’s ever touched them. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognize it for a second. Split lip, cuts along my cheekbone, blood dried into the edge of my hairline. I turn my head, jaw tight, flex my shoulder. Bruises already starting to bloom across my ribs. Nice.

I strip out of my ruined clothes and clean up as best I can. Cold water helps a little, mostly just makes me more aware of how bad everything aches once the adrenaline’s fully gone. I swap into the fresh clothes she gave me — they hang a little loose, but they’re soft, comfortable. Smell like fabric softener and hotel rooms.

When I step back out, she’s already fixed the living room. Coffee table cleared, lights dimmed low, two glasses of water sitting out like she’s trying to pretend we’re normal people winding down after a normal night.

She glances over from the couch and nods once. “Better?”

“It almost doesn’t feel like I got jumped in an alley.”

I sit back down, careful this time. The couch is stupidly soft. The second I lean back into it, my body wants to sink and stay. Sana’s sitting cross-legged across from me now. Barefoot, jacket folded next to her. Her hair’s a little messy, like she finally stopped caring about fixing it. She then watches me for a second, like she’s studying my face all over again.

“You heal fast,” she says.

I shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

She smiles, faint but genuine. “You do this often?”

“Getting beat? Not really.”

She picks up one of the glasses, takes a sip, then stares at it like she forgot it was even there. The silence stretches again, but it’s not heavy this time. It’s tired. Shared.

“You want something stronger?” she asks after a while. “I’ve got wine. Or whiskey.”

“Water’s fine.”

“Lame.”

“Responsibly lame.”

She snorts under her breath. “Suit yourself.”

The quiet comes back, but we both kind of sink into it now. Less tension, more like neither of us really knows what to do next. The adrenaline’s fully burned out, all that’s left is sore muscles and weird feeling humming under the surface. She shifts again, pulling her knees up, arms wrapping around them loosely. The oversized sweater she threw on while I was gone swallows half of her. She looks smaller like that. Not fragile, just… smaller.

Her voice breaks the quiet again. “You ever think about it?”

“About what?”

“Why you do this. All of it.”

I glance at her. She’s not looking at me, just staring across the room like she’s asking the air.

“Be more specific.”

“The career. The cameras. The image. The fact that people are already turning tonight into a headline while we’re sitting here pretending we’re okay.”

I lean my head back against the couch. “Sometimes.”

“And?”

“I have my reasons.”

That gets a little smile out of her, almost bitter. “Same.”

We sit with that for a while. Both of us quietly admitting we’re a little fucked up without having to actually say the words. After a minute, she stretches her legs out across the couch, one foot bumping into my thigh lightly. She doesn’t pull it back. Just leaves it there like it’s normal.

“You’re weirdly good at this,” she says.

“At what?”

“Not making it weird.”

I laugh under my breath. “That’s because it’s already weird.”

“Touché.”

She finally shifts enough to meet my eyes again. There’s still something behind them, something a little cracked from earlier, but it’s fading. She’s finding her footing again.

Another beat passes. “Thanks, by the way.”

I glance at her. “You already said that.”

“I know.” She pauses. “I just mean it.”

I don’t answer. Don’t need to. She already knows.

Her foot taps against my leg once before she shifts back into her little cocoon of oversized sweater and expensive throw pillows. “You tired?” she asks.

“Not really.”

She looks away. “Me neither.”

We both stare ahead for a while longer, the weight of the night settling in around us. Not heavy. Just there. Her eyes drift over me again, slower this time. No more shaky breathing, just that steady hum underneath. Like her nerves have been replaced with something else now.

“You’re staring,” I say.

She shrugs, small. “So?”

I watch her for a second. She’s still tucked into that oversized sweater, hair messy, cheeks a little pink from the heat inside or from everything building up between us, probably both. Her legs shift a little more, stretching out, toes brushing against me again, not subtle this time.

“You flirting with anyone who saves your life?” I ask.

She gives me a small grin. “No. You’re special.”

“Lucky me.”

Her eyes drop down to my mouth for half a second. She catches herself, but not really, just letting it sit there like she wants me to notice.

“You could kiss me, you know,” she says, voice lighter now. Casual. Like it’s something obvious.

I don’t say anything. Just let my hand drift up, settling on her knee. Skin warm under my palm. She doesn’t move. Lets me touch her like she’s been waiting for it.

“You sure?” I say, voice low.

Her eyes stay locked on mine. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

I don’t.

I lean in slow, watching her breathe. She meets me halfway. Soft at first. Warmer than I expected. She tastes like wine and mint and something even sweeter. Her hands slide up to my shoulders, pulling me in like she’s afraid I’ll stop.

I kiss her again, deeper this time. She opens her mouth under mine swiftly, like she’s been waiting all night. My hand moves higher up her thigh, fingertips tracing bare skin under the edge of the sweater. She shifts, hips angling toward me like she’s trying to get closer without making it obvious. I pull back for half a second, catch my breath. She’s already watching me again, breathing a little harder now.

“You good?” I murmur.

She nods quickly. “Yeah.”

I go back in. This time she’s hungrier. Her hands slide up into my hair, nails scratching lightly against my scalp, pulling me in deeper. Her breath hitches when my hand slips under the hem fully now, palm resting on her hip.

She moves into me without thinking, pressing her body up against mine. Her knee brushes higher against my leg, grinding against me once. Just enough to let me know she’s there. She breathes against my mouth, voice softer now. “You feel good.”

“So do you,” I mutter back, fingers moving up her side, finding bare skin under the sweater. No bra. Of fucking course. My thumb brushes under the curve of her breast, testing the softness, and her breath catches again. Her head drops back a little as I slide my palm up, cupping her breast fully now. Warm, soft, perfect in my hand. Her nipple’s already hard under my thumb, and she shivers when I roll it gently.

“Fuck—” she whispers, breath shaky.

I press my lips to her neck, kissing along her skin, feeling her pulse under my mouth. She tilts her head. Gives me more room. My hand slides down again, lower this time. I feel her body tense, not nervous, just expecting. Fingers slip under the band of her shorts now. Skin hot, smooth. I move slower here, letting her feel every inch of my hand moving lower until my fingers find the heat between her legs.

She’s already wet. Really fucking wet.

My breath catches against her throat. “Jesus, Sana.”

Her voice breaks. “Been like that.”

I press against her slowly, fingers moving in small, steady circles over her clit through the soaked fabric of her panties. Her hips twitch at the first touch. Her hands clench in my shirt, pulling tighter.

“Fuck,” she gasps, rocking her hips up into my hand, chasing the pressure.

I don’t rush. Just keep it steady, slow circles while she breathes harder against me. Her face presses into my neck, little whimpers slipping out with every shift of my fingers.

“You’re not even trying to pretend you don’t want this,” I whisper against her ear.

“Why would I?” she breathes, voice breaking. “Just don’t fucking stop.”

Her hips grind harder against my hand now, chasing the friction. I slide my fingers inside the soaked fabric finally, skin on skin, feeling how warm and wet she is. She gasps loud against my neck, her body twitching under my touch.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” I groan into her hair.

She nods fast, too breathless to speak. My fingers rub slow, spreading her open, feeling every slick inch of her. She’s grinding up against my hand now, little desperate sounds slipping from her mouth with every slow circle I draw.

Her voice breaks against my neck. “I’ve been thinking about this all night.”

“Yeah?” My voice is rough now. “You wanted me to touch you like this?”

She nods again, gasping. “Yes. Please—”

I press my thumb harder against her clit, my fingers dipping inside, curling gently. She lets out a sharp gasp, her hips bucking up to meet me. “God, Leon—” she chokes out.

I kiss her again, swallowing her moan while my hand keeps moving. Her whole body’s shaking now, her thighs trembling around my wrist.

Her breath catches. “Fuck— don’t stop, don’t stop—”

“Not stoping,” I whisper against her lips, fingers still working her, feeling her tighten around me as her body starts to get hotter and wetter. Her legs are shaking like crazy now, thighs twitching every time my fingers hit the spot. She’s got one hand in my hair, the other gripping the couch cushion like she’s holding on for dear life. Breath’s all chopped up, mouth open, but the words barely come out right.

“Fuck—Leon—”

She’s close. Stupidly close. You can feel it in how tight she’s clenching around my fingers, how her hips keep jerking up, trying to grind harder against my hand like she’s chasing it.

I pull my hand back. Just enough.

Her head snaps up, eyes wild. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

I blink, like I don’t know what she’s talking about. “Don’t what?”

Her chest heaves. “You know.”

I smirk a little. “Relax.”

She glares at me, but it’s useless — she’s a wreck. Hair all messed up, sweater falling off one shoulder, legs spread wide open, all dripping and shaky and desperate. She looks so goddamn hot like this. I shift down without saying anything, both hands sliding under her thighs, dragging her hips closer to the edge of the couch. She makes this tiny breathy noise when I lower my head between her legs, like she’s already breaking before I even touch her.

“Leon—” soft, high, breathy.

“Shh.”

I start slow. Kiss her inner thigh first. Then again, closer. She lets out this shaky exhale, hips twitching. By the time my mouth hits her, she lets out a small gasp, like her whole body short-circuits for a second. I lick up slow, teasing, barely pressing at first. She squirms, fingers tightening in my hair. The second time, I press harder, tongue flicking over her clit, and her whole body jolts.

“Fuck—oh my god—” it comes out all broken, high-pitched.

I pin her hips down, keep her still, my tongue working slow circles now, steady, just enough pressure to have her breathing all messed up again. She’s shaking under me, little gasps turning into full-on moans.

“Leon, don’t stop,” she whispers, voice cracking.

I keep at it, pushing my tongue flat against her, sucking lightly, then switching it up, licking faster, deeper. She’s fucking dripping now. I slide two fingers back inside her while my mouth stays locked on her clit. She lets out a loud cry, hips jerking hard.

Her thighs try to close around my head but I shove them back open. “Keep them open,” I mutter into her, voice low and vibrating right against where she’s falling apart.

She moans again, louder this time. “Fuck, I—Leon—”

Her whole body tightens up. I feel it hit before she even makes a sound — muscles locking, her breath catching in her throat like she forgot how to breathe. Then it breaks loose. She lets out this raw, fucked up cry, back arching off the couch as she comes hard, legs shaking, fingers pulling at my hair like she’s trying to ground herself.

I don’t stop. I keep my mouth on her, working her through it while she gasps and whimpers, hips twitching with every aftershock. She’s trembling all over, voice breaking into little shaky noises she probably doesn’t even realize she’s making. When I finally pull back, my chin’s wet, and she’s completely wrecked. Sweater bunched up, hair sticking to her face, chest still rising and falling like she ran a marathon.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and look up at her. “You alive?”

She lets out this breathless, fucked little laugh. “Barely.”

Her voice is somehow soft and rough at the same time, but she’s smiling now. I move back up, hovering over her. My hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing across her lip.

“You still want more?” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just stares up at me, breathing all shaky, pupils blown wide. Then she nods. Her fingers hook into my shirt, tugging me closer until our faces are inches apart. Her voice is soft, but there’s that little spark behind it again. “Let me take care of you.”

I blink, watching her. “You sure?”

She bites her lip, eyes never leaving mine. “Yeah.”

Her hand moves down, tracing over my chest, stomach, slower than she needs to. She’s buying time, steadying herself. When she reaches the waistband of my sweatpants, her fingers slip under. Light, barely there. I suck in a breath, feeling my cock already straining against the fabric.

“Sit back,” she murmurs.

I shift off her, leaning into the couch, legs spread a little wider. She sits up slowly, still kind of unsteady from earlier, but focused now. Focused on me. Her fingers tug the sweatpants down, slow and careful. She exhales when she frees me, lip caught between her teeth. The second she sees how hard I am for her, her face flushes a little darker.

“Fuck…” she whispers. “You’ve been like this this whole time?”

I grin, voice rough. “Hard not to be.”

She lets out this breathy little laugh, slowly kneeling between my legs, hair falling into her face a bit, hands bracing herself on my thighs. She leans in, mouth hovering just above me, breath ghosting across my skin. Her hand wraps around the base, squeezing gently, thumb rubbing along the vein.

Her eyes flick up to mine — teasing. “Still feeling okay?”

I huff. “Sana.”

She smirks, satisfied, then lowers her head, tongue flicking out for the first slow lick, base to tip. My whole body tenses instantly. The sound that comes out of me is closer to a growl.

“Jesus—”

She hums against me, like she’s proud of herself, before wrapping her lips around the head, tongue circling, wet and warm and perfect. She keeps her eyes locked on me as she does it. That part’s deliberate. She knows exactly how much it drives me insane when she looks up like that. Her mouth slides lower, slow at first, taking more of me in with each movement. I feel her tongue working underneath, swirling around the shaft as she moves. The wet sounds echo a little too loud in the quiet apartment, her soft breathing mixing with the slick slide of her mouth. I exhale hard, one hand sliding into her hair automatically. She doesn’t fight it, just lets me guide her, pace picking up as she gets more comfortable.

Her other hand joins in, stroking the part she can’t fit, perfectly syncing with the rhythm of her mouth. Every few strokes, she pulls back just far enough to swirl her tongue around the head again, licking up the precum before sliding back down.

I groan, hips twitching. “Fuck, Sana…”

She smiles around me, like she enjoys hearing that, then pushes down deeper, throat tightening slightly as she takes me further in. My fingers tighten in her hair, not pulling, just holding. Her breathing grows heavier, little hums vibrating through me as she works. She starts bobbing her head faster now, messier, spit gathering at the corners of her mouth, stringing thin lines whenever she pulls back. Her hand never stops moving on me, stroking in time with each motion.

“Shit—” My voice breaks a little. “You’re gonna make me—”

She pulls back suddenly, letting me slip out with a wet pop, a thin line of saliva still connecting us. Her chest is rising fast, lips swollen, chin slick.

Her voice comes out breathless, teasing. “Not yet.”

I let out a sharp laugh, biting back a groan. “You’re fucking evil.”

“Mm.” She grins, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Just a little bit.”

She leans back in again, this time slower, licking along my length like she’s savoring it, like she’s not in a rush. Her eyes half-lidded now, looking up at me like she knows she owns me in this moment. My whole body’s wired tight, stomach clenching every time she goes back down, taking me in deeper. Her tongue works in slow circles again, lips sealing tight, cheeks hollowing just enough. I let my head fall back for a second, breathing hard, fingers still buried in her hair, guiding her as she keeps the rhythm steady. She moans softly around me, sending vibrations straight up my spine. I can feel myself getting closer again, and I know she feels it too — the way my hips jerk slightly, how my breath keeps stuttering.

She pulls off again, this time panting a little herself, eyes glazed but locked on mine.

“You close?” she asks, voice low, rough.

I nod, throat too dry to say much.

She smiles. “Good. Because I’m not stopping this time.”

And then she’s back down on me, faster now, more desperate, both hands gripping my thighs to keep steady as she bobs her head, sucking hard, messy and wet and fucking perfect. My hand tightens, and I feel it building sharp and fast this time. My whole body locking up as the pressure snaps.

“Fuck, Sana—” I groan, spilling deep into her mouth as she takes it all, swallowing without hesitation, hands gripping tighter like she’s holding me in place until I finish. She doesn’t pull back until I’m completely spent, breathing hard, chest rising fast. She finally releases me with another soft pop, wiping her mouth again, eyes a little dazed, lips shiny and swollen.

She sits back on her heels, staring up at me with that smug little smile, voice still breathy. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

I let out a shaky laugh, chest still heaving. “Yeah. You fucking did.”

She crawls up, still shaky, but cocky enough to pretend she’s not. Hands slide up my chest, nails grazing just a little. That look’s back in her eye, like she’s proud of herself and she wants me to know it. “You good?” she whispers.

I laugh under my breath, voice still fucked. “Yeah. You?”

She shrugs as if her legs aren’t trembling. “Obviously.”

Then she swings a leg over, straddling me, settling right on top of my lap like she’s been waiting all night for this. Probably has. The sweater rides up high on her thighs, and the panties? Already soaking wet. She’s not even trying to hide it. She knows I’m looking and she wants me to.

“You sure you’re up for more?” she says, but she’s already grinding.

“Yeah. Don’t play dumb.”

She grins, biting her lip, rolling her hips once, dragging herself right over me. I grab her waist, squeezing tight to make her stop. Not because I don’t like how it feels — because if she keeps doing that I won’t last.

“You keep grinding like that, you’re not gonna get round two.”

“That a threat?” She says it soft, but her voice is all breath, like she’s barely keeping it together.

I pull her down, lips crashing again, messy, tongues fighting for space. It’s hot, wet, desperate. Her hips roll once more and I groan into her mouth. I can feel her grinning against my lips, smug little shit. I pull back just enough to breathe. “Lose the panties.”

She’s already halfway there before I finish the sentence. Hips up, fingers hooked in, dragging them down her thighs and slinging them. They hit the floor behind her, then she drops back onto me, no barriers now. The heat of her pussy is right against me, shivering a little, and it’s not because she’s cold. “Fuck,” she whispers.

“Yeah.” My hand slides between us, guiding myself against her, the tip sliding along her folds, slick and warm and ready. She twitches under me, already desperate for it.

“You ready?” I murmur.

Her voice breaks. “I’ve been ready.”

I push in slow, feeling every inch disappear into her. She gasps, hands gripping my shoulders, nails digging in. She sinks all the way down, seating herself fully on my lap, breath catching. “Jesus,” she whispers.

My hands slide up under the sweater, gripping her back. “Look at you.” She rolls her hips, just slightly and I’m already breathing heavy. “You feel fucking perfect.”

Her pace starts slow, hips grinding in tight circles, drawing herself up a little and dropping back down. Every time she sinks back down it knocks the breath out of me. She’s biting her lip, trying to play it cool, but her thighs are already shaking. “Fuck—you’re deep,” she gasps.

I huff, voice rough. “You wanted it.”

She leans in closer, forehead pressed to mine. “Shut up.”

Her hips pick up, faster now, slamming down harder, slapping sounds filling the room. Skin on skin, wet and filthy. She’s moaning under her breath with every drop, breaths becoming quicker, losing her rhythm a little. Her voice starts breaking. “Leon—oh my god—fuck—I’m close—”

I slam my hips up into her, one good thrust, and her whole body jolts, almost folds right into me.

She gasps. “Shit—Leon, I—”

I catch her hips and freeze her in place. She whines. An actual, desperate, fucking whine.

“Not yet,” I growl.

She’s breathing so fast now, her hands push at my chest, but not to get away — she just wants to move, but I don’t let her. Her voice is wrecked. “Leon—please—just—”

I shift under her, breathing heavy into her ear. “Turn around. On your stomach.”

For a second she doesn’t move. Just stares at me like she can’t believe I’m making her wait. Then she exhales hard, eyes glazed over, and does it. Climbs off with shaky legs, drops onto the couch face down, ass up. She spreads her legs like she knows exactly what I’ll do next. I stay sitting for a second, just staring at her. Sweater bunched up, hair a mess, her ass high, pussy dripping for me. I drag my hand down her back, over her ass, thumb brushing the slickness between her thighs.

“Look at you,” I murmur.

Her breath shudders. “Just fuck me already.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. I shift up behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other pressing between her shoulder blades, easing her down into the cushions. Ass high, legs spread, face buried. The view's fucking unreal. She looks back at me, breathless but still wearing that little smirk like she’s running this. "Don’t take too long or I might get bored."

Mouthy even now.

I grin, voice low. "Yeah?"

I drag the tip through her folds, slow, lazy, letting it glide through the slick mess she’s made. She tries to push back, hips wiggling, but I hold her firm, making her wait, making her feel it. The second I press in, she lets out this sharp little breath, head dropping, hair falling across her face as I start filling her slow, inch by inch. Her pussy is tight, hot, squeezing like her body’s starving for it.

"You’re fucking soaked," I breathe as I bottom out, buried to the hilt. She gasps, knuckles whitening on the cushions, voice shaky but still trying to stay sharp. “You should take some credit for that.”

I pull back and slam into her hard, the slap of skin loud in the room. She jerks forward with a choked moan, biting her lip like that’ll help. My hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to arch her for me, breath stuttering out with every brutal thrust. "Where’s that smart mouth now, huh?" I growl, driving into her rough, setting a rhythm that makes her body jolt under me.

Her breath catches, but the mouth keeps running. "Still here," she pants. "You’re just making it… harder to use."

Her voice cracks on the last word when I hit that perfect spot that makes her legs twitch. My grip on her hips tightens, fingers digging in, holding her steady as I keep slamming into her, wet sounds filling the air with every thrust. She’s trying to hold it in, but I feel her clenching tighter, her body shaking, already starting to fall apart.

"Leon—fuck—" she gasps, her voice breaking when I drive in deep again. "I—I’m—"

I can feel it, the way she’s locking up around me, the desperate little cries slipping out of her with every thrust. I keep hammering into her, forcing her to take it, her orgasm ripping through her sharp and messy, thighs trembling, breath hitching, whole body seizing up under me as she cums hard. Her moans turn sloppy, breathless, breaking apart with every slam of my hips. I don’t stop. I ride her through it, fucking her straight through the shaking, through the aftershocks, keeping my pace brutal as her body twitches around me.

"That’s it," I growl, voice rough. "Take it all."

She’s wrecked now, voice reduced to breathy little whimpers, hands clutching at the cushions like she’s trying to ground herself. Her whole body’s shaking under me, legs barely holding her up. The pressure’s boiling in me too, fuck she’s tight. I yank her hair again, making her arch harder. She’s flushed, chest heaving, hair a mess sticking to her sweaty face, I’m right fucking there, but I’m not done yet, not like this.

I pull out, fast. She lets out a desperate, broken whine, clenching around nothing, body twitching as I leave her empty.

“W-Why’d you stop—” she manages, voice wrecked.

I flip her onto her back before she can finish, pinning her under me. She looks so fucking hot—flushed, breathing hard, hair all over the place—but still has that spark in her eyes. That fire’s still there, even like this. I grab her jaw, thumb pressing her lower lip down as I hover over her. "You still want more?"

She grins through the haze, biting lightly at my thumb. "If you’re not too busy being dramatic, yeah."

I drag my cock across her lips, still slick from her pussy, then I tap it against her mouth. “Open.”

Her lips part right away, tongue out, waiting, filthy and eager like she’s been craving this part. She wraps her lips around the tip instantly, sucking hard like she’s starving for it, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing around me. Spit’s already pooling at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin. She moans around me, sending vibrations straight up my spine as I sink deeper into her throat.

She takes me like she wants it messy, sloppy sounds echoing in the room as she works her mouth around me. My fist clenches in her hair, guiding her, setting the rhythm as I start thrusting into her mouth, fucking into her throat slow at first, then faster, making her eyes flutter. Gagging, drooling, but not stopping. Her breath stutters through her nose, but she takes every inch like it’s her last meal. Her hands come up, clutching at my thighs for balance as I fuck her mouth deeper, rougher. Her spit’s everywhere now, glistening on her chin, down her throat, strings of it connecting us when I pull back slightly.

She gasps for breath, voice ragged but still cocky. “You’re making a mess.”

I shove back in, cutting her off, voice sharp. "That’s the point."

Her throat works to take me, gagging again as I push past her limits, fucking into her like her mouth owes me something. She moans again, those desperate little sounds spilling out between gags, eyes glassy but locked on mine like she’s daring me to push harder. When I finally pull out, she gasps for air, spit glistening everywhere, chest heaving like she’s barely holding it together. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand but keeps the smirk. “Get back inside me,” she breathes, voice wrecked but sharp. “Finish what you started.”

I don’t make her ask twice. I flip her back over, dragging her hips up again, and slam into her in one brutal thrust that knocks the air from both of us. Her cry rips out raw, and I don’t hold back. My hips slam into her, driving deep and rough right from the start, setting a punishing rhythm that leaves both of us breathless.

Her voice is breaking, nothing but broken moans now, breathy and high, hips jerking against me, thighs trembling. “Leon—fuck—yes—don’t stop—”

I’m right there, breath catching, every thrust getting sloppier, heavier, my groans rough in my throat as I chase that edge. Her body tightens up under me again, spasming, clenching like she’s ready to lose it all over again.

"Gonna fill you up, baby," I growl through gritted teeth, slamming deep. "Fuck—"

Her head throws back, voice wrecked. "Do it—please—just fucking do it—"

That’s it. My whole body locks up, slamming deep one last time as I cum hard, cock pulsing inside her, spilling deep. My groan breaks out rough, shaking through me as I hold her hips tight, grinding into her as I ride out every last spasm. She shakes beneath me, twitching, breathless, completely fucking ruined. I collapse over her, both of us panting, skin sticky with sweat, her body still twitching around me as I stay buried inside.

—

The room's quiet except for our breathing, both of us wrecked, tangled together in the mess we made. We stay like that for a while, her head resting against my stomach, one arm lazily draped across my thigh, breathing starting to slow but still not all the way down. My chest’s rising too fast, legs feel shot, one hand drifting through her hair, not even thinking about it, just moving.

Her lips are parted a little, swollen, wet where she’s still catching her breath. Her cheeks flushed all the way up, that pretty post-fuck glow fits her so well. There’s that small grin playing at the corner of her mouth, like she’s pleased with herself. She should be. She drained me, fully and completely, and she knows it. She shifts a bit, curling in closer, her cheek pressing against my thigh now. “You alive?” she mumbles, voice rough, half muffled into my skin.

I exhale something close to a laugh, fingers still combing slow through her hair. “Barely.”

“Good.” Her voice stays soft, but I can hear the smug underneath it. “You deserved it.”

I let the silence answer that one, not even pretending to argue. My brain’s still fuzzy, everything warm and heavy, like my body’s floating but too heavy to move. She finally lifts her head, blinking up at me, hair sticking in random directions, eyes glassy but sharp under the mess. “You look like hell.”

I glance down at her, mouth twitching. “You don’t look so put together yourself.”

She grins wider. “Please. I’m glowing.”

Her hand slides up slowly, resting flat against my stomach, fingers drawing lazy circles over my skin like she’s not even aware she’s doing it. I feel my abs twitch under her touch but don’t stop her. She keeps tracing slow patterns, like she’s grounding herself with every little circle.

“You good?” she asks, her voice dipping just slightly, not all teasing this time.

I tilt my head back, eyes half-lidding. “Yeah. You?”

She doesn’t answer right away, but the way she shifts even closer kind of says it for her. Her body molding into mine like we fit like this, warm skin pressed everywhere, breathing synced up again. For a while, neither of us says anything. Just the quiet hum of the room, the faint noise of the city outside, distant cars, maybe a siren somewhere blocks down. But here it’s calm, cozy even. She fits perfectly tucked under my arm like this.

“You know tomorrow’s gonna be a circus, right?” she says after a bit, voice muffled into my chest.

I sigh, hand drifting over her back, slow. “It already is.”

“They probably posted a hundred clips of tonight already.”

“Thousands.”

She groans softly. “I’m gonna have to listen to my manager’s meltdown for a full week.”

I smirk, thumb brushing her spine. “Tell him to get in line.”

Her body shakes a little as she laughs into my skin. “They’re gonna turn me into some fragile girl.”

I snort. “Right. The poor Sana, completely helpless.”

She pinches my side lightly. “Shut up.”

“Just saying.”

Her voice drops softer again. “I hate that shit. Like I’m some victim that needs to be saved.”

“Then stop clinging to me like one.”

She smacks me gently without even pulling her head up. “Asshole.”

I grin. “Love you too.”

Her breathing slows again. She’s fighting sleep now, but her body’s too comfortable to move. Her leg’s still draped over mine, fingers still tracing absent little shapes across my stomach.

Another beat of silence.

“You’re staying,” she says, quiet now.

I run my hand through her hair again, fingers sliding through the mess, catching the strands gently. “You already said that.”

“Just making sure.”

Her eyes are closed now. I feel her lips brush lightly against my skin once before she fully settles, curling into me like we’ve done this a hundred times before. The weight of the night sinks in fully. The blood, the fight, the adrenaline crash. The weird, unexpected calm afterward. All of it sitting somewhere in the air between us. But even then, it felt weirdly peaceful. And for the first time all night, it’s actually quiet.

—

She’s out cold.

Didn’t even flinch when I shifted off the bed. Just breathing softly, mouth a little open, hair half stuck to her cheek like she’d melted into the pillow the second her body let go. I stand there for a bit, watching her chest rise and fall. She looks small like this, safe. Like none of what happened tonight even affected her. Like there wasn’t four guys in a fucking alley two hours ago trying to tear her apart.

I grab my phone off the nightstand, screen lighting up in the dark. Two texts waiting. One from Karina—work shit, nothing that can’t wait. The other’s from him.

‘Did you really have to go that far?’

I sit down on the edge of the bed again, thumb hovering for a second. The apartment’s dead silent except for the hum of city traffic leaking in through the glass. Sirens in the distance, maybe leftovers from earlier, probably reporters still sniffing around. This one’s gonna be everywhere tomorrow, I can already hear the headlines spinning.

The phone buzzes again.

‘Four of my guys got picked up.’

I let the air leave slow through my teeth. My ribs pinch when I lean forward, the adrenaline from the sex gone now. Elbows on my knees, fingers dragging down my face like that’ll scrub any of this off. I stare at the screen for a while. Not angry, not anything really, just tired.

I finally type:

‘You knew what the job was.’

I barely finish sending the message before the dots start dancing again.

‘They weren’t supposed to end up in cuffs. It was just a scare, you didn’t have to lay into them like that.’

My eyes flick toward Sana again. She hasn’t moved, still curled up under that stupidly expensive throw blanket. Knuckles twitch a little in her sleep like she’s dreaming something light, like tonight wasn’t real. I stare at her for a long second, then type:

‘They weren’t supposed to touch her.’

He takes longer this time. The dots blink, disappear. Then:

‘This one’s gonna cost you.’

I lean back against the headboard, let my head tip back and close my eyes. Everything fucking hurts. My thumb floats for a second longer before I finally send:

‘I know.’

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 8┃ Decisions, decisions

Male reader x Giselle

Word count: 8.7k

Tags: squirting, dom/sub, dirty talk, teasing PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5 PART 6 PART 7

The morning crept in slowly.

Not heavy. Not loud. Just the kind of stillness that didn’t ask for anything.

I sat at the edge of the bed, letting my hands hang between my knees. The light through the window was thin and washed-out, pale enough to dull the colors of the room. It didn’t feel like morning, not really. It felt like the space after something—after noise, after heat, after the kind of closeness that left a mark you couldn’t see.

The house wasn’t silent. There was the low hum of the fridge down the hall, the occasional pop of old floorboards settling under the change in temperature. But it wasn’t awake yet, either.

I found myself moving before I knew what I was aiming for. Just standing, stretching out the stiffness in my back, sliding the door open with a soft scrape that barely cut through the stillness.

The hallway yawned open in front of me.

I passed the bathroom, the guest room, the kitchen.

All empty.

No footsteps. No murmured conversations. Just the soft, worn-in quiet of a house that hadn’t decided to start the day yet.

When I reached Karina’s room, the door was cracked open.

Not wide. Just enough to catch the edge of a rumpled bedspread, a hoodie half-tossed onto the floor, a slice of muted light slipping through the blinds.

I knocked once—out of habit more than anything.

“Come in,” Karina’s voice called out. Low. Unbothered.

I pushed the door open.

She was sitting on the bed, back braced against the headboard, one knee bent up toward her chest. She was wearing a hoodie—black, sleeves shoved up to her elbows—and a pair of loose shorts that looked like they belonged to someone else.

Her phone rested face-down beside her.

She wasn’t scrolling. Just sitting there, elbow propped on her knee, fingers pressed against her temple like she was working through a thought she wasn’t ready to speak aloud.

For a second, neither of us said anything.

The quiet stretched, not uncomfortable. Just there.

Her gaze flicked up to me—steady, assessing, the way it always did.

“Didn’t think you’d be up yet,” she said.

“Didn’t think you’d be waiting.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Not the polished, public kind.

The real one. Quick. Dry. A little tired.

She nodded toward the mattress beside her.

I crossed the room and sat down, careful to leave a few inches of space. Enough to breathe.

The bed dipped under the shared weight.

Karina leaned her head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, as if she might fall asleep sitting up. For a minute, she didn’t speak. She just let the silence hang between us, steady and unhurried.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she said eventually, eyes still closed.

I huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You always think you can hear that?”

“With you?” She cracked one eye open. “It’s not hard.”

I didn’t answer.

I just let the weight in my chest settle a little heavier.

Karina shifted, resting her arm across her bent knee, fingers loose and easy.

“You’re not great at staying,” she said, voice even. Not accusing. Not teasing. Just stating a fact she’d already filed away.

I glanced at her, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was staring out the window now, where the blinds cut the light into sharp, narrow lines.

“You’re good at disappearing,” she added. “Quiet. Clean. No mess.”

I didn’t deny it.

Karina shrugged, a small, resigned movement. “I get it.”

Another beat.

“I’m not gonna ask you to stay,” she said, and this time she did look at me. Direct. No hesitation. “None of us are.”

Her fingers flexed once, like she was fighting the urge to fidget.

“But I will tell you this,” she continued. “We don’t keep people here. We don’t make them stay. We just… we hope they want to.”

She said it simply.

No plea hidden in her tone. No expectation.

Just a quiet offering.

I sat with it.

Let it dig in where it needed to.

Karina pushed herself up straighter, rolling her shoulders out like the conversation had been more effort than she wanted to admit.

She reached for her phone but didn’t unlock it.

Didn’t check any messages.

Just held it loosely in her hand like an anchor.

“I’m not good at this either, you know,” she said. “Letting people stay. Trusting them not to wreck the place on their way out.”

I gave a small, crooked smile. “I won’t trash the place.”

Karina smirked. “You’ll just vanish without a sound.”

I didn’t argue.

She set the phone down again. Ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. There were faint lines under her eyes—shadows that hadn’t been there the first time I met her.

Or maybe they had.

Maybe I just hadn’t looked close enough.

Karina shifted, dropping her knee and crossing her legs loosely.

“I’m not gonna sell you a dream,” she said. “It’s not perfect here. We’re not perfect.”

She lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely to the house around us.

“But it’s ours. And we’d make room for you if you wanted it.”

I let the words sit between us.

Heavy.

Simple.

Uncomplicated in the way only hard-earned truth could be.

Karina pushed herself off the bed, stretching her arms overhead until her hoodie rode up enough to show a sliver of skin. She didn’t bother smoothing it down.

She walked to the door, leaned against the frame, and gave me a look I couldn’t quite name.

“I’ll see you around, Mylo,” she said.

And with that, she stepped into the hall, leaving me alone in the quiet.

But the space didn’t feel empty.

It felt… waiting.

I sat there for a moment longer, staring at the rumpled bedspread, the dent in the mattress where she’d been.

Then I stood.

And kept moving.

I left Karina’s room behind without looking back.

The house was starting to wake up now—just barely. A few muted sounds carried through the hallways: the distant clink of a glass, the soft shuffle of bare feet across wood floors. But it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t intrusive.

It was the kind of noise that let you move quietly if you wanted to.

I followed it to the kitchen.

Winter was standing by the counter, barefoot, hair loose around her shoulders in that way that always looked just a little messy, a little undone—but never careless. She wore an oversized T-shirt, sleeves falling past her elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh.

She didn’t turn when she heard me.

Just poured herself a glass of water from the filtered pitcher, slow and steady. The kind of movement that didn’t say much, but didn’t hide anything either.

I leaned against the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of my sweats.

For a minute, neither of us said anything.

Winter took a sip, set the glass down, and ran her fingers absently along the rim like she was smoothing out a wrinkle only she could see.

“You’re thinking about leaving.”

It wasn’t a question.

I didn’t answer.

She finally turned, resting her back against the counter, glass still in hand.

Her eyes met mine without flinching. They were clear. Cool. But not cold.

Not today.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said. “We’ve all been there.”

I studied her face.

There was no accusation in it. No judgment. Just the kind of resigned understanding that came from someone who’d thought about running once or twice herself.

Maybe more.

Winter tilted her head slightly, that same easy, unreadable expression she wore like a second skin.

“You’re good at hiding it,” she said. “The wanting to disappear.”

I huffed a breath. “It sure doesn't seem like it.”

She gave a small shrug. “Takes one to know one.”

Her fingers tapped the side of the glass, a quiet, rhythmic sound.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She wasn’t fidgeting. Not exactly.

It was just a sound. A tether.

Winter didn’t move closer.

She didn’t ask me to.

But she didn’t let the silence close between us either.

Instead, she said, softer now: “You don’t owe anyone a version of yourself that you can't even stand.”

I swallowed.

Winter pushed off the counter, slow, deliberate. She crossed the small space between us and stopped just close enough that I could feel her there—steady, real.

She looked up at me, her hair falling forward over her shoulders, eyes sharp and clear.

“But if you’re running because you think no one wants the real one…”

She reached out.

Not fast. Not hesitant.

Her hand brushed the side of my face—light, barely there. Fingertips tracing the line of my jaw like she wasn’t sure if I’d let her.

I didn’t pull away.

Her hand stayed.

Warm.

Present.

“If you’re running because you think you’re too much—or not enough—or whatever else you’ve been telling yourself…”

She let her words hang there.

Heavy.

Unflinching.

“I hope you know you’re wrong.”

I didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Winter dropped her hand, but she didn’t step back.

She just stood there, letting the moment settle.

Then, quieter: “We’re not asking for the perfect parts, Mylo. We’re just asking for you.”

I closed my eyes for a second.

Not long.

Just enough to steady the pulse under my skin.

When I opened them again, Winter was still there.

Still steady.

Still waiting.

But not pushing.

Never pushing.

“I’m not good at this,” I said, voice rougher than I meant it to be.

Winter smiled—small, real.

“None of us are.”

She reached past me to the counter, grabbed a second glass, and filled it.

Then handed it to me without a word.

I took it.

The cool weight of it grounded me more than I wanted to admit.

Winter leaned her hip against the counter again, sipped her water, and let the silence stretch.

Not tense.

Not demanding.

Just easy.

When she spoke again, it was softer. Barely more than a breath.

“Stay for breakfast,” she said.

It wasn’t an order.

It wasn’t even really a request.

It was an offering.

A way of saying: You’re still wanted here. Even when you’re not sure why.

I nodded once.

Small. Almost imperceptible.

But Winter saw it.

She always did.

She smiled again—tired, knowing—and turned back to her glass, giving me the space to breathe without feeling like I was being watched.

I stood there for a moment longer, glass in hand, heart a little steadier.

Then I moved.

Slow.

Not leaving.

Just… moving forward.

I found Ningning on the couch, curled up sideways with a blanket half-draped over her legs. 

Her phone sat face-down on the coffee table.

She wasn’t scrolling.

She wasn’t texting.

She was just... there.

Breathing.

Thinking.

The sunlight coming through the blinds hit her hair. She had that stillness about her—the kind that didn’t mean calm. The kind that meant something else. Like she was working through a problem in her head and hadn’t figured out which way to turn it yet.

I stood there for a second longer than I should have.

She noticed.

Ningning didn’t move. Didn’t lift her head or sit up straighter.

Just flicked her eyes toward me—steady, sharp, a little too knowing.

“You look like someone who’s about to do something stupid,” she said.

Her voice was light.

But not joking.

I shrugged one shoulder. “Depends on your definition.”

Ningning tucked the blanket higher around her legs. Her foot brushed the edge of the coffee table.

“You don’t have to go,” she said, softer this time.

I didn’t answer. Am I really so easy to read?

She turned her face to the TV—not watching it, not really. Just giving me space to think.

“I get it,” she added, voice almost casual. “Sometimes it feels easier to leave before someone asks you to.”

Her thumb moved absently against the blanket, a small, repetitive motion.

“But no one’s asking you to,” she said.

I moved closer. Sat down on the other end of the couch.

Not touching.

Just close enough.

Ningning glanced at me again, head tilted slightly like she was measuring something—some weight she couldn’t quite name.

“I used to think,” she said, “that if people got too close, they’d see all the parts I didn’t want to explain. And then they’d leave anyway.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was the kind that sat tight around the edges, like it hurt to stretch.

“They never did,” she said. “But I kept acting like they might.”

I didn’t look at her.

I looked at my hands.

They were still. No tremor. No sign of the storm that was starting to gather just under the skin.

Ningning let the silence hang there.

Then: “You’re not the only one scared of being kept around for the wrong reasons.”

I glanced at her.

She was still staring at the TV.

“I know what it feels like to wonder if people like the idea of you more than they like you.”

Her hand brushed the blanket again. Small motion. Barely there.

“But you’re not an idea, Mylo.”

She turned her head, finally facing me fully.

“You’re a person. And you’re still here.”

A beat.

“You’re still you.”

I swallowed.

Ningning didn’t push.

She just looked at me—steady, unblinking, real.

“No one’s trying to buy you,” she said. “No one’s keeping you because you fill some space we don’t want to fill ourselves.”

She smiled again—smaller this time. Less tight.

“You’re here because we want you here.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Didn’t know how to hold it without dropping it.

Ningning must’ve seen it on my face.

She shifted, pulling her legs out from under the blanket, sitting cross-legged now, facing me fully.

“You don’t have to believe it right away,” she said. “But you can’t pretend it’s not true.”

I exhaled slowly.

The kind of breath that didn’t fix anything but let you survive a little longer.

Ningning leaned back against the armrest, folding her arms loosely over her chest.

“I’m not going to tell you to stay,” she said. “I’m just going to tell you that leaving won’t change anything.”

I looked at her.

She met my eyes—open, unafraid.

“You’ll still be wanted,” she said. “Even if you run.”

Her voice didn’t crack.

It didn’t soften.

It just held.

“You’ll still be you.”

The words sat heavy between us.

I didn’t argue.

Didn’t deflect.

I just sat there, breathing in a room that suddenly felt a little less empty.

Ningning reached for the remote and unmuted the TV.

The cartoon blared back to life—bright, fast, chaotic.

But she wasn’t really watching.

She just sat there, letting the noise fill the cracks.

Letting me stay.

Without asking.

Without pushing.

Without conditions.

After a few minutes, I stood up.

Ningning didn’t say anything.

She just smiled at me—real, easy—and turned back to the screen.

I left the room without looking back.

But I carried her words with me.

I didn’t sleep that first night. Not really. I stayed curled up on the far end of the couch, one arm under my head, pretending to watch the TV flickering low in the corner. Some old sitcom played — canned laughter, bright clothes, people shouting at each other in the way they thought was funny. The house smelled different from what I was used to. Warmer. Cleaner. Soap, cinnamon from a candle burning on the counter, a hint of coffee sunk deep into the walls. Cara didn’t ask questions. She just set a folded blanket down beside me — thick, worn soft at the edges — and went back to the kitchen. Bill didn’t say anything either. He just sat at the table, flipping through a newspaper like the headlines would change if he stared long enough. No one asked where I was from. No one asked why I was there. The silence should’ve felt sharp. It didn’t. It felt cautious. Like no one wanted to startle anything. The next morning, there was oatmeal. Thick, clumpy, full of raisins that exploded soft against my tongue. Cara set it in front of me without a word. She poured herself and Bill coffee and sat down like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You don’t have to eat it,” she said around a spoonful. “But it’d be polite to try.” I ate.

Because I didn’t know what else to do. The house was small. Lived-in, not cluttered — every surface covered with little signs of life. A sagging couch. Curtains sun-faded to a pale almost-color. A kitchen that smelled like old grease and lemon cleaner. Towels that didn’t match. A clock that ticked unevenly. It wasn’t bad. Not like before. A few days later, they offered me the spare room. It was small — bed, dresser, cracked window. The mattress dipped toward the middle. The springs groaned every time I moved. But it had a door. A lock. That was enough. They didn’t talk much. Bill kept to himself. TV, paper, occasional grunts. Cara ran the house — lists on the fridge, muttering under her breath when she cleaned, cooking more food than two people needed. They didn’t ask anything of me. No papers. No rules. No promises. Just a list on the fridge every morning. Dishes. Sweep. Laundry. Take out the trash. Small things. Easy trades. Sometimes Cara brought leftovers from the school — a bruised apple, a stack of rolls the cafeteria was going to throw out. She’d leave them in the fridge with a sticky note that just said “Yours.” Little things. Things that made it easier to pretend this wasn’t temporary. The days blurred. I stopped sleeping in my shoes.

Stopped glancing at the door every time I heard footsteps. Started thinking — maybe this was it. Maybe they didn’t need anything from me. No deals. No conditions. Just... stay out of the way. Be polite. Be useful. It was almost enough to make me believe it. But even then — even when things were quiet and warm and easy — there was a catch at the back of my throat. Because nothing in my life was ever free. I pushed it down. I worked hard. I didn’t cause trouble. I made myself small, invisible at the edges of their lives. It should’ve been enough. For a while, it was. Then came Wednesday. I remember because the house was quieter than usual. Cara had a late shift at the school. Bill was out in the garage, radio muttering low under the clank of tools. I’d finished everything on the list by noon. Dishes, floors, laundry folded and stacked like I didn’t live there. The sun was heavy through the windows, thick with dust motes. I should’ve stayed put. I should’ve sat on the couch, watched whatever rerun Bill left playing, and kept my head down.

But the quiet made me restless. And restless made me reckless. I was looking for a book — something to pass the time — when I found it. Tucked in the desk in the corner of the living room, under a stack of old receipts and yellowed bills. A plain envelope. Unsealed. The sight of it made something cold and instinctive twist under my ribs. Because I knew that shape. That weight. An envelope like that had ruined things before. I almost left it alone. Almost. But my hand moved before my brain could catch up. The paper was thin. No name written on it. Just that sick, familiar rectangular dread. Inside — a letterhead I didn’t recognize. Official. Government. I pulled it halfway out. Enough to see the words. Monthly Support Allowance. Dependent Minor. And a number. Not huge. Not nothing.

Enough. Enough to make sense of things I hadn’t wanted to think about. The spare room. The leftovers. The way Cara’s eyes skimmed over me sometimes — not cruel, not warm, just... measuring. I sat back on my heels. Stared at it. Everything blurred a little at the edges — not panic, not fear. Just a hollowing out. A confirmation. I wasn’t there because they cared. I was there because I paid for myself. Like a stray dog that just happened to bring its own leash. I put the letter back. Careful. Slow. Exactly how I found it. Closed the drawer without a sound. And stood there for a long time, the silence thick and heavy around me. The world didn’t shift. The house didn’t collapse. Nothing changed. Except me.

I walked back to the couch, sat down, stared at the flickering TV without seeing it. The couch was still sagging. The clock still ticked unevenly. The blanket Cara left out was folded over the armrest, waiting. And yet. Everything was different now. Because the thing I didn’t want to believe — the thing I pretended wasn’t true — was written plain on paper. People didn’t keep me around because they cared. They kept me because it was useful. Because I made sense on a spreadsheet. Because it was easy. I didn’t cry. Not even when the weight settled — not just in my chest, but behind my eyes, behind my teeth, in the way my hands stayed perfectly still in my lap. I just sat there. Breathing through it. Like always. When Cara came home later, she smiled — the tight, tired smile of someone who didn’t expect anything back. I smiled too. Tighter. Smaller. I ate dinner. Washed my plate. Said thank you. Pretended the oatmeal, the blanket, the sticky notes — all of it — still meant something.

Because it was easier than leaving. And because deep down, I already knew — there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

The hallway was quiet.

Dim.

The only light came from a crack under one of the doors — Winter’s, probably — and the faint orange wash of the streetlamps leaking through the front window. The house smelled like dust and old coffee. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just there. Lived-in.

I stood still for a minute.

Just breathing.

Listening.

I wasn’t in the living room anymore.

I wasn’t with Ningning, or anyone else.

It was just me now.

The hallway stretched ahead — narrow, dim, the walls close enough to touch. The familiar sag of the ceiling. The uneven line where the paint changed color halfway down.

It would’ve been easy to keep walking. Past the kitchen. Past the front door. Shoes by the mat. Jacket on the hook.

It would’ve been easy to disappear.

I’d done it before.

Slip out.

Start over.

New place. New couch to crash on. New lie to tell myself about why it didn’t matter. Why I didn’t matter.

But my feet didn’t move.

I stood there, breathing too shallow, the air too dry in my throat.

It wasn’t like before.

Before, it was survival. Simple math. Leave before someone left you.

Now—

Now, there was weight.

There were people that really cared.

Small, stupid moments I didn’t want to admit I remembered: Karina watching me like she was waiting for me to break. Winter’s steady quiet, like she knew but wasn’t going to ask. Ningning tossing a blanket over me in the dark like it was nothing, like it was normal.

And Giselle.

I wasn’t sure what Giselle was.

A choice, maybe.

A door I wasn’t ready to open.

I breathed out slowly.

Looked down the hall.

Her room was at the end. Same plain white door. Same worn brass knob.

Same distance I could’ve crossed in ten steps, maybe less.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t lift my hand.

Didn’t even breathe for a second.

Because it felt like standing there was a decision. Like the moment before you step off a ledge — not falling, not flying. Just the stretch of time when anything is still possible.

I thought about the girls — each of them saying something they probably didn’t think would matter.

Karina’s steady voice: You don’t owe anyone a role to play.

Winter’s quiet glance, as if she knew what I was thinking, even if she didn’t say it.

Ningning’s lopsided smile: You look like someone who forgets to eat a lot.

Not big moments.

Not confessions or demands.

Just... being seen.

I wasn’t used to it.

Not without cost.

Not without an envelope somewhere in the background, waiting to tell me what I was worth in numbers.

I stared at Giselle’s door.

Wondered — if I opened it — if I would find the same thing.

An offer. A price. A countdown.

Or maybe—

Maybe it was different. Maybe she was different. I didn’t know.

And for the first time in a long time, I hated not knowing.

I shifted my weight.

The floor creaked under my heel.

And before I could knock—

The door moved.

Slow.

Soundless.

The latch clicked as it released, and the door swung inward an inch.

Then another.

Giselle stood there.

Barefoot. Sweatshirt hanging loose. Hair messy and half-shadowed by the dim light spilling from behind her.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t smile.

She just looked at me.

And that was worse.

Because in that look — in the way she held it — was something I hadn’t been ready for.

Not demand.

Not expectation.

Just—

A silent question.

Are you coming in?

Are you staying?

I swallowed.

The hallway stretched behind me — a straight shot to the front door, to the familiar ache of leaving before anyone could tell me to.

But I didn’t turn around.

I didn’t move back.

I didn’t move forward either.

Not yet.

Giselle didn’t reach for me.

She just stood there — a door half-open — not a trap, not a promise.

Just a choice.

I stood there, heart a little too fast, breath a little too shallow.

Waiting.

We both were.

No words. No movement. Just her hand on the doorframe and that same steady, open look I wasn’t used to being given.

The house behind me was silent now. Everyone tucked away behind closed doors, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel like peace—it felt like something holding its breath.

Giselle didn’t say anything. She didn’t invite me in. She didn’t step aside. She just waited, letting the moment sit between us the way she always did—like silence was something that didn’t scare her.

I stayed where I was, hands at my sides, feeling the weight of the day settle into my chest.

I thought about Karina earlier, her words still playing under my ribs. You don’t have to do this alone.

I thought about Winter, the way she didn’t look at me like I was broken. Just there. Just present.

I thought about Ningning, always half teasing, half real, offering what she could in her own way.

And now this—Giselle, not asking anything. Not expecting anything.

Just... here.

I didn’t realize my hands were clenched until I forced them to uncurl. My skin felt too tight, my throat too dry.

She tilted her head slightly, the smallest motion, like she could see all of it—the hesitation, the weight I wasn’t speaking—and wasn’t going to rush me.

The door creaked in her hand as it shifted, but she didn’t pull it wider. She didn’t do anything except stay there, watching me with the kind of patience that felt less like waiting and more like... trust.

The kind of trust you didn’t earn with words.

The kind you could only take if you meant to keep it.

I stood there, the air between us heavy and thin all at once.

It should’ve been easy. One step. One choice.

But the truth was, every step I’d ever taken had been away—from places, from people, from the things that tried to claim me.

And here I was, on the edge of another choice. Stay. Or leave.

The hallway behind me felt colder suddenly, stretched out and empty like a road I didn’t want to walk again.

Inside her room, the light was low. Soft. Her bed was unmade, the covers rumpled, a sweatshirt tossed across the edge like she hadn’t cared enough to move it. A book was face down on the nightstand, a pair of headphones tangled beside it.

It didn’t look like a stage. It didn’t look like a trap.

It looked real.

And that scared me more than anything.

Because real meant it wasn’t about pretending.

Real meant if I stepped in, it wouldn’t be something I could explain away later. Wouldn’t be a mistake I could fold up and tuck into the corner of my mind with all the other things I refused to name.

It would mean I’d chosen it.

Her.

I sucked in a breath through my teeth. Let it sit there, sharp and dry in my throat.

Giselle’s fingers brushed against the side of the doorframe, just once, like she was resisting the urge to reach out.

Not pulling me.

Not pushing.

Just waiting.

I took a step forward.

Slow. Careful. Like the floor might give out under me if I wasn’t sure enough.

She didn’t move.

I took another.

The door stayed half-open, the threshold narrowing until there wasn’t enough space between us for doubt to slip through.

She let go of the frame then, hand falling back to her side.

And still—still—she didn’t say a word.

She didn’t need to.

I was the one who had to speak, in the only language that mattered—movement. Choice.

I stepped inside.

Crossed the threshold like it was more than a doorway.

It was a line.

A before and after.

I could feel it under my skin, humming low and steady—the kind of shift you don’t notice until you’re already on the other side and realize you’re never going back.

Giselle moved, then. Quiet. A step backward, giving me space. Not taking the lead. Not closing the door.

Just... making room.

I stayed where I was for a moment, breathing in the air that smelled faintly of her shampoo and something softer—something like paper and sleep and the trace of perfume on skin.

Giselle watched me.

Not impatient. Not pleading. Just watching.

And then, slow, she lifted her hand. Not to grab me. Not to guide me. Just an open palm, reaching out, fingers barely curled.

I looked at it for a second longer than I should have.

Then—carefully, deliberately—I let my hand find hers.

The contact was light at first. A brush of skin. A test.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tighten her fingers around mine.

Just waited.

I closed my hand around hers.

Her palm was warm.

Steady.

She gave the barest pull—not even a tug, just a suggestion—and I followed, letting her guide me farther into the room.

The door stayed open behind us.

She didn’t shut it.

She didn’t have to.

I wasn’t leaving.

Not yet.

Maybe not at all.

I let her lead me to the bed, the soft give of the mattress against the back of my knees, the low hum of the night settling in around us like a second skin.

She sat first, pulling her hand away slowly, giving me the choice again.

Stay or leave.

I sat.

The mattress dipped under my weight, the distance between us closing, folding in.

Giselle leaned back, one hand braced behind her, the other still resting lightly on the comforter.

I looked at her—really looked.

Not at the curve of her mouth or the line of her throat.

Not at the flush high on her cheeks or the way her lashes cast shadows under her eyes.

I looked at her.

And she looked right back. No armor. No masks.

Just two people, breathing the same air, trying not to blink first.

The quiet wasn’t heavy anymore. It was waiting.

And this time, I wasn’t afraid of what would happen if I answered it.

I shifted closer.

She tilted her head, the smallest tilt, like she was meeting me halfway without moving at all.

I raised my hand, slow, careful, and let it rest on her thigh. Light. Testing.

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just exhaled—soft, steady. I slid my hand higher.

Her breath hitched.

But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t stop me.

And when I leaned in, when our foreheads brushed, she closed her eyes.

Not in fear. Not in resignation. In trust.

I stayed like that for a moment, breathing her in, feeling the way the world narrowed down to the space between us.

No pressure. No weight. Just presence.

When she leaned up and kissed me—slow, sure—it wasn’t the start of something reckless.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It was a decision.

One we made together.

And this time, I didn’t hesitate.

I kissed her back.

The kiss deepened—slow at first, then sharper, a building current neither of us tried to fight. Her fingers tightened in my hair, not rough but deliberate, tilting my head back slightly so she could press her mouth harder against mine. I let her. For now.

She kissed like she moved—measured, practiced, but with a current underneath that she wasn’t trying to hide. She bit my lower lip, pulled just enough to make me grunt low in my throat.

I opened my eyes. She was already looking at me, eyes dark, mouth swollen.

I slid my hand up her thigh, fingers trailing under the hem of her sweatshirt, feeling the heat of her skin.

She didn’t stop me.

But when I tried to push the sweatshirt higher, she caught my wrist.

Firm.

Controlling.

She shook her head once—slow, almost a smile—and leaned back just enough that I had to follow her to keep the kiss. I pressed closer, chasing it, but she pressed her palm flat against my chest.

"Wait," she murmured, voice low and steady.

It wasn’t a no.

It was a command.

She pushed, and I let her. Let her guide me back until I was sitting, legs open, feet flat on the floor.

She straddled me, one knee on either side, the hem of her sweatshirt riding up over her thighs. No rush. No theatrics. Just moving like she owned the pace now.

I let her.

She kissed me again—harder this time, setting the rhythm. Her fingers brushed down my arms, then back up, slow, tracing the veins, the tendons, the kind of touches that weren’t about tenderness—they were about reading me. Learning the map of tension and patience and control.

Her hands found the hem of my shirt.

She didn’t yank it.

She peeled it off—slow, deliberate—like she wanted to take her time seeing me.

I helped, but just enough.

She tossed the shirt aside, then sat back, fingers splayed on my chest, nails scratching lightly over skin.

I reached for her hips, but she shifted—subtle—and caught my wrists again.

Firm.

In charge.

I smiled against her mouth. “Bossy.”

Her eyes glinted. “You’re the one who followed me in here.”

She leaned in, pressing her weight against my wrists, pinning them to the bed.

And for a second—just a second—I let her.

Let her hold me there, her mouth tracing along my jaw, the line of my throat, teeth grazing just enough to make me twitch.

When she bit down—soft but sharp—on the muscle where my shoulder met my neck, I groaned.

And then—fast—I flipped her.

Not rough.

Not punishing.

Just a shift of weight, a counter to her hold, rolling us until she was on her back and I was over her, braced on one arm, the other hand still caught in hers.

She grinned up at me—breathless, wild, not surprised at all.

I kissed her then—hard, deep, taking back what she’d stolen.

She didn’t fight it.

She gave as good as she got, hands threading in my hair, pulling me closer, one leg hooking around my waist to drag me down against her.

I pressed into her, grinding slow, deliberate.

She arched into it, mouth parting on a gasp, and when she rolled her hips up to meet me, the friction made both of us groan.

I pulled back—barely—just enough to look at her.

Hair a mess around her face, lips red, breath coming fast.

“Take it off,” I said, voice low, brushing the hem of her sweatshirt with my fingers.

She didn’t hesitate.

She sat up just enough to pull it over her head and toss it aside. No bra. Just her—bare, flushed, perfect.

I sat back on my heels to take her in.

She shifted, sitting up, reaching for the button of my jeans. Her hands were sure, practiced. She popped the button, dragged the zipper down slow, teasing, and when I lifted my hips, she tugged them down, along with my boxers.

I kicked them off, and for a beat, we just looked at each other.

Then she pushed me back.

Flat.

Straddled me again.

Her hand wrapped around me, firm, confident, stroking slow, her thumb brushing the head just to make me bite back a sound.

“Not so bossy now,” she murmured.

I grinned, but didn’t fight her.

Let her take what she wanted.

She leaned down, kissed me hard, her hand still working me slow, driving me half-crazy with the pace.

But two could play that game.

I slid my hands up her thighs, slow, nails dragging lightly over her skin, and when I reached her hips, I pulled her forward—grinding her against me, dragging her slick heat over my cock.

She gasped into my mouth.

I did it again.

Harder this time.

Her hand faltered.

I gripped her hips, steady, controlled, and lifted—just enough to tease the head of my cock against her entrance.

She whimpered—low, frustrated.

I didn’t give in.

I held her there, just teasing, just enough pressure to make her breath hitch.

“Say please,” I murmured.

She glared at me, but her hips rocked forward, desperate for more friction.

I stayed still.

Waited.

Finally, she exhaled. “Please.”

I pushed in—slow, deep—watching her mouth fall open, watching her eyes flutter shut.

She was tight, hot, perfect around me.

I gave her a second. Then another.

Then started to move.

Slow thrusts, deep and deliberate, making her take all of it, making her feel every inch.

She sat up more, hands braced on my chest, riding the rhythm I set.

But she didn’t stay passive.

She matched me—thrust for thrust, grind for grind—meeting me halfway, owning her half of it.

I shifted, rolled us again—her back hitting the mattress, me over her, one hand catching both her wrists and pinning them above her head.

She moaned, arching up into me, legs wrapping tight around my waist.

I kissed her hard, deep, claiming her mouth the way I claimed her body.

But then—sneaky, sure—she twisted one hand free, grabbed my jaw, and pulled me up to look at her.

“You’re not the only one who gets to be in control,” she said, breathless.

I grinned, leaning down to kiss her jaw. “Prove it.”

She shoved me, hard, flipping us again.

I let her.

Flat on my back, her riding me now, hands braced on my chest, head thrown back as she set the pace.

Hard. Fast.

Punishing.

I groaned, gripping her hips, letting her use me.

She leaned forward, kissed me hard, teeth grazing my lip, biting just enough to make me hiss.

I bucked up into her, sharp, deliberate. She gasped. I did it again.

Her hands tightened on my chest, nails digging in.

Push. Pull. Give. Take.

No one really in charge.

Just two people, dragging control back and forth between them until neither of us knew who had it anymore.

And neither of us cared.

Giselle’s rhythm was ruthless—steady, grinding, forcing me to feel every drag, every slick slide of her along my cock. She braced her hands on my chest, nails digging in, leaving faint crescent marks as she rode me.

Not wild.

Not frantic.

Controlled.

Calculated.

Her breath came fast, but her eyes—dark, locked on mine—never wavered.

When I tried to grab her hips, guide her faster, she caught my wrists. Pressed them back into the bed.

“No,” she said, voice low, tight.

I smirked, but I let her.

She shifted her weight forward, dragging her body along mine, grinding her clit against my stomach, hips working slow and relentless as she kept her hands on my wrists.

I flexed under her, arching up, trying to regain a little ground, but she just smiled—slow, wicked—and pressed her palms harder against me.

“Stay down.”

I didn’t argue.

I just breathed.

Watched.

Let her set the pace.

She kept grinding, circling her hips in slow, perfect motions that drove me fucking crazy. The heat of her, the weight of her—every shift in pressure deliberate, teasing.

She leaned down and kissed me again.

Not soft. Not tender.

Her mouth was hot, her tongue insistent, teeth catching my lower lip and pulling before she kissed me deeper.

I growled low in my throat, bucked up hard, but she held steady, thighs tightening around my hips to pin me in place.

She broke the kiss, breathing hard, lips swollen.

“Not yet,” she whispered against my mouth.

I exhaled sharply, chest rising fast under her weight.

She smiled—just a little—then rocked her hips harder, dragging a moan out of both of us.

I clenched my jaw.

Held on.

But when she shifted her hands—just a little, to brace herself on my chest again—I moved.

Fast.

Caught her around the waist and flipped her.

She gasped—surprised, but not scared.

Her legs wrapped around me instantly, keeping me close.

I braced one hand beside her head, the other sliding down her body, palm flat against her stomach.

“Your turn,” I murmured, voice low, dangerous.

She grinned, but there was a challenge in her eyes now.

I thrust into her hard.

Deep.

She gasped, head tipping back against the pillow, mouth falling open.

I set the pace this time—slow, deep strokes, grinding my hips against her slit at the end of every thrust.

She took it.

But she didn’t give in.

Her legs tightened around me, and with a sudden twist, she rolled us again, dragging me over until I was on my back and she was straddling me.

She braced her hands on my shoulders, grinding down, setting a punishing rhythm.

I gritted my teeth, grabbed her hips again, but she batted my hands away.

“No,” she said again, breathless but firm. “Mine.”

I let her have it.

Let her work me over—grinding, riding me hard, fast, relentless.

She was close.

I could feel it—the way her thighs trembled, the way her breath caught every time her hips slammed down.

But she didn’t rush it.

She rode the edge, keeping both of us there, torturing us with control.

I groaned, hips jerking up into her, and this time she let me.

She shifted her weight, rode me harder, grinding her clit against me with every stroke.

I reached up, grabbed her breast, thumb circling her nipple, and she gasped—sharp, involuntary.

She leaned down, bit my shoulder—sharp, enough to leave a mark—and I thrust up into her harder, dragging another sound from her throat.

Push. 

Pull.

She pressed her forehead to mine, breathing hard.

“You gonna come for me?” she whispered.

I smiled, breathless. “Only if you do first.”

She ground down harder, faster, chasing it now.

I slid my hand between us, thumb brushing her clit, rubbing in tight circles, and she gasped again—sharp, desperate.

“Fuck—”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

She bit her lip, riding me harder, faster, desperate for it now.

I thrust up into her, matching her, driving her higher.

Her nails dug into my shoulders.

Her breath hitched.

And then she broke.

Came hard, grinding down against me, gasping, shaking, her whole body seizing around mine.

I groaned, thrusting up into her, chasing my own release.

She kept moving—riding me through it—ruthless even in her own unraveling.

I didn’t last much longer.

I growled low, grabbed her hips, and thrust up hard, once, twice—then came.

Hard.

Deep inside her.

She collapsed against me, breathless, trembling.

I wrapped my arms around her, holding her there, feeling the way her body still shuddered in the aftermath.

Neither of us moved for a while.

Just breathing.

Sharing the heat, the sweat, the wreckage we’d made of each other.

Slowly, Giselle lifted her head.

Her hair was a mess around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, lips red, eyes dark and still wild.

She smiled.

Not coy.

Not smug.

Just... happy.

She leaned down, kissed me once—slow, deep, grateful.

Then she pulled back, settled against me, her head on my chest.

I stroked her hair, slow, steady.

Neither of us said anything.

We didn’t need to.

Giselle’s breathing evened out slowly, her body still stretched across mine, her skin warm and damp against my chest. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t rush to fill the quiet with words. Just traced slow, idle shapes against my ribs with the tip of her finger.

I kept my hand in her hair, stroking gently.

It wasn’t a question.

Wasn’t a comfort.

Just... there.

For once, the silence didn’t feel like a weight. It didn’t press on my ribs or sink into my lungs. It just settled.

Safe.

Steady.

Eventually, Giselle shifted. Lifted her head enough to look at me, her hair falling in messy strands over her cheek. Her eyes were clear now—no challenge, no performance. Just her.

The real her.

She studied me like she was still memorizing.

Like she was trying to understand something I hadn’t said out loud yet.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low, rough from everything we hadn’t held back.

I nodded once.

Didn’t lie.

Didn’t pretend.

She sat up slowly, straddling me still, hands braced lightly on my stomach. She didn’t move to get off. Didn’t shift away. Just stayed there, close enough that the warmth between us didn’t cool.

Her fingers brushed my chest—soft, tentative.

“You think we just want you around because it’s easy,” she said.

Not a question.

I didn’t answer.

She tilted her head, studying me like she could see it anyway.

“But it’s not.”

I stayed quiet.

“It’s messy,” she said, mouth twitching at the corner. “It’s complicated. ”

I swallowed, throat dry.

“And it’s worth it.”

I looked at her then. Really looked.

She met my gaze without flinching.

“This isn’t charity,” she said. “Or convenience. It’s you.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Giselle leaned down again, slower this time, resting her forehead lightly against mine.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” she whispered. “You don’t have to be anything.”

Her breath warmed my skin.

“You’re already enough.”

Something tight in my chest pulled.

Stretched. Fractured. Not in a way that hurt.

In a way that loosened everything I’d been carrying for too long.

I closed my eyes for a second. Took a breath. She didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. She just stayed. Soft. Steady. Real.

When I opened my eyes again, she was watching me—quiet, patient.

I reached up.

Brushed a hand along her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Her eyes softened, and for a second, neither of us breathed.

Then I whispered it, so low it barely made a sound:

“I’ll stay.”

Her breath caught.

Just a little.

But she didn’t smile.

Didn’t break.

Just leaned in and kissed me—soft, slow, careful.

Not because she didn’t want more.

But because she knew it wasn’t needed.

When she pulled back, she pressed her forehead to mine again.

Her hand slid down to find mine, fingers threading through, slow and sure.

I squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back.

And for the first time in a long time, the quiet felt like mine.

Like home.

1 YEAR LATER

The house was louder now.

Not chaotic. Just alive.

Ningning’s voice carried from the kitchen, sharp with laughter as she argued over something small—whose turn it was to buy milk or who forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste. Winter’s low, amused drawl followed, a counterpoint, half-hearted in its defense.

Karina was cross-legged on the living room floor, sorting through a stack of vinyl records she insisted she’d organize two months ago. She muttered to herself under her breath, squinting at labels, trying to decide what to keep and what to get rid of.

And Giselle—

Giselle was sitting on the couch, socked feet pulled up, balancing a mug of coffee on her knee like it might float there indefinitely if she concentrated hard enough. She was scrolling on her phone, but not really looking at it. Every few minutes, she glanced around the room, like she was doing a quiet headcount she didn’t want anyone to catch her at.

I leaned against the doorway.

Just... watching.

A year ago, I wouldn’t have known how to stand like this. Easy. Present. Not braced for the next crash.

Ningning caught sight of me first.

She grinned, sharp and bright. "If you’re just gonna lurk, you can at least make yourself useful."

I smirked. "Define useful."

"Milk run!" she shouted, already tossing her wallet at me from across the kitchen.

I caught it one-handed.

Winter snorted. "You realize he's the only reason we don’t live in absolute chaos, right?"

"Debatable," I said.

Winter smiled—small, genuine. "Appreciated though."

I shrugged. Casual. But the warmth in my chest stuck.

Karina, without looking up, added, "If you find that vinyl cleaner I ordered, grab it."

"You still cleaning records?" I asked.

"Organization is a long-term project," she said, deadpan.

Ningning made a gagging sound. Winter threw a balled-up napkin at her. It hit her square in the forehead, and she gasped like she’d been mortally wounded.

Normal.

Not perfect. Not polished.

Just normal.

I pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, handing Ningning’s wallet back with a pointed look.

"You can add it to the next grocery run," I said. "I’m off-duty today."

"You’re off-duty every day," she grumbled, but there was no heat in it.

I glanced at Giselle.

She hadn’t said anything. But she was watching. Phone forgotten, mug balanced perfectly still.

I met her eyes.

She smiled.

Small. Private. Just for me.

I nodded once, barely a tilt of my chin, and that was enough.

Ningning pulled me back with a nudge. "Seriously though, Mylo. Help me out."

"With what?"

She pointed dramatically at the floor. "The cereal graveyard."

A scattering of loops and flakes dotted the hardwood where she’d clearly dropped the box and decided it was someone else’s problem.

I sighed, grabbed a broom from behind the door, and started sweeping.

Winter crouched beside me, pretending to help. "Remember when you didn’t live here?"

"Vaguely."

"You were quieter then."

"You were more suspicious."

She grinned. "Still am."

"Good," I said.

Because it meant she hadn’t lost the edge that made her, her. No smoothing over. No pretending.

Ningning flopped onto the couch beside Giselle once the floor was cereal-free, dramatically declaring, "Domestic life is so hard."

"Tragic," Karina said, tossing a record onto the 'keep' pile.

Giselle laughed softly.

I straightened up, broom in hand, and looked around the room.

No part of me felt like an outsider anymore.

I wasn't a guest. I wasn’t a problem waiting to happen. I was just... here.

A part of the noise.

A part of the quiet.

Ningning was already halfway into a new argument with Winter about who left the bathroom light on. Karina was shaking her head at a warped record she’d apparently been meaning to toss for years.

Giselle set her mug down and stretched, toes brushing Ningning’s knee, who shoved her half-heartedly in retaliation.

She looked at me again.

Just a glance.

But there was history in it.

The kind you build, day by day, by not disappearing.

I crossed the room and sat on the floor near Karina, who immediately shoved a stack of records at me.

"Sort by year."

"So I'm a slave now?."

She smirked. "Equal opportunity employer."

I picked up the top record and flipped it over. 1978. Already dusty.

Ningning threw a pillow at Winter. Winter ducked, laughing. Giselle leaned back, hair falling over her face as she smiled at something on her phone.

I slid the record into the 'keep' pile.

The house buzzed and breathed around me, alive with the easy, sharp edges of people who weren’t perfect—but who didn’t expect me to be, either.

No roles to play.

No scripts to recite.

And when I glanced up, Giselle was  looking at me—steady, sure—and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t wonder why.

I just smiled back.

I just stayed.

THE END

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 7┃ The Calm That Isn’t

Male reader x Karina

Word count: 6.7k

Tags: squirting, dom/sub, orgasm denial, breath play, dirty talk, teasing PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5 PART 6

The morning was quiet.

Not the soft kind. The kind that makes your thoughts louder.

Karina wasn’t in bed when I woke up. No note. No sound. Just the dent in the mattress beside me, the scent of her still clinging to the pillow.

I sat up slowly. My body ached in places I hadn’t realized I’d used. My jaw felt tight from clenching. My wrists still held the memory of her grip. The kind of soreness you earn, not regret.

I told myself I was fine.

Then sat on the edge of the bed for five minutes pretending I believed it.

The house felt different today.

Not changed—just... rearranged.

Like someone had come in while we were sleeping and moved everything an inch to the left.

Winter was in the living room, legs folded under her, scrolling through something on her phone. She didn’t look up when I passed.

Ningning was in the kitchen with a spoon halfway to her mouth and a box of cereal cradled in one arm like a newborn. She glanced at me once—just enough to register I existed—then went back to her bowl.

“Morning,” she said around a mouthful.

“Hey.”

She swallowed. “Karina let you sleep in?”

I raised an eyebrow.

She smirked. “No reason. Just surprised you’re walking straight.”

I didn’t answer.

I found Karina in a small room with only a couch and a window. Not on her phone. Not reading. Just sitting—one leg crossed over the other, staring out the window like she was calculating something she wasn’t going to say out loud.

She didn’t look over when I entered.

“Morning,” I said.

A beat. Then: “Hey.”

No tension. No edge. Just... calm.

Like something had shifted between us, and for once, neither of us was trying to wrestle it back.

I sat beside her. Not close. Just within reach if either of us decided to bridge the gap.

She leaned her head back against the wall. Closed her eyes for a second.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Sure.”

Another pause. No eye contact. Just the window and her own thoughts.

“How do you stop acting like you're fine all the time?”

I didn’t say anything.

She opened her eyes again, slow. Met mine, but only for a second.

“I mean—like—I’ve been holding it together so long, I don’t know how to not.”

I let it hang there.

She glanced away. “Forget it.”

“I won’t.”

That got the smallest breath of a laugh. Just air through her nose.

Then, quieter: “I’m tired, Mylo.”

The words sat between us for a second. No drama. No weight behind them. Just truth.

I nodded slowly. “I know.”

She looked at me again. Really looked. Like she was trying to figure out how much I meant that. If I said it because I understood, or because I wanted her to think I did.

“I don’t want to be in charge all the time,” she said quietly. “Not just here. With everything. My parents. My label. The girls. You.”

That last word came slower.

I didn’t flinch. “I never asked you to be in charge of me.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t feel like I should.”

We sat in that for a minute.

The room didn’t feel heavy.

It felt clean. Like something unspoken had been scraped out of the air.

Karina sighed. Shifted. Her shoulder brushed mine.

“I don’t even know what this is,” she said. “But when I told you not to make me chase you…”

I looked over.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just said, clear and quiet:

“I meant it. Don’t disappear.”

It was dark when I left. I didn’t run. I walked. Slow. Careful. Not looking back. The streetlights buzzed like they were about to die. Every time a car passed, I stopped breathing. It didn’t matter if the driver saw me. Didn’t matter if they didn’t. I didn’t have a bag. Just a hoodie and twenty-three dollars in ones. No plan. No destination. Just away. Away from the envelope. From the way he looked at me like he already owned the next few weeks of my life. From my mother’s silence when I told her I didn’t like him. From her not asking why. And from what I overheard the night before.

His voice on the phone, low and too casual: “Yeah, he’s quiet. Doesn’t fight. Should be easy.” I didn’t need to know who he was talking to. I knew what he meant. The couch where he used to sit still had the imprint of his keys in the cushion. I noticed that as I passed. I didn’t cry. Not because I was brave—just because I already knew what it would feel like.

I stared ahead for a long moment.

Then I said it.

“I won’t.”

She held my eyes for another second. Then nodded—barely—and turned. The door shut softly behind her. No dramatic exit, just quiet certainty.

It wasn’t the kind of silence you fight. It was the kind that invites you to sit in it, let it wrap around your ribs, and wait to see if you flinch.

Eventually, I moved. Pushed off the wall. Wandered the loop of the house once—bedroom to hallway to kitchen and back—just to keep from being still too long.

The others came back home before sundown.

It wasn’t loud. Just footsteps, murmurs, the thud of a bag dropped too hard. The kind of noise that means the outside world is back.

Ningning walked in first. Her phone lit her face in a pale wash, and her lips moved like she was mouthing lyrics only she could hear. She looked tired in a way she wouldn’t say out loud.

Winter trailed her. Hoodie zipped to the throat. One earbud still in, the other dangling like she forgot it. Her eyes passed over me and kept going.

Neither said anything.

They didn’t have to.

The air between them was stretched thin—tight with something I didn’t understand yet. Like a conversation had started in the car and ended too early.

I waited a beat. Then moved to the kitchen to give them space.

Ningning’s voice broke the quiet later, from the living room.

“You think she’s okay?”

She didn’t say who.

Winter didn’t answer right away.

“She’s fine,” she said eventually. “Just overthinks everything.”

Ningning didn’t push.

I didn’t ask.

Karina came out last.

She changed. Clean hoodie, leggings, towel-dried hair pulled up like she didn’t care how it dried. Her face was bare—no makeup.

She moved like someone who was used to motion. Someone who didn’t stop unless she meant to.

Her eyes met mine just once. That was all.

I nodded.

She didn’t.

But she didn’t look away either.

Giselle didn’t come out at all.

Her door stayed shut. No music. No voice. No presence.

Like she’d vanished into her corner of the house, and everyone had quietly agreed not to disturb the boundary she’d drawn.

I almost knocked once. Just to break that boundary.

But I didn’t.

Dinner happened in fragments.

Ningning reheated leftovers and ate them standing up. Winter poured a glass of juice and forgot about it. Karina opened the fridge, looked for something for a full thirty seconds, then left without taking anything.

I stood in the hallway and watched it all like I wasn’t really part of it.

Maybe I wasn’t.

Maybe they weren’t either.

They were all in the same house, breathing the same air, carrying different weights they wouldn’t name.

Later, I passed by the bathroom and heard Winter’s voice through the door.

Not talking. Singing.

Soft. Something slow. Not Korean. Not a song I knew.

It only lasted a minute. Then the water shut off.

And the silence returned.

I ended up in the kitchen again.

Leaning against the counter. Cup of water untouched beside me. Hands still. Mind not.

Karina appeared again without warning. No footsteps. Just there.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

She stood across from me, fingers curled loosely around the hem of her hoodie. Her eyes scanned the room—then settled on me like I was something she’d already decided to reach for.

“Come with me,” she said.

Her voice wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t soft either.

It was certain.

I followed her.

She didn’t lead me far—just to the back door. Slipped her shoes on without speaking, unlocked the latch with a twist, and stepped outside.

I paused at the doorframe, then pushed it open and joined her.

The air was cooler out here. Still, like the house was holding its breath behind us.

Karina walked a few paces ahead, then slowed by the fence. She didn’t sit. Just stood there, facing away, her shoulders rising with a breath she didn’t let out all at once.

She spoke without turning around.

“That thing I said earlier—about not wanting to carry everything…”

I said nothing.

She looked over her shoulder. “This is part of that.”

Then she turned to face me fully, hoodie sleeves bunched at her wrists.

“I’ve been watching the others,” she said. “Winter, Ningning… Giselle. They’re not saying it, but something’s off.”

I nodded slowly. “I heard them earlier.”

“Yeah.” Her jaw worked a little. “They were talking about Giselle.”

She finally sat down on the edge of the low bench near the back fence. I followed, sitting beside her with a few inches of space between us.

“She’s been pulling away,” Karina said. “Not just from you. From all of us.”

I didn’t respond.

“She seemed fine this morning. A little quiet, but that’s normal after a long day.” Karina ran a hand through her hair. “Then something happened while they were out. Winter wouldn’t talk about it, and Ningning… she said too much already.”

“What did Giselle do?”

Karina shook her head. “Nothing dramatic. No yelling. Just—she shut down. Didn’t say anything the whole way home. Got out of the car, went straight to her room.”

“Is that normal for her?”

“Kind of,” Karina said. “But usually, she doesn’t vanish unless she’s trying to avoid herself.”

She looked down at her hands. Twisted her fingers once. “I think she felt something today. And it scared her.”

A breeze moved across the yard, soft and dry. It carried the faintest sound from the street—a car door, maybe. Then silence again.

“She asked them something,” Karina said. “Ningning just said it was about being wanted.”

I didn’t move.

“She asked if she was being kept around for the fantasy of her.”

That sat in the air for a while.

Karina didn’t look at me when she said it.

“She didn’t mean aespa,” I said.

“No.”

That was all either of us needed to say.

Karina leaned back a little. Her hands were tucked into her sleeves again.

“She's the kind of person who’s always been wanted for the wrong reasons. Looks. Fame. Money.”

“And then she let someone get too close to the real thing,” I said.

Karina looked at me now.

“And when it got quiet,” I added, “she panicked.”

“She’s not the only one,” Karina said.

I raised an eyebrow.

Karina gave a thin smile. “You think I’m like this for fun?”

That got half a breath of a laugh out of me.

She turned her face toward the fence again. “The whole point of being strong all the time is pretending you don’t notice how tired you are.”

She didn’t say it for pity.

Just a fact.

“And now?” I asked.

She was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Now I notice.”

We sat like that for a while. Not touching. Not rushing.

Karina’s voice came softer the next time.

“I’m glad you didn’t disappear.”

“Yet.”

She smirked. “Don’t make me punch you.”

Then, with a glance that cut sharper than it should’ve:

“You’ve been holding it together a little too well,” she said “Sometimes that’s the loudest red flag there is."

I glanced at her. “You think everything’s a red flag.”

“Only when it is.”

I gave a small smile, just enough to pass for unbothered. “Maybe I’m just good at handling shit.”

Karina rolled her eyes. “That’s what people say right before they crash.”

I looked away. “I’m not crashing.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “Just said you’re holding a lot.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Who isn’t?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It kind of is.”

She sighed, but didn’t push harder. Just leaned back against the bench and stared at the fence like it might answer something.

“I don’t need the whole story,” she said after a while. “I just… want to know you’re not white-knuckling everything alone.”

“I’m fine.”

Karina didn’t argue with me. She didn’t nod either. She just sat there. Watching me with the kind of quiet that didn’t feel like pressure—it felt like understanding trying to be patient.

I looked down at my hands. They were steady. Still.

“I’m used to this,” I said. “Being the one who stays calm.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I figured.”

“Good at not making it anyone else’s problem.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then: “Sometimes that just means you stopped expecting anyone to care.”

That stung more than I wanted it to.

But I shrugged, like it hadn’t.

“Look,” I said. “I get it. You’re worried. You want to check in. And I appreciate it.”

“That’s not what this is.”

I looked over.

Karina met my eyes, firm but quiet. “I’m not checking in. I’m here. With you. That’s it.”

I didn’t respond.

But I didn’t look away either.

We sat in silence for a while.

Karina pulled her legs up onto the bench, hugging her knees. Her face looked softer in the dark. Less controlled. Less carved.

“I’m not trying to read you,” she said eventually.

“You are.”

She smiled. “Bad habit.”

I leaned back, elbows on the top of the bench. “You’re not wrong.”

“But you’re not gonna tell me anything.”

I looked at the sky. “Not tonight.”

“That’s fair.”

She let her head rest against the back of the bench, close enough that our shoulders brushed again.

“I used to think staying quiet was strength,” she said. “That being composed meant I was handling it.”

“And now?”

“I think sometimes it just means you’re scared of falling apart in front of the wrong person.”

I looked over. “You think I’m the wrong person?”

“No,” she said. “I think you don’t know if I’m the right one.”

That shut me up for a second.

Karina shifted, stretched her legs back out, one foot brushing mine as she moved.

She wasn’t looking at me anymore. Just out across the yard, the way people do when they’ve said too much and don’t want to see the reaction.

I didn’t speak.

Didn’t touch her.

But I stayed.

Not as an answer.

Just as proof I hadn’t disappeared.

The silence between us had changed.

It wasn’t tense. It wasn’t thick with something unsaid.

It was waiting.

Karina’s foot still rested lightly against mine. Her head tilted back, eyes on the stretch of sky above the fence line. I didn’t need to look at her to know she was still thinking—still holding the weight of the things she hadn’t said.

And then she shifted.

Turned.

Her voice low, but clear.

“You coming back with me?”

I looked over at her.

She wasn’t smirking.

She wasn’t teasing.

She just… meant it.

No game. No pose.

Just want.

I didn’t answer. Not with words. I stood up first, waited for her to do the same.

She did.

She didn’t lead this time. Just walked beside me. Our steps soft across the grass. Through the back door, past the low light of the hallway, down the quiet corridor toward her room.

No one saw us.

Or if they did, no one said anything.

She opened the door and stepped inside. Left it half open behind her.

I closed it.

The room was still. Dim.

She turned toward me and pulled her hoodie off in one slow motion. Her t-shirt clung underneath—thin, worn-in, more sleepwear than outfit. She tossed the hoodie onto a chair, then stepped forward, close enough that I could feel the heat off her skin.

But she didn’t touch me.

Not yet.

She just looked.

“I meant it,” she said.

I didn’t ask what.

But she told me anyway.

“When I said I didn’t want to be in control of everything.”

My chest tightened—but only a little.

Still manageable.

Still quiet.

“Okay,” I said.

Then, softer: “What do you want instead?”

She stepped in, fingers finding the hem of my shirt.

“I want you.”

It wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t loud.

It was steady. Certain.

Like she’d waited long enough to say it clearly.

I let her lift my shirt. Tossed it aside. She kissed me once—quick, focused—then again, slower this time. And this time, it deepened fast. Her hands were on my back, gripping hard like she didn’t want to fall.

But there was no rush.

She didn’t push.

She just pressed closer.

And when she pulled back, breath slightly uneven, she looked at me like she was daring herself to go quiet again—but didn’t.

“Don’t make me tell you what to do,” she said, voice almost a whisper.

I stepped forward.

“Get on the bed,” I murmured.

She exhaled.

Relieved.

Then she moved—no words, no hesitation. Just turned, stepped backward, and climbed onto the mattress. She didn’t pose. Didn’t sprawl. Just sat on her knees in the center, watching me like she needed to see how far I was going to take it.

Her breath hitched once when I stopped at the edge of the bed.

“Lie back.”

She did.

Flat. Head tilted slightly, hair spilling over the pillow.

I climbed over her, slow and deliberate, one knee between hers, the other caging her leg. My hands pressed down on either side of her ribs, just enough weight to let her feel I was everywhere now.

“You’re not in control,” I said quietly.

Karina nodded.

“Say it.”

“I’m not in control.”

My hand came up, fingers sliding gently along her jaw. Then I let my thumb rest just under her chin, tilting her face toward mine.

“And you don’t want to be,” I added.

“I don’t,” she whispered.

Her eyes searched mine. Not afraid. Just wide, focused. Like she wanted to feel what it was like to be looked at without armor.

“You’re going to take what I give you,” I said. “And nothing else.”

“Yes.”

“No begging.”

A slow breath. “Okay.”

“No hiding.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

I kissed her—deep this time, all breath and heat and no space left between. Her legs wrapped around me instantly, hips shifting like her body already knew where it was going. But I didn’t move faster.

I slowed it.

My hand slid under her shirt, skimming her stomach, then up—slow enough to make her arch, barely enough to be cruel.

When I finally pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it aside, she was already panting.

But she didn’t reach for me.

She waited.

Exactly how I wanted her.

I kissed her neck next. Bit lightly. Then dragged my mouth to her collarbone, pressing a hand flat to her chest just to feel her pulse jump under it.

Then I moved that hand higher.

To her throat.

Not choking. Not even tight.

Just resting there.

My thumb brushed the side of her neck, steady pressure.

Her mouth opened.

But she didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to.

Her eyes said it all—yes, please, don’t stop.

I applied a little more pressure—not enough to cut breath, just enough to remind her she’d given it up.

Then I kissed her again, holding her there, body under mine, voice caught somewhere in her chest.

She moaned into my mouth.

It was quiet, choked, honest.

When I pulled back, I kept my hand at her throat.

“Good girl,” I said.

Her whole body reacted.

Her nails dug into the sheets. Her knees squeezed around my hips.

I kissed her temple, then her jaw, then whispered against her ear:

“You’re going to come for me like this.”

She nodded—desperate, silent.

But I wasn’t done.

I shifted lower. Trailed kisses down her chest. Took one nipple into my mouth and sucked, slow and deep, while my other hand slid between her legs.

She gasped.

My fingers found her soaked.

I groaned softly, more for her than for me.

“You were waiting for this.”

She whimpered.

“Say it.”

“Yes—fuck—I was—”

I slid two fingers in, slow and deep.

Her back arched.

I tightened my grip around her throat—still gentle, still measured.

“Stay right there,” I said. “Don’t move.”

Her hips trembled.

But she stayed.

Exactly where I wanted her.

Every breath she took came in pieces—tight, shuddering. Her hips kept rising, chasing my hand like she couldn’t stop herself. I let my fingers stay inside her, slow, deep, curling just right to make her toes flex against the sheets.

My other hand rested at her throat again—gentle pressure, firm enough to remind her.

Her eyes were wide, lips parted, chest rising fast. Her breasts moved with every breath, soft and flushed and begging to be touched again.

I leaned down, brushed my mouth just over hers without kissing her.

“You want to lose it,” I murmured. “Don’t you?”

She gave a small nod.

“That’s not good enough.”

“I—yes,” she gasped. “Yes, I want—fuck—I want to—please—”

My fingers didn’t stop. They moved slower now. Crueler. Keeping her trapped in that ache that sits right before everything breaks.

She squirmed beneath me. Back arching. Nails clawing at the sheets like she needed something to hold on to.

“I’m right there—Mylo—please—”

“No,” I said.

Her moan cracked in the middle. Desperate. Wordless.

“I didn’t say you could.”

She tried to nod, to obey, but her thighs were trembling and her chest was flushed all the way up to her collarbones.

I leaned in again and kissed just beneath her jaw—slow and open-mouthed—then dragged my tongue along her throat where my hand rested.

“You’re doing so fucking well,” I whispered.

She whimpered like praise itself made her wetter.

“But you don’t get to finish until I say you can.”

I bit her collarbone—not hard, just enough to leave a mark.

“Understood?”

“Yes,” she choked. “I swear—I’ll wait—just—”

I cut her off with a kiss, then pulled my fingers from her slowly. She gasped—almost sobbed—at the loss, trying to grind against nothing.

But I wasn’t done.

I brought my hand to her mouth.

“Taste what I got from you.”

She wrapped her lips around my fingers without hesitation, moaning low as her tongue circled them.

“You're mine,” I said. “You get to come when I say you can. Not a second sooner.”

She nodded fast, eyes glassy with need, cheeks flushed and wet where her hair clung to them.

I pushed my hips forward, dragging the length of my cock against her folds—just enough friction, just enough slick—and then pulled back.

She cried out.

“You ready for me?”

“Please,” she breathed.

I pressed forward again—slow, grinding the head of my cock along her clit, teasing her with it, but not giving her more.

She writhed under me.

“Fuck—you’re cruel—”

“No,” I said. “Just patient.”

Then I grabbed her wrists, pinned them above her head, and drove into her with one deep, solid thrust.

Her whole body arched.

A strangled sound came from her throat—half cry, half sob.

“Jesus—”

I didn’t give her a chance to recover. I pulled out, slow, then slammed back in. Again. Again. A pace she couldn’t match, only feel.

Her tits bounced with every thrust, full and soft and flushed. Her legs locked around me.

“You were made for this,” I muttered against her ear. “Weren’t you?”

“Yes—yes, I was—”

Her voice cracked again.

I tightened my grip on her wrists. Pinned her harder.

“Let go,” I said.

“I—”

“I’ve got you. Let go.”

And that’s when she broke.

She came hard.

Not with grace. Not with control. She shattered like she’d been holding it in for days—hips jerking up, breath caught, thighs trembling around my waist.

And I didn’t stop.

I kept thrusting, deep and slow, letting her ride the edge of it while she gasped through the aftershocks. Her eyes fluttered closed, mouth slack, hands twitching where I still held her wrists.

“Too much,” she whispered.

I didn’t slow down.

I leaned in instead. Let my mouth brush her ear.

“That’s the point.”

She moaned—half pain, half bliss—and I kissed her temple, then her neck, while my hips kept the same pace, stretching her open again while her body pulsed around me.

She clawed at the sheets with one hand when I let go, then pulled me closer with the other like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to get away or be ruined again.

“Fuck—fuck—Mylo—”

Her voice cracked beautifully.

“I can’t—”

“You already did.”

She arched again. Full-body. Her breasts bounced with the movement, soft and flushed and still sensitive. I caught one in my hand, squeezed just right, then bent down to take it into my mouth.

She cried out.

Bit down on her own knuckle.

“Fuck—please—just slow down—”

“No.”

I kissed lower. Across her ribs. Down her stomach. Then pulled out with a wet sound that made her whimper from the emptiness.

And just when she started to breathe again, I flipped her.

Fast.

She let out a startled sound as her chest hit the bed, hands braced near the pillow, hair falling across her face. I pushed her knees apart, then leaned over her back, chest flush to her spine.

“I’m not done.”

“Fuck,” she whispered.

My cock dragged against her ass—wet, slick with her, still pulsing. I didn’t thrust in. Not yet. I just ground forward—slow and heavy— humping the curve of her body like I was building tension on purpose.

She buckled back.

I pushed her down.

“Stay.”

She went still.

My hips rolled against her again, lazy, deliberate. The fabric of the sheets rasped against her breasts. My cock pressed between her cheeks without entering, grinding slow over her soaked pussy until she was writhing again.

“You’re not in control,” I growled into her ear.

“I know.”

“You’re not calling the shots.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Good.”

I kept humping her like that. Slow. Cruel. Denying both of us what we needed.

“You want to beg again?”

“No,” she whispered. “I want to be used.”

I watched her hips twitch, legs still spread wide on the bed. Her breath came in sharp gasps, thighs glistening and trembling, her ass raised slightly like her body was trying to stay open even when I denied it.

Then I sat back and said, voice low, calm, brutal:

“Show me how badly you want it.”

She looked over her shoulder, hair in her eyes, completely wrecked.

“What—?”

“You want to come?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Then work for it.”

I leaned back on my heels, grabbed her hips, and pulled her on her back—not into me, just onto my thigh. She moaned, a high breathless sound, then realized what I was doing.

Her face flushed deep.

She was still trembling when I spoke again.

“Ride my leg.”

She hesitated.

And that pause—that pause—told me everything.

She was embarrassed.

Turned on enough to be shaking, but embarrassed.

And I loved that.

“I want to watch you hump like a needy little slut,” I said. “Since that’s what you are right now.”

She let out a broken sound.

Then slowly—shakily—began to move.

Her thighs flexed as she started grinding herself against me. Not graceful. Not practiced. Just raw. Desperate. The drag of her soaked pussy against my thigh slick and hot.

“That’s it,” I murmured. “Keep going.”

She moaned, biting her bottom lip, hands clutching at my knee for leverage. Her hips rolled hard, rubbing herself fast along my thigh. Each motion left her gasping.

“Faster.”

She obeyed.

Her tits bounced wildly, sweat glistening between them, her face burning with shame and pleasure as she humped me.

“Look at you,” I said, brushing her hair back roughly. “Humping like you’ll die if you don’t come.”

“I—f-fuck—please—”

“Please what?”

“I—ahhh—I want to—please—I’m gonna—”

“No you’re not.”

She whined—loud, desperate—and kept grinding harder.

“Even if I beg?” she panted.

“Especially if you beg.”

I grabbed her jaw, pulled her face up to mine.

“You’ll come when I make you come. Not a second before.”

She nodded, legs trembling beneath her.

“I want to see you ruin yourself trying.”

That pushed her over the edge—not into orgasm, but into need. Her whole body started shaking. She moaned uncontrollably, thighs clenching around mine, mouth open in a silent cry as her clit dragged across my thigh in desperate, slick circles.

She was a mess. Humiliated. Completely under my control.

And loving it.

Her hands reached out like she needed something to cling to.

I gave her nothing.

Just my leg.

Just my voice.

“Keep humping,” I said. “And don’t you fucking come.”

She kept going.

Not because she wanted to impress me.

Not because she had something to prove.

Because she was past the point of reason—driven by the need to come, to be allowed, to be owned in the only way that would break her clean.

Her body shook against mine, thighs slick and trembling, hips grinding frantically against my leg. Her eyes were glassy, lips swollen, flushed skin glowing with sweat and need. She looked wrecked—and still she moved.

“I can’t,” she gasped. “Mylo—fuck—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” I said, gripping her ass to keep her pressed against me. “You will.”

“I’m—I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not.”

She sobbed—high, trembling, desperate. It wasn’t just begging anymore. It was pleading from someplace deep. Her face crumpled as her hips twitched harder.

“I’m trying,” she cried.

“I know.”

“I want to be good for you—fuck—I’ll do anything—”

“You already are,” I whispered. “But you don’t come until I say so.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, breath breaking apart into short, choking gasps.

Her rhythm faltered.

She was right there. Teetering.

I let her grind again—once, twice, hard enough to make her whole body convulse—then I grabbed her hips and lifted her off me.

She screamed.

Wordless. Raw.

Her head dropped to my shoulder. Her whole body shook.

“Why—why—”

I kissed her jaw, her temple.

“Because I’m not done with you yet.”

She was crying now—quiet tears, barely a sound—but her body didn’t pull away. It curled in tighter. Hands gripping my arms like she needed them to stay grounded.

“I can’t take much more,” she whispered.

I held her still.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “You can.”

I laid her back gently onto the bed, and climbed over her again. Her legs parted instantly, involuntarily.

“I’m gonna fuck you now.”

She nodded—shaky, wrecked.

“I want it.”

“I know.”

I lined myself up, rubbed the head of my cock along her slit, then looked her in the eye.

“You're gonna be my good girl?”

She nodded quickly, too fast, eyes wide.

“Yes. Yes, I swear—please—”

“Then take it.”

I thrust in—slow but deep. Every inch.

She screamed again, but this time it wasn’t pain or desperation.

It was relief.

Pure, overwhelming, body-shattering relief.

Her walls clamped around me like she’d been made to hold me there. Her arms wrapped around my back. Her breath caught and broke again and again as I started to move—slow and brutal.

“You’re mine,” I whispered. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours, Mylo, I’m yours—”

And then I gave her what she needed.

I drove into her like I owned her.

Because in that moment—I did.

Her legs wrapped around me, ankles hooked behind my back, locking me in. Her hands tangled in the sheets like she didn’t trust herself not to fall straight through the mattress. She met every thrust like her body was done pretending to have boundaries—just open, raw, and wanting.

“Harder,” she begged, voice cracked.

I gave it to her.

The bed creaked under us. Her tits bounced with every movement, slick and swollen, flushed all the way to the tops of her shoulders. She was moaning without rhythm now, lost in it—gripping me, pulling me, dragging me in deeper every time.

“You gonna come?” I asked.

She nodded frantically. “Please—please—I’m so close—”

“Then come.”

She did—loud, full-body, completely broken. Her thighs clenched around my hips, her mouth open in a cry that barely sounded like her anymore. Her eyes squeezed shut as her whole body seized, shaking with every pulse.

But I didn’t stop.

Not right away.

I slowed down—let her feel it all the way through, hips still moving, slow and deep, just enough to overstimulate her, just enough to make her whimper.

“Can’t—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

She sobbed. “I—”

I grabbed her jaw, leaned in, kissed her hard.

“You’re done when I say you are,” I said against her lips. “Not when you think you are.”

She moaned into my mouth, body twitching under mine, completely surrendered.

I fucked her through it—until she went still beneath me, body limp, trembling, breath ragged.

Then I pulled out.

She whimpered at the loss, at the emptiness.

But I was already moving.

I knelt beside her, gripped her hair gently, then guided her down.

She didn’t need direction.

She took me in her mouth like she was starving for it—lips wet, mouth open, eyes still teary and glassy as she sucked me deep. Her tongue curled around the head, her cheeks hollowing as she worked me over with messy, eager devotion.

“Just like that,” I groaned. “Don’t stop.”

Her moan vibrated against my cock.

I gripped her hair tighter, started thrusting into her mouth—slow at first, then faster, deeper. She took it all, drool spilling down her chin, eyes rolling up with each thrust, hands gripping my thighs for balance.

“You look so fucking good like this,” I growled. “On your knees for me. Wrecked. Obedient.”

She whimpered around me.

I held her in place.

“Swallow it.”

Then I came.

Deep in her mouth.

Hot and thick and heavy.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just took it—eyes half-lidded, lips wrapped around me, swallowing every drop.

I held her there until I was done.

Until I could breathe again.

Then I let go.

She pulled back slowly, licking her lips, face flushed, hair a mess, chest still rising fast.

I leaned down.

Brushed a thumb across her mouth.

“You did good.”

She gave the smallest smile.

And then she collapsed back onto the bed.

Quiet. Spent. Glowing.

And this time—I lay down beside her.

No orders. No pressure.

Just calm.

The kind of calm that meant something had changed.

Not finished.

Just shifted.

For both of us.

Karina hadn’t moved much.

She was still on her back, hair splayed out, one arm draped over her stomach like she wasn’t sure what to do with her body yet. Her eyes were half-open. Her chest rose slowly with each breath.

I stayed close.

Not touching.

Just there.

The silence between us had changed again—no longer tense or waiting. Just quiet. Tired. Real.

She turned her head a little toward me.

“I know I keep saying this, but I meant what I said earlier,” she murmured.

I didn’t ask which part.

She kept going.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

Her voice was softer now. No command. No challenge. Just a truth spoken carefully, like it could crack if pushed the wrong way.

I looked at her.

She was still flushed. Still wrecked. But something in her face had cleared—like letting go hadn’t weakened her, just peeled something away.

“I’ve never been good at saying stuff like this,” she continued. “But... some people can be trusted.”

Her gaze met mine.

“And maybe you’re not used to that. Maybe it’s easier not to believe it. But it doesn’t make it less true.”

I swallowed, jaw tight.

She didn’t say anything else. Just looked at me. Let me sit with it.

The air was drier that day. I remember that. I was sitting on a porch. Not mine. Not anyone’s I knew. Just a porch in a neighborhood I didn’t belong in, watching the light change as evening crept in. My bag was at my feet. My arms were wrapped around my knees. I hadn’t slept in days.

Then the door creaked open. “Hey.” The voice was older. A woman. Warm. “You’ve been out here a while.” I didn’t answer. She didn’t press. Just opened the door wider. “You want to come inside?” I looked up. She didn’t flinch when our eyes met. Didn’t pity me, either. “We’ve got food,” she said. “And a couch.”

I don’t remember walking in. I remember the smell, though—something like cinnamon and laundry. There was a fan running. The TV was on, low volume. Someone else was in the kitchen, talking to a dog like it was a person. I stood near the wall like I didn’t trust any of it. “Name?” “Mylo.” She smiled. “I’m Cara. That’s Bill. You can stay a night if you need to.” “Why?” Her smile didn’t change. “Because it looks like you’ve run out of places to go.”

Back in the room, Karina was still watching me.

I must’ve drifted longer than I thought, because her expression had changed—slightly more alert now, brow just starting to knit.

“You okay?” she asked.

I nodded. A beat too slow.

“Yeah.”

Karina didn’t press.

But she didn’t look away either.

“Some people really can be trusted,” she said again. Quiet. Like she was repeating it for both of us.

And I almost believed her.

Almost.

Karina drifted off with her hand still barely touching mine.

She didn’t say anything before she closed her eyes. Just shifted slightly, murmured something half-formed, and exhaled. One deep, steady breath—and she was gone.

I stayed there for a while, eyes on the ceiling, heart quiet but alert. Her skin was warm beside me. Her scent still clung to the sheets. It should’ve felt comforting.

It didn’t.

Not in a bad way.

Not in a good way either.

Just… muted.

Like it had happened to someone else.

After a few more minutes, I slipped out of bed.

Softly. No rush. Careful not to wake her.

I gathered my clothes. Moved like I’d done it before. Like I’d learned how not to leave a trace when I walked away.

The door clicked shut behind me.

The hallway was still.

Quiet, but not heavy. Just late.

I walked barefoot across the floor, down to the end of the hall, then into the bathroom. The fan was humming softly behind the mirror light. There was a towel hanging over the edge of the sink, still damp.

I turned on the tap. Let cold water run over my hands. Splashed my face. Let it drip.

The reflection stared back.

My eyes looked tired.

Not in the usual way.

Not the kind that sleep could fix.

I toweled off and caught the smallest mark on my collarbone—faint, red, already fading. Karina’s nails. Or maybe her mouth. Something that should’ve felt intimate.

I touched it.

Felt nothing.

No shame. No heat. No tenderness.

Just skin.

I looked at myself longer than I should’ve.

Trying to find the version of me that belonged here.

The one they thought they were getting.

The one who was stable. Useful. Capable of being wanted without breaking.

The mirror didn’t offer anything back.

Eventually, I turned off the light.

But right before I did, I caught my own expression.

I was smiling.

Not wide. Not warm.

Just practiced.

Like it was something I’d taught myself to wear.

I dried my hands. Left the bathroom.

Didn’t check if anyone was awake.

Didn’t check the time.

Just walked slowly back to the guest room and sat on the edge of the bed. My bag was still at the foot of it, half-zipped. My phone on the nightstand. Still no new notifications.

I sat there a while.

Breathing.

Not thinking.

Not feeling.

Just... sitting.

And somewhere in the back of my head, I heard Karina’s voice again.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

I blinked.

And then I told myself—quietly, carefully:

If I keep this going, they won’t ask.

And I believed it.

Enough to keep breathing.

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 6┃ Harder to pretend

Male reader x Karina

Word count: 6.3k

Tags: squirting, dom/sub, orgasm denial, praise, dirty talk, teasing

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5

She kept looking.

Long enough that I felt it—not in a self-conscious way. Not like I had something to hide. But like I was being seen too clearly. Like she was starting to understand something about me I hadn’t decided to show yet.

I gave her a small smile.

“Thinking of drawing me?”

Her brow didn’t lift. Her lips didn’t move. She just leaned in slightly, resting her chin on my chest like she hadn’t heard me.

“I’m trying to figure out what you’re not saying,” she said.

I didn’t answer. Because for me to answer that, I’d have to know the answer first.

Her fingers curled lightly against my ribs. Not holding on. Just there.

After a few seconds, she pulled away, climbed to her feet, and stretched. The sheet slipped a little, but she didn’t reach for it. She caught me looking.

Then she smiled.

“I’m gonna shower,” she said.

I nodded.

She grabbed her shirt, tugged it over her head, and padded toward the bathroom without another word.

I stayed where I was.

Let the silence stretch.

Eventually, I moved. Cleaned up the mess on the nightstand. Closed the mini fridge. Re-tightened the lid on the water bottle. The scent of wax still clung to the sheets.

And I felt fine.

Not great. Not glowing. But calm. Steady. Worn down in a good way.

That was the lie I decided to tell myself.

The hallway was empty when I stepped out. Dim morning light leaked through the high windows. A door clicked shut somewhere far off.

I followed the quiet down to the living room.

Ningning was there. On the couch, knees pulled up to her chest, hair damp and curled around her neck. She was holding a bowl of cereal with both hands like it was sacred.

She glanced up when I walked in.

“Hey,” she said, like we were strangers who’d only sort of met.

I nodded back. “Morning.”

There was no tension. No jealousy. No gloating. Just quiet acknowledgment.

“I left the note,” she said after a beat. “Did you eat something?”

“Winter did.”

“You didn’t?”

I hesitated. Then said, “Wasn’t hungry.”

Ningning nodded slowly. “You look like someone who forgets to eat a lot.”

I didn’t respond.

She turned back to the show she had playing on her laptop—muted, some kind of cartoon, bright and fast and loud even without sound. I sat down on the other end of the couch. We didn’t talk.

At some point, I pulled my phone from my pocket. No texts. No missed calls. Just time slipping forward in five-minute increments while the sun crawled into the corners of the room.

Then—

“Can I ask you something?” she said, eyes still on the screen.

“Sure.”

She didn’t ask right away. Just pressed her thumb into her bowl, watching the milk slosh.

“What’s the worst thing someone’s ever said to you?”

I looked over at her.

Her voice hadn’t changed.

She didn’t look at me. Just said, “You don’t have to answer.”

I thought about it.

And I was about to say something—

When Karina’s voice cut in from the hallway.

“We have that Zoom thing in twenty.”

Ningning jumped slightly. “Oh, right.”

She stood, dumped the rest of her cereal into the sink, then looked at me again.

There was a question in her eyes. Not about the worst thing. About me.

She didn’t ask it.

She just said, “Later,” and padded down the hall.

I sat back.

Stared at the screen for a while.

Then at nothing.

And the feeling came creeping in again—not all at once, not sharp. Just a slow pressure behind the ribs. A weight that didn’t belong there.

Like something was trying to surface.

But that was probably just because I haven't eaten yet.

I stayed on the couch after Ningning left.

Long enough for the muted show to end. Long enough for my legs to go stiff. I didn’t notice how tense I was until I stood up and my spine popped like an old floorboard.

I stretched, wandered into the kitchen.

The croissant box was still open.

I shut it without looking.

Footsteps behind me. Louder than Ningning’s. Slower.

Karina.

She was wearing all black—sweats, tank top, hair half-tied like she couldn’t be bothered to finish it. She didn’t say anything at first. Just walked in and opened the fridge.

She pulled out a protein drink, popped the cap, took a sip. Her eyes met mine over the rim.

“You’re still here,” she said.

It wasn’t cold. Not exactly. But it wasn’t warm either.

“Morning,” I said.

She nodded once. Then leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, bottle resting against her wrist.

Silence.

I waited. Let it stretch.

Finally, she said, “You’ve been spending a lot of time here.”

“I can leave.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You think you can read me?”

“No. Just recognizing the tone.”

Another pause.

Then: “I don’t have a problem with you.”

“Doesn’t sound like you don’t.”

She exhaled through her nose. Not quite a sigh. More like she was trying not to sigh.

“I’m responsible for them,” she said. “All of them. And when new variables show up—especially ones that affect the dynamic—it’s my job to know what those variables want.”

I blinked. “So I’m a variable?”

“You’re not family. You’re not staff. You’re not press. And you’re sure as hell not invisible.”

She said it without malice. Just fact.

I nodded slowly.

Then I smiled. “You practiced that one?”

A flicker of something in her eyes. Almost amusement. Almost.

“I’ve said it before.”

“Of course you have.”

Karina didn’t reply. She took another sip. Then looked past me—toward the hall. Like she was tracking where the others were. How much time she had left to speak freely.

I didn’t move.

She looked at me again.

“Do you want something from them?” she asked.

There it was.

I looked at her. Long enough that she started to fidget with the bottle cap.

"No," I said "not the way you're thinking."

She didn’t answer.

Just pushed off the counter and said, “We’re leaving in a bit. Don’t be here too long.”

Then she walked past me.

But just before she turned the corner, she stopped.

Not turned. Just… paused.

Then she said, “Don’t hurt them.”

I went back to Winter’s room after the front door shut.

The house was quiet again. Fully this time. No footsteps. No voices. Just the distant hum of a fridge and the faint buzz of a light that needed replacing.

Winter was gone.

So was the wax. The water bottle. The sheets had been pulled off the bed and dumped into a basket in the corner.

The window was cracked open. A little breeze moved the curtain.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and let the silence settle over me.

I tried not to think about Karina’s voice. Her phrasing. The way she’d looked at me like I was already an answer to a problem she didn’t want to have.

Don’t hurt them.

I wasn’t sure if it was meant as a warning or a plea.

I stayed there for a while.

Just listening to the silence.

Just trying to breathe through whatever was building in my chest.

I didn’t move right away.

The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful anymore. It pressed in, thick around the ribs. Not unbearable, not loud—just there. The kind of quiet that made your own thoughts louder.

I stared at the window for a while.

Then at the floor.

Then at my hands.

There was wax under my fingernails. Faint marks on my skin from Winter’s nails. A line on my arm I didn’t remember getting. All of it felt distant, like it had happened to someone else.

Eventually, I got up and grabbed the sheets from the basket. Found the washer tucked into a corner of the hall closet and fed them in. The sound of the machine kicking on gave the house a pulse again. Something real. Something mechanical.

The bathroom was empty. No sign of Winter. Just fog on the mirror and a towel still damp on the rack. I ran cold water over my wrists and splashed my face. Let it drip down my jaw and over my collarbone.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

Didn’t hold the stare.

Just dried off and left.

I walked through the house barefoot. No real aim. Just enough momentum to keep from standing still.

There was a book open on the coffee table, spine cracked, page corners folded like someone couldn’t decide which parts mattered most.

One of the windows was cracked, just like in Winter’s room. A breeze carried through, warm and almost sweet.

And that’s when it happened.

Nothing big. Just a glint.

There was a receipt half-tucked under the couch.

Folded once. Creased along the edges. The kind of thing you’d toss without thinking.

I bent down and picked it up.

Didn’t mean to.

Just… did.

The paper was thin, slightly smudged from the floor. Boutique logo in the corner. Just a total at the bottom:

$4,700.

One item. No name. No note.

My fingers twitched.

The paper was on the counter. Folded once. Nothing dramatic. I only opened it because it looked out of place. Too clean. Like it didn’t belong in our kitchen. One of those carbon-copy receipts. Cash payment. Two signatures at the bottom. One of them his.

The total was written in blue ink: $4,700.00 No item. No reason. No names. Just a number and a date. I don’t remember what I thought at first. Maybe it was for the car. Maybe they were renting something. Maybe it had nothing to do with me.

He had been coming over more. He brought things. Food sometimes. Ice cream, once. Strawberry. He always smiled too wide, like it hurt him not to. My mom told me to sit up straight when he was there. Told me to be respectful. That he was helping us. She started checking in on us less and less. When I said I didn’t like him—she told me not to be ungrateful. That night, he touched my shoulder. Not like a hug. Not a pat. Just a hold. He said, “You’re growing fast.” And I smiled. Because I didn’t know what else to do.

I put the paper back down.

Didn’t read the rest.

I didn’t want to.

By the time I got back to the guest room, my pulse had kicked up. I told myself it was just from walking fast. Or not sleeping.

But when I sat down, I realized I was still gripping my hand too tight.

Still feeling that old weight coil somewhere deep behind the ribs.

Or maybe I'm just tired.

Yeah. That's all it is.

I stayed on the edge of the bed until the quiet stopped feeling like rest.

Then I got up.

I wandered the house for a bit—hallway, kitchen, past the washer still thumping behind a thin wall. Sunlight had shifted. The croissant box hadn’t moved.

I didn’t realize I was by the front window until the door opened behind me.

Soft click.

Footsteps. Unhurried. Certain.

Karina.

“You’re still here,” she said.

I looked over.

She’d changed. Black jacket, clean lines. Hair pulled back. Sunglasses in one hand. The kind of look that didn’t ask questions—it waited for you to say something wrong.

“I don’t keep a schedule,” I said.

She passed me without breaking stride. Opened the fridge. Grabbed a drink. Shut the door like it settled something.

“You eat?”

“No.”

She unscrewed the cap, drank, didn’t blink. Then leaned back against the counter, bottle cradled in one hand. Watching.

“Something get to you?”

“No.”

She tilted her head slightly, like she was scanning for a crack in the surface. “That’s a fast answer.”

“It’s a boring question.”

She smirked.

Then, after a moment: “You act like letting someone do something for you is the same as giving them control.”

I didn't ask her what she was talking about.

Just looked at her. “And you act like doing things for people is the same as protecting them.”

That stopped her for a second.

Then: “So we’re both exhausting.”

“Looks like it.”

She didn’t smile. But something eased in her stance—like she’d been bracing for a different kind of pushback.

We stood there, the hum of the fridge filling the space between us.

Then she said, voice low but steady, “Whatever’s eating at you—just be careful who you try to hide it from.”

I didn’t reply.

She stepped past me again. Almost out the door.

Then paused.

Didn’t turn around. Just said, “You don’t owe anyone a role to play.”

And then she was gone.

I stayed in the kitchen a little too long after that.

The bottle she left behind was still cold. Half-full. I moved it to the side, like that meant something.

The house had gone quiet again.

But not peaceful. Just… expectant.

I walked the loop once—past the living room, down the hallway, back to the front. No one else had come back. The door stayed closed.

When I passed the kitchen again, Karina was there.

I didn’t hear her come in. She wasn’t by the fridge this time—she was at the counter, checking something on her phone, brows drawn just slightly like whatever it was didn’t quite sit right.

Her jacket was gone. Her sleeves pushed up.

“You always pace like that?” she asked, not looking up.

“I didn’t know I was pacing.”

“You were.”

I leaned against the doorframe.

She glanced up. Studied me for a second. Then set her phone face down and walked to the sink. Started rinsing out a mug that wasn’t hers.

“Where’s everyone else?”

She shrugged. “Still out.”

“You came back early.”

“I had a headache.”

She dried the mug. Didn’t elaborate.

I waited for her to say something else. She didn’t.

“I can go,” I offered.

Karina looked over her shoulder.

One long glance.

“No one asked you to.”

That could’ve meant anything.

I didn’t move.

She turned back to the sink. Wiped down the counter with one of those practiced, unnecessary motions people do when they’re thinking about something else.

“You always this twitchy when it gets quiet?” she asked.

“I’m not twitchy.”

She set the cloth down. “You flinched when I walked in.”

I hadn’t.

At least—I didn’t think I had.

But I didn’t argue.

Karina leaned back against the counter again. Arms crossed. She didn’t speak for a moment.

Then: “You’re not what I expected.”

That was it. Not a compliment. Not an accusation. Just a fact.

I met her eyes. “Good or bad?”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

We just stood there—two people who weren’t used to being read, trying to decide if the other one already had.

The tension didn’t come from anger. Or lust. Or even suspicion.

It came from recognition.

Not of who we were.

But of what we were hiding.

Karina didn’t move.

Neither did I.

The silence didn’t press—it pulled. Like gravity shifting. Like we were both calculating what happened if one of us made the first move.

She looked at me again. Not challenging. Not coaxing. Just... there. Like she wasn’t going to fill the silence for me.

So I filled it.

“Are you always this hard to talk to?”

Her mouth twitched. “Says the guy who deflects every chance he gets.”

My chest tightened. Brief. Automatic.

But I covered it. "I don''t.”

“I see a lot.”

That wasn’t a brag.

Just a fact.

I held her gaze. She didn’t look away.

“Then what do you see now?”

Karina’s arms stayed crossed. Her jaw worked slightly—like the question hadn’t surprised her, but the weight of it had.

Finally, she said, “Someone trying really hard not to need anything.”

That stung a little more than it should.

But I didn’t show it.

She stepped forward.

Just a little.

Enough for the air between us to shift.

“I don’t care what you’ve done. Or what you think you’re hiding,” she said. “Just don’t lie to me. Not here.”

I wanted to say I wasn’t.

But I didn’t.

Because she’d know that was a lie too.

Karina stood there, looking at me like she was still deciding something. Like some part of her had already decided and she just wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

Her next words came quieter. Slower.

“I don't dislike you," she said "And I don’t like most people.”

“Lucky me.”

She didn’t smile.

But she didn’t step back either.

Then, almost under her breath—like she wasn’t even sure I was supposed to hear it:

“Come with me.”

And this time, when she walked, I followed.

She didn’t wait to see if I was behind her.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t glance back.

Just walked.

Down the hall. Past the guest room. Past the living room. Toward the quieter end of the house—the part I hadn’t seen yet. Her steps were quiet. Measured. Not fast. Not slow. Just… deliberate.

Like this wasn’t a new decision.

Just one she’d been waiting to act on.

She stopped in front of a closed door. Tapped the frame once with her knuckles. Then opened it.

Her room.

It was spare. Clean. Lived-in but private. No clutter. A few books stacked neatly beside the bed. A phone charger coiled in a dish. Light coming in from a tall window, filtered through half-drawn curtains.

Karina stepped inside and let the silence settle for a beat.

Then turned.

Not facing me directly. Just glancing over her shoulder like she was giving me one last out.

“You coming in, or do I need to drag you?”

I stepped in.

Closed the door behind me.

She stood by the bed. Not waiting. Not posing. Just… watching.

Like she wanted to see what I did first.

I didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak.

Just let the air shift again.

Then I reached for her wrist.

Slow.

Measured.

Not to pull her closer—but to see if she’d stop me.

She didn’t.

Her pulse was steady.

Her eyes didn’t drop.

But the second I brushed my thumb across the inside of her wrist, I felt it.

That tension.

Not fear.

Control.

Held tight. Reinforced. Hardened.

Like she’d built something out of it—and wasn’t sure how to let go.

I moved closer.

Close enough to feel the heat off her skin.

But I didn’t kiss her.

Not yet.

She tilted her chin up slightly. That same challenge from before—not verbal. Not overt.

Just a look that said: You really want this?

And a look that answered: I didn’t follow you in here by accident.

Finally—finally—Karina leaned in.

Close enough I could count her breaths.

And said, just above a whisper:

“Don’t think this means anything.”

I smiled. “You say that like it has to.”

Then I kissed her.

And everything tightened.

Her hands found the hem of my shirt. Mine tangled in the knot of her waistband. Our mouths didn’t fit perfectly—too much force, too little hesitation—but that was the point.

This wasn’t gentle.

This wasn’t careful.

This was two people who didn’t like losing control—deciding to share it, just for a little while.

And neither of us planned to be the first to break.

Karina didn’t flinch.

The kiss deepened. Less careful now. Still sharp, but starting to unravel.

Her fingers slid into my hair.

I let her take the lead.

She kissed like she argued—without flinching, without apology. Like she knew exactly where her limits were and had no interest in staying behind them.

Her teeth scraped my lip. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to warn.

I bit back a sound.

That made her smile against my mouth.

And then she stepped back.

Only far enough to look at me fully.

“Sit,” she said.

I didn’t move.

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you always hesitate this much?”

“I’m just curious what happens if I don’t.”

That earned me another one of those not-quite-smiles.

She pushed me gently toward the couch. Not rough. Just firm.

I let her.

She straddled me the second I sat down. One knee on either side. Her hands resting on my chest like she wasn’t planning on being gentle.

Then she kissed me again—deeper this time. With purpose.

Like she was writing something she didn’t want to say out loud.

My hands ran down her back. Slid under the hem of her shirt. Her skin was warm. Tight over muscle. Soft in all the right places.

She reached between us, unbuttoned my jeans, slow and practiced. Then tugged them down just enough.

I groaned.

She didn’t react. Just pulled her shirt off over her head and tossed it somewhere behind her. No theatrics. No hesitation.

Her bra was plain. Black. Practical.

She didn’t take it off.

Just reached behind her and unclasped it slowly—like she wanted me to see, not touch.

Then she held my eyes and said, quiet and flat, “You don’t get to cum yet.”

My pulse jumped.

She smiled like that was the point.

Then she shifted forward—grinding against me just enough to make my whole body clench.

“Hands stay here,” she said, guiding them to her hips.

I didn’t argue.

Her rhythm started slow. Measured. Like she was using me. Like she was getting herself off on my restraint.

Her breath hitched once. But she didn’t speed up. Didn’t give me more. Just kept circling her hips—just enough pressure, just enough friction. Her hands dug into my shoulders, fingers flexing in time with her movements.

I clenched my jaw. Bit back the urge to thrust up into her.

She noticed.

And smirked.

“Good boy,” she whispered, voice low and wicked in my ear.

Then she kissed my throat. Bit it.

I swallowed a sound I didn’t want to give her.

But she could feel it. The tension in my thighs. The way my breath stuttered every time her hips pressed down too hard.

She was doing this on purpose.

Driving me to the edge without letting me fall.

I didn’t stop her.

Not yet.

Because part of me wanted to know how far she’d go.

Her hands didn’t tremble.

They moved with a kind of precision that wasn’t born from caution—but intent. Like she'd already played this scene out in her mind a hundred times. Like she'd measured every nerve she was about to touch and knew exactly how long it would take to unravel them.

She sank to her knees in front of me.

Not submissive.

She looked up once, eyes catching mine—not asking for permission, but daring me to flinch.

I didn’t.

But my breath hitched when her hands met my hips.

She didn’t undress me right away. Just held me there. Fingers spread over the waistband of my pants. Palms warm. Steady. Anchoring me to the moment while her gaze flicked lower, calculating.

Then she said, "Don’t move."

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

She started pulling on my pants slowly.

And when she freed me, her touch wasn't gentle. It was clinical. Possessive. She wrapped her fingers around me like she owned the next few minutes of my life. Like she was about to write something into my skin I wouldn't be able to erase.

She didn’t start stroking. Not yet. Just held me there, weight firm in her hand, thumb brushing once along the underside—a barely-there tease that made me bite back a sound.

She noticed.

She always noticed.

And that smirk returned. Darker now. Less amused. More... hungry.

Her mouth came next.

But not to take me in.

She kissed the inside of my thigh.

Then the other.

Then higher. Closer.

But never where I needed her.

She was methodical. Borderline cruel. Her lips grazed everything but the one place they were supposed to be. And her hands never let up—fingers curled tight, pressure perfect. Just enough to keep me hard. Just enough to keep me waiting.

She liked waiting.

"How long do you think you can hold off?" she asked, her voice low, lips brushing the base of me with each word.

I didn’t answer.

She rewarded the silence with teeth.

Just a graze. Barely pressure. But I jerked anyway.

She laughed.

Not sweet. Not cruel. Just sure.

"Already twitchy."

She finally took me into her mouth then—but not deep. Just the tip. Her tongue pressed firm underneath, circling once, twice, then pulling back. Her hand took over again. A few strokes. Slow. Measured.

Then nothing.

She let go.

She stood.

My hands went to her waist instinctively, but she caught my wrists mid-air.

"No," she said.

And pushed me back.

Hard.

I stumbled until my back hit the nearest wall.

She followed. Pressed her body against mine. One hand sliding between us to grip me again, the other pressing against my throat—not choking. Just there. Just a promise.

She kissed me then.

Mouth demanding. Tongue insistent. Her grip on me never eased. Every movement was calculated. Like she was testing how much it would take. How long I'd last.

She started stroking again. Slow at first. Then faster. Then slow again. Her pace was a lie. Her rhythm a trap. She'd bring me to the edge and let me feel the weight of it.

Then stop.

Every. Single. Time.

And she loved it.

Her breath hit my ear. "You don’t get to finish until I say you can."

I let out a breath that sounded too much like a groan.

Her smile was teeth. Predatory.

"Say it," she demanded.

I swallowed. "I don’t get to finish until you say I can."

"Good boy."

She grinded against my thigh then—not to tease me, but herself. Her hips moved like she had something to prove. Like she was going to come from control alone.

She almost did.

Even as her hips moved—slow, firm, measured—she kept her hand braced against my chest, nails digging in just enough to remind me who was on top. But I didn’t fight it. Not yet. I let her use me the way she needed.

My hands stayed low, palms steady on the curve of her waist. She rocked forward again. Harder this time. Her breath caught. But I didn’t groan. Didn’t buck. I just held her there, letting her feel how calm I still was.

She noticed.

There was the smallest flicker of hesitation in the way her rhythm stuttered. Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re being quiet,” she said.

I didn’t answer.

She leaned closer. Pressed her mouth to my ear. “Say something.”

I turned my head just enough to meet her gaze. “I thought you liked being the one in charge.”

She stared at me. For a beat. Maybe two. Then she moved again—rougher now, her nails dragging lower, her mouth brushing mine like a dare.

“You think you’re handling this?” she whispered.

“No.”

A pause.

“But I’m handling you.”

She tried not to react. But her breath shook just a little when I pushed my hips up—slow, deliberate—meeting her motion instead of letting her ride it.

Her mouth parted.

My hands slid higher. One at her lower back, the other between her shoulder blades. Not forcing. Just anchoring.

Guiding.

The next time she moved, I moved with her.

And she felt it.

Her pace faltered.

Not because she was losing control—but because she knew I wasn’t following anymore.

Still gentle. Still careful. But she could feel it. The shift. Her hands came down to my chest again—less to dominate, more to steady herself.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” she said, breathless.

“Doing what?”

Her eyes narrowed. She leaned down—bit my bottom lip. Hard enough to sting. But when I pulled her closer, it was without flinching.

“You like being on top,” I said. “But I think you'd like being taken care of more..”

She froze.

Just long enough for me to flip us.

I didn’t slam her down. Didn’t yank. It was smooth—fluid. She gasped as her back hit the mattress, legs still around my waist, one arm caught between us.

My hand caught her jaw.

Not hard. But firm.

“You good?”

She nodded once. Breathless.

“Say it.”

“I’m good.”

My thumb brushed her cheek. “Then don’t stop me.”

She didn’t.

Didn’t try to flip us back. Didn’t try to claw her way out.

She just laid there—eyes dark, lips parted—and let the change settle.

And I started to move.

Deliberate. Focused. Controlled.

The way she had moments ago.

Only now it was me setting the rhythm.

Me deciding how far she got to fall.

Karina didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Her breath told me everything—sharp when I pressed in deeper, soft when I slowed. Her hands gripped the sheets now, knuckles pale against the dark cotton. Her body tried to keep the pace, but I kept shifting it—just enough to stay ahead of her, just enough to remind her she wasn’t the one driving anymore.

I caught both her wrists and pinned them gently above her head.

She tensed.

Not from fear.

She didn’t fight.

Just looked up at me, eyes locked, breath shallow.

I leaned down until our foreheads touched. My voice was quiet.

“Stay.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t need to.

I let one hand slide down—slow, dragging from her collarbone to her sternum, then between her breasts. Her skin jumped under my touch. I traced small shapes across her ribs. Her hips bucked.

She was trying to be still.

But her body was betraying her.

“You hold tension in weird places,” I murmured. “Here. Here.”

My thumb pressed into the hollow beneath her hip.

“And here.”

Her thighs squeezed around me.

“Fuck—”

That was the first time she cracked.

I kissed her.

Didn’t give her time to recover. Just took her mouth while my other hand trailed lower—slow, deliberate, every touch a question she was too breathless to answer.

When I finally pushed in again—deep, slow, cruel in the way it lingered—her whole body arched.

“Fuck—Mylo—”

“You still in control?” I whispered.

Her breath stuttered. “No.”

“Good.”

I didn’t fuck her fast. I fucked her deep. Hard enough to make the headboard thump, slow enough to make her feel every inch. I watched her try to keep up—watched her nails claw the sheets, her jaw slack, her neck arched like surrender.

I let go of her wrists.

She didn’t move them.

I leaned down, lips brushing her ear.

“Come when I say.”

She whimpered.

“Don’t.”

Another thrust—deep, angled just right—and she choked on a moan.

“Please—”

“No.”

I slowed down even more.

Her legs trembled.

I kissed her throat. Bit just lightly beneath her jaw. Her hands tangled above her head like they were the only things anchoring her.

“You like being handled,” I said. “You like being seen.”

Her voice cracked. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” I murmured. “But I’m learning fast.”

Another thrust. Another gasp.

Her breath was coming apart. Her body had started to shake. She wasn’t pretending anymore. Couldn’t. I watched her try to hang on—watched her fall apart in silence.

And I held her there.

Right on the edge.

Right where I wanted her.

Her hands finally broke free.

Not to push me off.

To grab my shoulders—nails digging, pulling like she didn’t care who was watching, like she couldn’t hold the weight anymore.

“Mylo—fuck—”

Her voice was hoarse now, shredded thin from holding back. Her thighs locked around me again, trying to pull me in faster, deeper. I didn’t let her.

I pulled back.

Slowed.

Teased the head of my cock just inside her, barely thrusting. Just enough to keep her right there. Her whole body trembled.

“Please—”

That was the first time she begged.

I didn’t move.

“Use your words.”

“I—” she choked, eyes fluttering open, lips parted. “I need it.”

“Need what?”

“You.”

“More.”

“I—I need to come. Please.”

I gave her one deep thrust. Her back arched like I’d lit a fuse.

Then I stopped again.

She screamed through her teeth, head falling back against the pillow. Her hands grabbed at me like she couldn’t decide whether to push me away or pull me under.

I kissed her jaw. Her temple. Her mouth.

“Say it again.”

“Please,” she gasped. “Please—I need to come—I need it—I can’t—”

“Good girl.”

I didn’t warn her.

I just fucked her.

Hard, deep, relentless. No space to breathe. No time to catch the rhythm—just motion, pressure, heat. Her body seized around me, but I didn’t stop. Her breath broke apart—gasps, curses, wordless cries.

And then she came.

Loud.

Whole-body shaking, legs wrapped tight around me, hands clawing down my back, voice ragged as she screamed through it.

But I didn’t stop.

I kept going.

She tried to pull away—hips twitching, thighs flinching from overstimulation—but I held her still, mouth pressed to her neck, one hand gripping her hip to keep her from slipping out of reach.

“Mylo—fuck, fuck, I—” she sobbed. “I can’t—I—”

“You can.”

“I’m—ahhh—!”

Another orgasm hit her like a shockwave.

Raw.

Messy.

She wasn’t fighting anymore—just writhing, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, sweat glistening down her stomach. Her whole body burned under me, breathless and wrecked.

And I kept going until her voice was gone.

Until her body went slack.

Until she stopped begging—

Because she had nothing left to give.

Only then did I slow down.

Only then did I kiss her again—soft, careful, like I hadn’t just broken her in half.

“You ok?” I whispered.

She didn’t speak.

Just nodded.

Barely.

The room was warm.

Not stuffy. Not heavy. Just warm in the way bodies leave behind—the kind that lives in the air after you’ve been undone.

Karina hadn’t said anything.

She lay flat on her back, one arm over her eyes, the other bent at her side, fingers brushing the sheet. Her breath was mostly steady now. Mostly. But her mouth was still parted slightly, like the air tasted different.

I stayed beside her.

Close, but not too close. Enough that if she moved, I’d feel it. Enough that if she didn’t, I’d still know she was there.

Neither of us reached for the other.

Her hair was a mess. Her lips were bitten. Her chest rose and fell with the same deliberate rhythm she used when she was trying not to react.

It was like watching someone rebuild.

Quietly. Without admitting they’d ever broken.

I let the silence stretch.

No need to rush.

Eventually, I got up. Found her water bottle on the desk. Walked it over, uncapped it, and held it out.

She didn’t move at first.

Then, slowly, she pulled her arm away from her eyes, looked at the bottle, and took it. Not with a thank-you. Not even with a nod. Just… took it. Like it was expected. Like I already knew.

She drank.

Then handed it back.

I set it down.

Still nothing.

Karina turned her face toward the ceiling. Her mouth twitched like she was about to say something, then didn’t. Instead, she closed her eyes again. Her throat moved as she swallowed. Her knuckles flexed once, then stilled.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Didn’t press. Didn’t fill the space.

Eventually, she said, voice soft but even, "You like doing that."

"What?"

"Taking control."

I waited a beat. Then said, "You don’t?"

That got a flicker of something—a breath out that was almost a laugh.

"I like winning," she said.

"Is that what this was?"

She didn’t answer.

I leaned back on my hands. Let the silence resettle.

She glanced at me again, eyes sharp now. Not guarded. Just clear. “You think you read me.”

“I think you wanted to be read.”

That made her sit up slightly. Only a little. Sheet slipping down her back.

“You think I let you?” she asked.

“I think you wanted someone to try.”

Her jaw tensed.

She turned away again, legs drawing up. Elbows on her knees now. Her fingers threaded through her hair.

I stood. Crossed the room. Grabbed her shirt from where it had been dropped. Walked it over. Held it out.

She didn’t look up.

But she took it.

Slid it over her shoulders.

Still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

"You gonna vanish now?" she asked.

I sat down beside her again. “Do you want me to?”

She didn’t respond.

But she didn’t say yes.

And she didn’t move away.

So I stayed.

My fingers brushed hers lightly where they rested on her knee. She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t react.

But she didn’t pull back either.

We stayed like that. Breathing the same air. Sitting in the quiet we’d made together.

Not soft. Not tender. Just calm.

The kind of calm that comes after the storm.

And the kind that says: this isn’t over. Not yet.

Karina shifted beside me, just enough that the sheet rustled between us. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t reach for me. But I felt the pause.

That tiny hesitation before her fingers brushed the edge of my wrist.

I didn’t move.

Her hand didn’t pull away.

For a second, we stayed like that. Not touching, not quite. Just… hovering near something we hadn’t named yet.

She sighed through her nose. Quiet. Controlled.

“I’m not good at this part,” she said.

I didn’t ask what she meant. I knew.

I let my palm slide over hers, slow, not forcing. Just contact. Just weight.

“You don’t have to be,” I said.

Another breath. Longer this time.

“You’re warm,” she murmured, almost like it annoyed her.

I half-smiled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t pull away either.

Her fingers curled slightly around mine.

A long silence passed.

I thought she’d fallen asleep—her breathing had gone shallow again, even—but then, just when I was starting to drift, I felt her shift against me. Her voice came low. Not sleepy.

“You’re pulling back.”

I opened my eyes.

The ceiling above us hadn’t changed.

But something in the room had.

“From what?”

She was quiet for a moment. Then: “Us.”

I didn’t respond.

She turned to face me. Barely a shape in the low light. One hand traced up my chest, paused over my collarbone.

“You don’t let the others notice, do you?”

Her voice wasn’t soft. It wasn’t cruel either. Just… knowing.

I swallowed. “There’s nothing to notice.”

Karina didn’t call me on the lie.

She just nodded, like that was the answer she expected. Then whispered, almost too low to hear:

“Don’t make me chase you.”

That shook me a bit.

Not because she sounded afraid.

But because she didn’t.

I didn’t say anything.

Didn’t promise I wouldn’t disappear.

But my hand stayed over hers.

And for now—that was enough.

PART 7

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 5┃ A little more real

Male reader x Winter Word count: 6.8k Tags: squirting, sensory depravation, temperature play, dirty talk, teasing PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4

Ningning was still curled against me when the light started to change.

Just a thin stripe of gray through the curtains, but enough to make me realize how long we’d been lying there. Her breath had evened out, slower now, but her fingers were still resting over my ribs like she wasn’t ready to let go.

I wasn’t either.

I traced small shapes across her back—half-aware of the soreness in my arm, the ache in my hips, the smell of sweat and skin and sex still clinging to both of us. The sheets were damp. The room was quiet.

And Giselle was gone.

I didn’t hear her leave. But the door was closed.

Ningning shifted against my chest, mumbling something I didn’t catch. I pressed my lips to the crown of her head and whispered, “Go back to sleep.”

She didn’t. Just sighed and let herself go soft again.

It wasn’t awkward. Not yet. But the weight of everything we’d done last night was still hanging in the air. It was... complicated.

I wasn’t sure how long we stayed like that—wrapped up, still tangled in each other—but eventually Ningning stirred and whispered, “You’re warm.”

“You’re clingy.”

She smiled against my collarbone. “Not denying it.”

Her hand drifted down a few inches, fingers teasing along my stomach, and for a second I thought she was going to start something again. But then she stopped, let her hand settle.

"Guess it's morning," she murmured.

“Barely.”

She rolled onto her back, stretched, and winced. “Okay, maybe I overdid it.”

“You? Never.”

She looked at me, eyes still sleepy but sharp. “You should get cleaned up. You look like a crime scene.”

“Thanks.”

She laughed and threw the sheets off herself. Her body was marked in places—faint bruises, scratches, the ghost of red lines where restraints had been. She didn’t cover them. Just moved across the room with the casualness of someone who had nothing to prove.

I stayed in bed, watching her dress. Still naked. Still not sure what today was supposed to be.

When she was halfway through tying her hoodie around her waist, she glanced over her shoulder.

“You staying for breakfast?”

I hesitated. “Is that a thing here?”

“Depends on who’s cooking.”

“And who’s awake.”

She shrugged. “Come find out.”

Then she left.

I lay there for a minute after she left.

The room felt bigger without her in it. Too big. Too quiet. The sheets were still warm where her body had been, but the weight was gone. My body ached in good ways and bad. Muscles worn. Mind fuzzy. My neck still smelled like her perfume, and it hit in a way I wasn’t expecting.

This wasn’t regret.

But it wasn’t simple either.

I sat up, ran a hand through my hair, and took stock. Clothes scattered. Rope on the floor. One of the cuffs still clipped to the bedpost. A pair of panties halfway under the dresser—probably Ningning’s. I didn’t feel the urge to laugh. Just breathed.

It had been a night.

I got up and headed to the bathroom.

The mirror didn’t pull any punches. My hair was wrecked, lips still a little swollen, collarbone scratched. I turned the water on cold and splashed my face. It helped. Not much.

By the time I stepped out again, the house felt different.

Not quieter—just more awake. There was the faint sound of a cabinet shutting. A few distant footsteps. No voices. No music. But someone was up.

I followed the sound toward the kitchen and stopped just outside the doorway.

There she was.

Winter. Standing by the stove, back to me.

Hair tied up in a messy knot, wearing navy sweats and a cropped white hoodie with the sleeves pushed to her elbows. No socks. Just quiet movement, mug in hand, stirring something in a pan like she did it every day.

I blinked. Then I noticed the note on the fridge on the hallway.

“Company meeting. Left early. Winter wanted the place to herself. Don’t bother her. Eat something or I’ll make you.” — Ningning”

There was a little doodle next to the heart. A cat, maybe. Or a strawberry. I couldn’t tell.

I stayed in the hallway a bit longer than I needed to. Just watching. Listening.

Then I stepped inside.

She didn’t turn.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t act surprised that I was there.

I stopped near the doorway.

Winter lifted the pan and scooped scrambled eggs onto a plate like it was any other morning.

Then, without turning:

“Hungry?”

I hesitated. “Yeah. Kind of.”

She nodded once and reached for another plate.

She moved like she was alone.

No tension in her shoulders. No hesitation in her movements. Just a quiet rhythm to everything—lifting plates, sliding toast onto them, pouring coffee. Her hoodie rose a little when she reached for the mugs, revealing a sliver of skin above the waistband of her sweats. She didn’t tug it back down.

I stepped further into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. My body was still catching up to itself. The bruises. The weight of last night. The fact that I was still here.

She finally glanced at me, sliding one of the plates across the counter.

“Eat.”

It wasn’t a request.

“Thanks.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes. Nothing awkward about it. Just... space. She ate slowly, precisely, like every bite was thought out. Like she didn’t waste effort on anything she didn’t need.

“You always cook breakfast?” I asked.

She shrugged. “When I can. Usually it’s just coffee.”

“How domestic of you.”

Her mouth curved slightly. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins the mystique.”

“You mean the whole ice queen thing?”

Another glance. “That what they’re calling me?”

“Not officially.”

She sipped her coffee. “You don’t strike me as the type who listens to rumors.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why bring it up?”

I held her gaze. “Because I don’t know anything else.”

That landed. Not hard. But it landed.

She looked away first. Not in shame. Just choosing not to play the game.

“I get it,” she said. “You’re still trying to figure everyone out.”

“Only when they talk to me.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Another pause. The kind that stretches because no one’s willing to break it.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” she said finally.

“You were quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Noted.”

She tapped her nail lightly against her mug, then looked over at me again. Her eyes weren’t soft. But they weren’t guarded either.

“You’re different,” she said.

“From what?”

“Most people.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

I watched her sip from her mug again, slow and deliberate. She never broke eye contact for long. Even when she looked away, it felt like her attention never actually left me.

“You say that like it’s a compliment,” I said.

“It might be.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You always this vague?”

“Only when I’m still deciding.”

“On what?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Just leaned back against the counter, holding her mug with both hands like it kept her steady.

“Whether or not you’re a problem,” she said.

I smirked. “And?”

“Jury’s still out.”

Her voice wasn’t cold. Not cutting. Just honest. Refreshingly so.

“I don’t think I’m a problem,” I said.

She gave a small shrug. “Neither did the last guy.”

Something in her tone sharpened. Just enough to notice.

I didn’t push.

But I remembered that. The way she said it. The edge that lived underneath her calm.

We stood in silence again, this one a little heavier. Not uncomfortable—just weighted. Like both of us were carrying something neither of us was ready to drop yet.

Then Winter broke it, setting her mug down and crossing her arms.

“You were with Ningning last night.”

It wasn’t a question.

I didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

Her gaze didn’t shift.

“And Giselle before that.”

Another fact.

I waited for the judgment. Or the sarcasm. Or the obvious question.

It didn’t come.

Instead, she nodded. Once.

Then said, “You don’t act like someone who’s trying to get passed around.”

“Is that what you think is happening?”

“No,” she said. “If it were, I don’t think I’d be talking to you right now.”

That caught me off guard.

Not because it was harsh—but because it wasn’t.

Because it felt like something else.

Something closer to… curiosity.

“Why are you?” I asked.

Winter tilted her head slightly. “I don’t know yet.”

There was something honest in the way she said it. Like she wasn’t used to guessing, but didn’t mind being unsure. Not with me.

“You confuse people,” she said. “Giselle’s always been hard to reach. Ningning doesn’t let her guard down like that. Not for fun. And then you show up.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You’re not who I expected.”

“That makes two of us.”

She cracked the faintest smile.

It didn’t last long.

Then she stepped forward—slow, quiet, just enough to close the space between us.

Not touching.

But close enough for her voice to drop into something softer.

“You’re not trying to be anyone. That’s what they notice.”

“What do you notice?”

She looked at me for a long second. Like she was trying to solve something only half-built.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

She didn’t move away.

Didn’t touch me either.

We just stood there in that pocket of silence—her mug still resting behind her on the counter, her breath steady. I could see the way her chest rose and fell beneath the fabric of her hoodie. Unbothered. Except she wasn’t. Not really.

There was a flicker there.

A hesitation just behind her gaze. A breath she hadn’t taken yet.

“You always this blunt?” I asked.

“Only when it’s easier than pretending.”

“And is this easy?”

“No,” she said. “But it’s real.”

That caught me.

Something about the way she said it. Like it wasn’t meant for me, but for herself. Like she was giving herself permission to stop holding it all together for a second.

I nodded slowly.

“Real’s good,” I said.

Her expression didn’t shift much, but her weight leaned ever so slightly in my direction. A tilt of the hips. A fraction closer.

“What happens next?” she asked.

I tilted my head. “You tell me.”

She studied me again.

And this time, she was analyzing. She was watching the way I stood. How relaxed my shoulders were. How still my hands stayed when I wasn’t trying to push, or prove anything. Her eyes flicked to my mouth. Not long. Just enough.

Then—

“You’re not like the last guy,” she said again, softer this time.

“Less cologne?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But he always needed to be the loudest thing in the room.”

I smiled, just a little. “Guess I prefer being noticed for different reasons.”

“Like what?”

I didn’t answer.

Not because I didn’t have one. Because I wanted her to fill in the space.

She didn’t.

But she stepped closer.

Bare feet on cool tile. A breath between us. The smell of cinnamon and coffee on her sweatshirt, faint traces of something floral clinging to her skin.

Her voice dropped lower.

“You said yes to breakfast.”

“I did.”

“Then why haven’t you touched your plate?”

I looked down. The food had gone lukewarm.

I looked back up.

Her mouth twitched. The faintest curve.

“Something more interesting came up,” I said.

She didn’t smile. But she didn’t move away either.

Instead, she reached up and slowly—deliberately—tugged the drawstring of her hoodie a little tighter.

“I’m not fragile.” she said.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“But people think it.”

“I wasn't.”

“I know.”

The silence shifted again.

Not tension this time.

Readiness.

She leaned in, not quite touching me, her voice dropping like it was meant only for my chest.

“Come find me when you’re done pretending to eat.”

Then she turned.

Walked out of the kitchen. No look back. No pause.

Just that soft click of her bedroom door.

I didn’t follow her right away.

Stayed in the kitchen, letting the coffee go cold, the eggs congeal. My hand rested lightly on the counter. The other rubbed a line down the side of my neck, where stress always lingered when I didn’t know what I wanted.

But I did know.

Eventually.

I crossed the hallway in near silence, bare feet brushing hardwood, passing framed photos I hadn’t noticed before. Staged smiles. Glamorous lighting. Versions of her that belonged to the world. Not the girl who just told me I confused her.

I stopped outside her door.

No sounds. No music. No movement. Just a soft, ambient hush.

I knocked once.

Didn’t wait for an answer.

The door creaked open and there she was—on the bed, back against the headboard, knees pulled to her chest. Her sweatshirt was gone. Just a soft black tank now. Her hair was still twisted up, but looser. Like she’d tried to relax and halfway succeeded.

She didn’t look surprised.

Didn’t look guarded either.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

Her voice wasn’t coy. Wasn’t cracked open either. Just a single syllable—quiet, even.

“Wasn’t sure if you meant it.”

“I did.”

She shifted slightly, letting her knees fall apart a bit, making room without making it obvious. She didn’t pat the mattress or motion me closer. Just waited.

I stepped in and closed the door behind me.

The room smelled like linen and lotion and something subtle that made me think of clouds—if clouds had moods. If they hovered heavy and close enough to touch.

I didn’t sit right away.

Just looked at her.

“I don’t really know what this is.”

Winter shrugged. “Then maybe stop trying to define it.”

That landed softer than I expected. Not a warning. Just a survival strategy.

I nodded.

Then sat beside her.

Close, but not too close.

“You always let strangers in?” I asked.

“You’re not a stranger.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She glanced at me sideways.

“Most people want something. You just… show up and don’t flinch.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Still deciding.”

We sat in that for a minute.

The kind of quiet that thickens if you don't move through it.

Then she spoke—calmer this time.

“You’re careful, you know.”

I looked at her. “Yeah?”

“Even when you let go. You do it in pieces. On your own terms.”

I didn’t answer right away.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she added. “It’s just… not how people usually are with me.”

I swallowed. “Maybe I don’t know how to be any other way.”

She nodded like she understood. Then tilted her head slightly.

“You ever think about walking away from all this?”

“From what?”

“This world. Everything that runs on attention.”

I frowned. “I’m not exactly famous.”

“Not yet.”

She held my eyes when she said that.

And I believed her.

Winter didn’t say anything after that. She just looked at me like she was still thinking it over—me, not the moment. Like I was a puzzle with one or two pieces missing and she couldn’t decide if that made it more or less interesting.

I leaned back against the headboard, legs stretched out. “Is that a good thing?”

“That you’re not famous? Or that you’re half-closed off even when you’re open?”

“Either.”

She gave the faintest shrug. “It means I can’t predict you.”

“That bothers you?”

“It scares me a little.”

There was no bite in her voice. No irony. Just honesty.

I looked down at my hands. “You’ve got control in most rooms, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.

I glanced back up. “So maybe that’s what this is.”

“What?”

“You’re wondering if you should let someone in who doesn’t play by your rules.”

Winter’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite disagreement.

“I think I just want to know you,” she said.

That hit deeper than it should’ve. Simple words. Big weight.

I didn’t know how to answer, so I didn’t.

She adjusted how she was sitting—legs stretched out now, side of her thigh brushing mine. Not dramatic. Not flirtatious. Just a shift in shape, in space.

A beat passed.

Then she asked, “Do you love Giselle?”

I blinked.

It wasn’t an accusation. Just a question that dropped into the silence like a pebble in still water.

“Do you always ask questions like that?” I said quietly.

She didn’t backpedal. “Sometimes.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “It’s complicated.”

Winter nodded. “That’s what people say when they don’t know if they’re in trouble.”

That pulled a small laugh out of me, and it seemed to soften something in her too.

“But no,” I said. “I don’t love her.”

“Not yet?”

I turned slightly toward her. “I’m not here to break anyone, if that's what you're worried about.”

“You don’t have to,” she said. “Some of us are already cracked.”

Neither of us moved after that.

I didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t ask what she meant.

But I wanted to know.

She was sitting so still, eyes forward, hands resting lightly in her lap. But her shoulders weren’t tense. Her spine wasn’t stiff. She looked… at rest. Which made the things she wasn’t saying feel louder.

“Are you always this open?” I asked after a while.

“No,” she said. “But you’re not trying to impress me.”

“Should I?”

She looked over at me again, her eyes slower now, a little warmer. “No.”

We both leaned back against the headboard, and for a few seconds, we just breathed.

Then she said, “You think I’m cold, don’t you?”

The question caught me off guard.

“Where’d that come from?”

“I see the way people look at me sometimes. Like I’m made of glass. Pretty, but cold. Untouchable.”

“Maybe they’re afraid to find out they’re wrong.”

Winter turned her head to face me. Her eyes were still sharp, but there was something soft behind them now.

“And are you?”

“Afraid?” I asked.

“Afraid to find out.”

I didn’t answer right away.

She shifted slightly—just enough for her thigh to press against mine. Not an accident this time. Her body language said she was letting me close. Or maybe testing if I’d flinch now that the air had changed.

“I think,” I said slowly, “you’re careful about what you give. But not cold.”

That earned me the smallest smile. “You’re not wrong.”

She picked at the hem of her tank for a moment, like her fingers needed something to do. Then she exhaled through her nose and said, “You keep your walls up too.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re talking.”

“Because of our walls?”

“Because neither of us is pretending we don’t have them.”

Winter nodded once, then turned toward me—closer now, just enough to shift the air. Her knees brushed mine.

Her eyes met mine.

No bravado. No coyness. Just a steady, unreadable look. She didn’t lean in.

She waited.

So I moved first.

The kiss wasn’t deep. Wasn’t fast. It was the kind that didn’t need explanation—soft, slow, just enough pressure to mean I see you. I felt her breathe in through her nose, then relax into it, just a little.

No one was trying to take control.

When I pulled back, her lips stayed parted, eyes still on me.

And then she said, quiet and steady:

“You don’t kiss like someone with walls.”

She didn’t speak again for a while.

Just sat there beside me, eyes half on mine, half on something behind them I couldn’t see. But her body hadn’t moved away. She hadn’t tucked her knees in or rebuilt the space between us. If anything, her shoulder was closer now. Her hand a little looser in her lap.

I waited.

Not to be polite. But because I was learning her rhythm. You don’t just pull open something that’s still settling. You give it time. Let it breathe.

Then, quiet—

“Do you like being touched?”

I turned to her. “That’s a loaded question.”

A flicker crossed her face. Not a smile. Not exactly. But something.

“I mean carefully,” she said. “Not to take. Not to overpower.”

I thought about it. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

Winter nodded too. Then let her hand drift between us, palm up, resting lightly on the mattress. Not touching me. Just there. An offer without demand.

I looked at it for a second. Then placed mine in hers.

Her fingers closed gently. Deliberate. Warm.

Then she stood, still holding my hand. Took a step to to the side without a word, and let her fingers slip from mine.

She didn’t tell me to follow. Didn’t have to.

I joined her.

She turned toward the dresser. Opened the top drawer.

I saw her fingertips move over the edge of something. A black blindfold. A small glass bottle. A candle, vanilla.

Her touch lingered on each, but she didn’t take them out. Not yet.

“I don’t like pain,” she said, eyes still on the drawer. “But I like contrast, control.”

Her voice was low. Steady.

Then after a pause-

"Sometimes the best way to keep it is to give it to someone who won't abuse it."

She turned and met my eyes. No blush. No teasing. Just calm honesty.

“I want to know what you’ll do with that.”

I didn’t answer right away.

Just stepped closer.

“I’ll be careful,” I said. “But I won’t be soft.”

Winter held my gaze.

Then slowly pulled off her tank, baring the long line of her torso. She wore nothing underneath. Her breasts high, skin soft and almost luminescent in the lamplight. She stepped toward me.

But didn’t close the gap.

She waited.

I reached for her pants.

Undressed her quietly. Nothing rushed. No show.

Just skin, smooth under fabric. Cool air rising around warm hips. She stepped out of them and stood still. Not posing. Not shy. Just… waiting to be seen.

When I looked up, her face was unreadable.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” she said. “But I want to feel it.”

And then she moved to the bed.

Laid down, one leg bent, arms loose at her sides.

“I don’t need you to be gentle.” she added.

I reached for the blindfold.

The blindfold was soft.

Fabric, not leather. Not for restraint. Just to take the edges off the world. I brought it to her face slowly, watching her breathe.

“You sure?” I asked.

She nodded once. “Yeah.”

When I slipped it over her eyes, her lips parted slightly. But she didn’t flinch. She adjusted to the dark like it was familiar. Like she’d chosen it before.

I let her sit in it for a second.

Just the blindfold, her bare skin, and the hush that filled the room like water.

Her hands lay flat against the sheets. Her spine gently arched, her knees relaxed. No tension, but no surrender either. Stillness with intent.

I leaned close, my mouth brushing her jaw. “Tell me if anything feels wrong.”

“Nothing does,” she whispered. “Yet.”

I left her like that.

Walked around the room slow, silent. Let her feel the absence, the anticipation.

The bottle on the dresser was oil—almond, vanilla. I warmed a few drops between my palms and moved back to her, quiet as breath.

The first touch was to her thigh.

She twitched, just a little. Not a recoil. More like acknowledgement.

I worked upward with my hands—slow, firm strokes, no rush to arrive anywhere. Just connection. Pressure and warmth and patience. I circled her hip, the curve of her waist, the hollow under her ribs.

Every time I touched a new part of her, her lips parted a little more. Her chest lifted.

I leaned in, kissed her neck just below her ear.

Her breath hitched.

Then I lit the candle.

The flame was steady. Low.

I waited, letting the heat build until a bead of wax gathered at the edge.

Then I tilted it.

A single drop.

It landed just beneath her collarbone, and she gasped—not pain, not fear. Just shock. Her hands gripped the sheets.

She didn’t speak.

I kissed the same spot, lips soft against the heat.

Another drop. This time lower. Just above her navel.

She arched. Whispered something that wasn’t a word.

I kept going. Wax. Mouth. Wax. Mouth.

Temperature and touch.

She was breathing harder now. Her body shifting, reacting to every change. No noise but the faint flick of the candle and her quiet, stuttering exhale.

I dragged my palm up the inside of her thigh. Not high enough. Not yet.

“Still good?” I asked, voice low against her skin.

She nodded. “More.”

The word came out cracked. Hungry.

I blew out the candle and put it on a shelf.

Then reached between her legs.

She was soaked.

I didn’t go straight for it.

I let my hands explore first—palming her thighs, brushing along the crease of her hip, slow enough to make her wonder if I’d ever get where she needed me. Her skin was warm, still tingling from the wax, the blindfold, the waiting. It felt like she was humming under my touch.

She shifted slightly, legs parting just enough.

I dragged two fingers along her slit.

She inhaled sharply.

“…fuck.”

I did it again. Slower. Let the wetness coat my fingers before easing them inside. She was tight—tense, not from resistance but from how hard she was trying to stay composed.

Her body opened for me in slow waves.

“Ahh…”

I pushed deeper, letting the angle adjust until I felt the right spot—then pressed up. Not hard. Just firm. Steady.

Her hips jerked.

“Shit—”

I grinned against her thigh and curled my fingers again.

She exhaled, long and shaky. Then whispered, “Mylo…”

Just that. No question. No plea.

Just my name.

I kissed her stomach. My thumb grazed her clit, light enough to tease. Her legs twitched.

“F—fuck…”

Her voice was breathy, high in the back of her throat.

Not desperate.

Not yet.

Just ready.

I built a rhythm. Nothing frantic. Just slow, thick strokes inside her, thumb flicking gentle circles, enough to make her lose her breath in pieces.

“Ah… ahh… mm—fuck—”

Her hands gripped the sheets. Her thighs tried to close, then spread wider. She was panting now, a little faster with every curl of my fingers.

“God—”

I felt her pulse start to race.

She wasn’t falling apart.

But she was unraveling.

Bit by bit.

And I didn’t stop.

She flinched a little when I slipped my fingers out, but didn’t say a word.

Didn’t pout. Didn’t beg. Just exhaled slow, shaky, as if trying to reset herself. Her hands were still open on the sheets, muscles flexing, resisting the urge to clench. She was unraveling carefully—measured—but I could see it.

“Don’t move.” I said.

She nodded once, tiny.

I moved to the small shelf by the window where the candle still sat—vanilla, half-used, wick unburnt. I struck a match. The flame hissed, then caught, spilling smoke and sugar into the room.

I let it burn.

Not for mood.

For heat.

While the scent bloomed through the air, I opened the mini fridge. Cold air rushed out. Inside—glass water bottle, already sweating with condensation. And on top of the fridge, a metal spoon. Clean. Light. Silver.

I grabbed both.

Then I waited.

Waited for the wax to pool.

She was already waiting for me from the bed. Breathing heavy, legs parted. Still flushed. Still damp. Still trying not to look like she was waiting for the next wave to hit.

I knelt again, one hand on her thigh.

She twitched.

Not from surprise—from anticipation.

I lifted the spoon and held it over the flame.

A few seconds.

Then touched it with my fingers.

Too hot.

Perfect.

I didn’t warn her.

Pressed the back of the spoon to the inside of her thigh.

She jolted like I’d shocked her.

“Shit—!”

No playacting. No noise for attention.

Just a raw sound, torn from somewhere deep in her throat.

Her thighs flexed. Her fists clenched into the sheets.

I waited a beat, then moved higher. Pressed again.

She exhaled through her nose, sharp and ragged.

"You’re okay," I murmured.

Her head nodded once. Tense. Silent.

I reached for the water bottle.

This time, no fingers.

I pressed the mouth of the bottle directly against her folds—slick and hot and swollen—and let the cold pour out.

She gasped like she’d been punched in the gut.

“F-fuck—!”

The water ran down her pussy in clean rivulets, spilling between her thighs and onto the mattress. She squirmed but didn’t close her legs. She was trying to outlast it. Pretend it wasn’t breaking her.

But I saw it.

The quiver in her abdomen.

The way her lips parted without sound.

She was slipping.

I leaned in. Let my mouth follow the path of the water. Licked the cold from her skin, then the heat underneath it.

Her back arched immediately.

“Fuck—”

I sucked gently on her clit, just once, then again—slow, rhythmic pressure—and her whole body stuttered.

She was coming apart one edge at a time.

Then I reached for the spoon again.

Pressed the warm metal against her mound. Just enough to make her twitch.

Then: the wax.

It had started to pool in the base of the glass.

I tilted the candle.

Let a drop fall.

It landed just below her navel.

She flinched—hard.

Her mouth dropped open, but no sound came.

Another drop.

Lower.

She jerked and gasped.

“Fucking—fuck—!”

I moved my hand between her legs. Slid two fingers inside. Curled them.

She clenched—tight and sudden—like her whole body had been waiting for that.

I worked her slow. Purposeful. Every curl hit deep, every twist dragged tension higher.

Then: one more drop of wax.

Right above her clit.

She didn’t scream.

She moaned like her voice cracked under the weight of it.

“M-Mylo—”

Her fingers clawed at the sheets.

I sucked the waxed skin clean. Kissed it like worship. Then dropped my head again, tongue circling her clit while my fingers pressed and curled and coaxed.

She whimpered—fought it.

Fought me.

I didn’t stop.

Didn’t speak.

Just kept her right there—pinned between heat and cold and need. Until finally—

She snapped.

“FUCK—oh god—I’m—ohhh—!”

Her hips jerked off the bed. Her thighs locked. She came like her body was trying to fight it off, like she didn’t want to be undone again so soon.

But it didn’t matter.

She was.

She ground herself against my mouth. Cried out. Shook. Her voice cracked as her orgasm rolled through her like a second storm breaking the first.

When she dropped back to the mattress, she was boneless. Wrecked.

I thought she might be done.

But then her voice broke through the silence—hoarse and shaking.

“…more.”

I looked up.

“What?”

Her eyes opened, glassy.

“I said more.”

I leaned over, kissed the inside of her knee, and smiled against her skin.

“Good girl.”

But this time, it wasn’t about praise.

It was a promise.

Her legs were still shaking when I dragged her back on the bed.

She didn’t resist.

Didn’t say a word.

Just let herself be pulled, back flat against the sheets, her breath still uneven and eyes dazed. Her lips were parted, swollen from kissing, from moaning, from everything we’d already done. But that look—the one that dared me to keep going—was still there, hidden in the fog.

I slid between her thighs.

She blinked up at me, lashes heavy.

“Don’t hold back,” she whispered.

I didn’t.

I lined myself up, gripped her hips, and pressed in slowly—inch by inch—until I bottomed out. No barriers. No pause. Just the heat of her wrapped around me, wet and trembling.

Her gasp was sharp.

“F-fuck—”

“You feel that?” I breathed against her neck. “That’s how far you came for me.”

Her hands found my shoulders. Then my back. Then dragged down, nails biting as I pulled back—slow—and drove in again.

She choked on her breath.

I locked my arms around her and started to move. Deep, hard thrusts that knocked the breath out of her lungs, knocked soft whimpers out of her throat. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her hips rolled up to meet mine.

There was no rhythm at first—just hunger. Raw, greedy friction. Her heels pressed into my back. She wanted more. Needed more. And I gave it to her.

Faster.

Rougher.

Her head tipped back into the pillow, mouth open, hair sticking to her cheeks.

“You like this?” I growled.

“Yes—yes, fuck, Mylo—”

Her voice cracked on the last syllable, but she didn’t stop moving. She clung to me, took every thrust like she was trying to pull more out of me. Her body was on fire. Slick. Squeezing.

“Harder,” she begged. “Please—fuck me—harder—”

I pinned her wrists above her head and gave it to her.

The bed groaned.

The air was thick with breath and skin and sweat.

And she was close again.

I could feel it in the way she clenched.

In the way her breath stuttered.

In the high, trembling pitch of her moans.

“You’re gonna cum again,” I said, barely able to keep my voice steady. “Aren’t you?”

She nodded. Desperate. Mouth open.

“Say it.”

Her whole body shook. Her legs spasmed.

“I’m—fuck—I’m cumming—!”

And she did.

Hard.

Her back arched. Her pussy clamped down on me, tight and slick and pulsing. She moaned loud and broken, riding it out with everything she had. She didn’t care about noise anymore. She didn’t care about anything but the orgasm tearing through her like it owned her.

I fucked her through it.

Fucked her until she was twitching.

Until she couldn’t moan—just gasp.

And then I followed.

Buried deep, head dropped against her shoulder, jaw tight as I spilled inside her. It hit hard. Deep. My whole body locked as I groaned her name low against her skin.

I didn’t pull out.

I stayed inside her.

And she didn’t let go.

Her legs were still around me, locked tight.

Neither of us moved for a long second.

My breath was in her ear, shallow and ragged. Hers was all over the place—tiny, gasping inhales like she was trying to remember how lungs worked. Her nails were dragging light lines down my back now, not scratching anymore, just touching. Feeling.

“I didn’t say you could stop,” she murmured.

My lips curved against her shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

“So?” Her voice was wrecked. Throat dry. Defiant anyway.

I shifted, starting to pull back—slow, careful, overstimulated skin dragging against overstimulated heat.

She groaned.

Her thighs twitched.

And then her teeth were on my lip.

Hard.

A sharp, claiming bite—not enough to draw blood, but close. Enough to make me flinch.

My hand gripped her throat in return—not squeezing, just reminding her.

Her eyes fluttered open.

Still wild. Still hungry.

“Don’t think this means I'm yours now,” she whispered. “You didn’t win anything.”

I leaned in, lips ghosting across hers. “I didn’t know it was a competition.”

She grinned—exhausted, sated, but still her.

And then her body finally slumped.

Completely.

I eased out, slowly, holding her hips while she whimpered—high and soft and broken.

My cum trickled out between her thighs, wet and warm.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t close her legs. Just lay there, staring up at the ceiling like she’d been wrung out and left to dry.

“You good?” I asked, brushing hair off her cheek.

“Mmm,” she hummed. “Define good.”

“Still alive?”

“Barely.”

I smiled. Then bent and kissed her—slow, no tongue this time. Just pressure. Just closeness.

She kissed me back like she wasn’t ready to let the moment go.

When I pulled away, she sighed. One arm stretched above her head, the other lazily traced lines along my arm.

I didn’t say anything. Just shifted to lie beside her, one leg tangled with hers, hand still resting against her stomach.

The room was thick with the smell of sex.

Of her.

Of us.

And for the first time all night… we were still.

Quiet.

I didn’t say anything at first. Eventually, I leaned up, peeled myself out of the tangle of limbs, and crossed the room to grab the a towel—clean, soft, folded by the closet. I soaked it with warm water from the bathroom sink, wrung it out, then came back.

She watched me through heavy-lidded eyes. Didn’t move.

I started with her neck. Gentle, slow. Then her stomach. The insides of her thighs. I traced every spot the wax had touched, cleaning carefully—pausing when she flinched again, then going slower. Her skin was flushed in places, but not red. Not burned.

She didn’t speak until I reached the curve of her hip.

“I liked it,” she whispered.

I didn’t answer right away. Just nodded and kept going. The towel moved with care—across the spots I’d dripped heat, and the ones I’d cooled down with water, and the places I’d touched like I was memorizing them.

When I was done, I tossed the towel into the corner and lay back beside her.

My throat was dry. My hand found the water bottle on the nightstand and twisted the cap off, but I didn’t drink it.

I brought it to her instead.

Winter was still stretched out across the sheets, one arm thrown over her eyes like she couldn’t bear the overhead light, the other resting loosely over her stomach. Her chest rose in slow, shallow breaths. Her lips were parted.

She looked wrecked. Stunning. Real.

I touched her knee gently, and her arm moved just enough to peek up at me.

“Drink,” I said.

She blinked. Groggy. But took the bottle. She sat up slow, shoulders rounding forward, and drank without a word.

I stayed standing for a second. Just watching her.

Then grabbed my shirt from the floor. Not to wear—just to wipe the sweat from her collarbone, the back of her neck, the curve of her side. She let me.

“You alright?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You sure?”

She looked up, hair sticking to her cheek. “That wasn’t what I expected.”

“No?”

She smirked, sleepy. “You’re kind of dangerous.”

I grinned. “You’re kind of insane.”

“Fair.”

She handed me the bottle again, and I drank this time, then sat beside her on the edge of the bed. She leaned into my side without being asked, her cheek pressing against my ribs.

“I don’t usually like being… touched after,” she murmured.

I pulled my hand from her hair, just in case.

But she reached up, stopped me. “No. This is okay.”

We sat like that for a while. Breathing.

The room smelled like sex. Wax. Skin. Vanilla.

Eventually, I stood again. “You should eat something.”

She made a soft noise. “I’d rather melt.”

“You can melt later.”

I walked barefoot down the hall to the kitchen. It was still warm from earlier. Light from the fridge caught the edge of a note still taped to the cabinet—Ningning’s handwriting, bubbly and quick.

Don’t forget to eat something.

I found a leftover croissant in a bakery box near the counter, along with some juice. A ridiculous price tag was still half-peeled on the side—$19.50.

My mouth went dry.

A flash. Another tag. Another room. “Just smile, baby. It’s for all of us. He paid. That’s what matters.”

I blinked. Swallowed.

Took a breath.

Then turned back toward the hallway.

Winter was sitting up when I got back, wrapped in the top sheet now, arms resting over her knees. I handed her the croissant and juice. She took both.

Then broke the croissant in half and offered me a piece.

I shook my head.

She paused. “You’re not hungry?”

“No.”

A beat.

Her eyes lingered. Not in suspicion. Not even concern. Just… noticing.

I sat beside her again, slower this time.

She didn’t eat right away. Just leaned into me again. My arm slid around her waist. Her head found my chest.

And we stayed like that.

Breathing.

Grounded.

Safe.

After a minute, she shifted—just slightly—and looked up at me. Her brow furrowed. Like she was seeing something she hadn’t seen before.

“What?”

Her voice was soft. Almost hesitant.

I didn’t answer. Just met her gaze.

She didn’t press.

But she kept looking.

Longer than before.

PART 6

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 4┃ Not Until You Beg

Male reader x Ningning x Giselle

Word count: 12k Tags: threesome, BDSM, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, teasing PART 1 PART 2 PART 3

I didn’t text her first.

I could’ve. Probably should’ve. But by the time I made it halfway back through the city, I’d already been home. Showered. Changed. Sat on the edge of my bed for half an hour doing nothing but thinking.

Then I walked. Nowhere in particular. Around the block. Then down another. Then through a few more I didn’t recognize. Like I was waiting for my body to make a decision my brain hadn’t caught up to.

It was already dark when I stopped walking.

And found myself standing in front of her building, staring at the buzzer like it was gonna tell me if this was a good idea.

I pressed it.

Two rings. Then silence.

Then: the soft buzz of the door unlocking.

I didn’t need to ask if she knew who it was.

The elevator ride was fast. Too fast. I could feel my pulse behind my teeth. There wasn’t a plan. I just needed to see her. Not even to explain.

Just to exist in the same room again.

The hallway looked the same. Polished floors. Dim lighting. Cold and expensive. I reached the door and lifted my hand to knock.

It opened before I could.

But it wasn’t Giselle.

Winter stood in the doorway.

She was barefoot, wearing loose sweats and a cropped hoodie, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug. Her eyes landed on me, unblinking, calm.

Neither of us said anything.

Then her gaze slid over my shoulder, like she was checking for cameras.

She stepped aside.

“Come in,” she said.

I hesitated.

Then stepped in.

The apartment was quiet.

Winter walked past me, taking a sip from her mug. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t smirk or give me a look.

She just said, "She's in her room," then padded down the hall and disappeared without another word.

A few seconds later, Giselle appeared from around the corner, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, eyes tired but alert.

She stopped when she saw me.

We looked at each other for a second. No hello. No smile. Just silence.

Then she stepped forward.

And let me stay.

She didn’t ask me to sit. I didn’t take my shoes off. I just stood there while she walked to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and sipped.

“Long night?” she said finally.

I swallowed. “You could say that.”

She nodded once. Then turned, walked to the bed, and sat. She pulled one leg under the other, resting her arm along the back of the mattress like she hadn’t just asked something that stuck in the air like smoke.

“You gonna sit, or?”

I moved.

Dropped onto the mattress beside her, close but not touching. She didn’t lean away.

She watched me like she always did — eyes steady, curious, a little tired, a little distant.

“You wanna talk?” I asked.

She exhaled. Not quite a laugh. More of a breath with shape.

“I don’t know what I want,” she said.

“Then why did you let me in?”

Her fingers curled against the mattress.

"I'm not sure yet," she said.

Then she looked away, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Silence again. Not comfortable. Not cruel. Just full of things neither of us were ready to admit.

I leaned back, palms pressed to the edge of the mattress. “It’s not nothing, you know.”

Giselle didn’t look at me. “What’s not?”

“Whatever this is.”

She snorted. “So now we’re calling it this?”

“I don’t have a better word.”

“I don’t either.”

Her voice dropped on the last line like it surprised her—like admitting she didn’t have control over the narrative hurt more than anything I could’ve said.

She pulled her leg tighter under herself and rubbed a thumb across the seam of her sleeve.

“I thought I’d feel different by now,” she said.

“About what?”

“You.”

My throat stopped. I waited for the punchline. A laugh. A cold edge. Something.

But she didn’t deliver it.

“I thought maybe if we had sex, it would be out of my system,” she said. “I’d be able to move on. Blame the tension. Call it a moment.”

“And now?”

Her eyes finally met mine. “Now it’s worse.”

I exhaled. Something in me wanted to flinch. But not out of guilt. Just the weight of it.

She sighed and looked down, tracing the hem of her hoodie.

“I’m not trying to make this a thing,” she said quickly, like she regretted every word she’d said in the last five minutes. “I don’t do things. Not like this.”

“I don’t either.”

She gave me a side glance. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just…” She paused, biting the inside of her cheek. “You came back. That already makes you different.”

I didn’t answer right away.

“You think I’m some romantic?” I said finally.

“I don’t know what you are,” she said. “But I keep trying to figure it out.”

“Why?”

Her jaw tightened. “Because I don’t want to be wrong about you.”

That one landed.

I looked down at my hands, flexed them slowly. They still felt like mine. But something about the way she was watching me made me feel like they were on display.

Giselle’s voice softened. “You don’t let people in easily, do you?”

“No.”

“So why me?”

That question came quiet, but it was the hardest one yet.

And I didn’t have an answer. Not one I could say out loud.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re not here because you got bored.”

“No.”

“You’re not here because you miss the sex.”

“I’m here,” I said, turning to her. “Because I'm confused about us.”

That cracked her, just a little.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t move. But her breath changed. Her hand curled tighter in the fabric of her hoodie. And for a second, she just sat there with that pain in her chest like she didn’t know where to put it.

“Did you think about me?” she asked, even quieter now.

I hesitated.

“After,” I said. “Not during.”

She nodded. Once. Twice. Like she’d expected it but still didn’t like how it felt.

“I didn’t think I’d care,” she said. “I told myself it was just fun. Something I could control.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.” she snapped

I watched her for a long time. No comeback. No comfort. Just presence.

She looked at me again.

“I hate this,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Not knowing where I stand. Not knowing where you do.”

I shifted a little closer. Not touching her yet. Just near enough to feel her breath hitch.

“You want to know the truth?” I asked.

“No,” she said. Then: “Yeah.”

I nodded.

“I didn’t come here because I knew what to say. Or because I had a plan. I came here because I couldn’t stay away.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

Not yet.

She sat with that for a moment — what I’d just said. That I couldn’t stay away.

Then she blinked, like waking from her own thoughts, and looked at me again.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

“Okay?”

She nodded, slowly. “I don’t know what this is. Or what it’s supposed to be.”

“I don’t either.”

She swallowed. Her voice was soft, but steady now. “And I don’t want to screw it up by trying to define it too early.”

I nodded once. Let her talk.

“I’m confused,” she admitted. “That’s the truth. I like having you around. I like the way you look at me. I like the way you fuck me.”

That made my breath catch, but I didn’t interrupt.

She kept going.

“But I also like not being tied down to a label. Not yet. Not when I’m still figuring myself out.”

There was no apology in her tone. Just honesty. Like she was laying out a map neither of us had drawn yet.

“So we’re not together,” she said, more to herself than me. “But we’re something.”

“I can live with that,” I said.

She looked at me again — this time longer.

“And if something happens with someone else?” she asked.

My heart didn’t jump. I’d already braced for this.

“I won’t lie to you,” I said. “But I also won’t pretend it wouldn’t mean something if you asked me not to.”

She nodded again.

“I’m not ready to ask,” she said. “Not yet.”

That cracked something deeper. But it wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold.

It was permission.

“I don’t want to own you,” she added, quieter now. “I just don’t want to pretend I don’t care, either.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Good.” Her eyes met mine. “Then let’s just go with it. Whatever this is. However long it lasts.”

There wasn’t a perfect response. So I didn’t give one. I just looked at her, took her in — the skin under the hoodie, the mess of her hair, the way her fingers picked at the mattress even when she tried to sound calm.

I leaned forward.

And kissed her.

Not rushed. Not demanding.

Just lips on lips. Warm. Slow. Honest.

She kissed back like she meant it. Like this wasn’t closure, but the kind of beginning that doesn’t come with a name.

When we pulled apart, she was smiling. Barely.

And I could feel the pulse of something just under the surface. Something we weren’t ready to name — but weren’t going to ignore.

The kiss lingered in the space between us even after we pulled apart. There was no music, no line to close the scene. Just the silence, warm and fragile, like a blanket we hadn’t decided to share yet.

Giselle exhaled through her nose. Almost a laugh. She didn’t smile, not really. But her hand drifted toward mine and paused there, not quite touching.

Then—

“Mylooo.”

The name came floating through the hallway, singsong and light.

Giselle stiffened instantly.

I turned my head toward the sound, pulse tightening before I even saw her.

The door creaked open with no knock, no announcement.

Ningning leaned against the frame like it was hers. She was barefoot, wearing nothing but a long white tee that fell halfway down her thighs. Hair down, damp at the ends. No makeup. Just flushed cheeks and that slow, feline smirk.

“Well, well,” she said, tilting her head. “Look who came back.”

Giselle’s voice came sharp. “He was invited.”

Ningning didn’t flinch. She stepped inside, walked like she was gliding — not quite bouncing, but close. There was something too casual in the way she moved. Like she was here for fun. But not just that.

Her eyes went straight to me.

“I missed you,” she said, with a pout that didn’t touch her eyes.

“Didn’t realize I was missed,” I said, careful.

“Oh, you were,” she said, brushing a lock of hair over her shoulder. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“That was kind of the point,” Giselle muttered under her breath.

Ningning turned to her with an exaggerated look of surprise. “Still mad at me for stealing your toy?”

Giselle didn’t rise to it immediately. She just leaned back, arms crossed over her chest. “You didn’t steal anything. He makes his own choices.”

Ningning grinned. “Exactly. And he chose well.”

Mylo. Neutral. Stay neutral.

I cleared my throat. “You two always talk like this?”

Giselle said nothing.

Ningning walked closer to the bed and sat — not beside me, but close. Her bare leg grazed mine. Her skin was warm.

“Only when we’re sharing,” she said.

Giselle’s jaw twitched.

She looked at Ningning. “You’re not even pretending to be subtle.”

“Why should I?” she said, shrugging. “He already knows what I sound like when I scream.”

That hit harder than I expected.

Giselle’s stare didn’t break. But her expression dropped a degree colder.

“And you know what I sound like when I don’t,” she said calmly.

Ningning’s grin faltered. Just a flicker.

She blinked, then laughed. “Touché.”

The air was a heavy. Not angry. Not yet. But charged in a way that said: one wrong word and this turns into something else entirely.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, trying to breathe normally. Ningning smelled like coconut body wash and heat. Giselle still smelled like her sheets. Like me.

“Why are you here?” Giselle asked, her tone neutral, her posture not.

Ningning stretched her arms up in a dramatic yawn. “I was bored. Heard voices. Thought I’d say hi.”

“You never just say hi.”

“True,” she said, twirling a piece of hair. “But tonight I might surprise you.”

She turned to me again.

“You seem tense,” she said, voice softer now. “Need a distraction?”

I didn’t answer. My eyes flicked to Giselle, whose silence was loud enough to register as its own response.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Oh,” Ningning said, tilting her head. “That’s a shame.”

She leaned closer, almost whispering now. “You know, I was thinking about you last night.”

“Don’t,” Giselle warned.

Ningning grinned wider. “Just saying. He made an impression.”

“You think this is cute?”

“Not really. I think it’s fun.”

I looked between them. Giselle, clenched jaw and quiet fury. Ningning, all innocent malice wrapped in sugar.

And me, dead center.

“You want me to leave?” I asked Giselle, gently.

“No.” she said immediately.

Ningning raised her brows. “Wow. That was fast.”

Giselle turned to her. “You want to start a fight?”

“Nope.” Ningning leaned back on her hands, her shirt riding high on her thighs. “But I’d love to finish one.”

Neither of them spoke after that.

It wasn’t just quiet anymore.

It was the kind of still that only came before a storm.

Ningning didn’t move.

She was still perched on the edge of the bed like it was hers, one knee folded under her, the other dangling just enough to brush against my shin. Casual. Deliberate. That look in her eye like she was toying with something breakable just to see when it’d crack.

Giselle hadn’t changed position either. But everything about her posture said I see you. The line of her spine. The stillness in her jaw. The way her eyes kept dropping to Ningning’s leg like it had no business being that close.

“Funny thing about you,” Ningning said, turning to me again. “You don’t act like most guys.”

I kept my voice even. “Yeah?”

“Most guys wouldn’t survive one night here without getting all…” She twirled her finger vaguely in the air. “Messy.”

Giselle’s voice came flat. “He’s not here for your commentary.”

“I didn’t see a sign-up sheet yet.” Ningning replied sweetly.

“You came to say hi,” Giselle said. “You’ve said it.”

Ningning looked at her, unblinking. “I’m staying.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a statement. It was a challenge.

Giselle didn’t flinch. “It’s my room.”

“And he’s your guest?” Ningning tilted her head toward me. “Or are we still pretending this house runs on rules?”

Neither of them looked at me.

It was like I’d stopped being the point and started being the prize.

“Let her stay,” I said.

Giselle turned to me, slowly. Not mad. Just… measuring. Like she was trying to decide if that was weakness or strategy.

“You sure?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “But I want to see what happens.”

Ningning smiled like she’d already won something.

She stood and walked over to Giselle’s dresser, started rifling through the top drawer like she lived there. Pulled out a piece of gum, popped it in her mouth, and chewed slowly.

“Your taste in underwear has improved,” she said over her shoulder.

Giselle raised an eyebrow. “Why? Hoping to borrow a pair?”

Ningning grinned and let the drawer slide shut. Then she turned and faced both of us again.

“I’m not here to steal,” she said. “I’m just bored.”

She sat down again—this time on the other side of me. So now I was flanked. One girl on each side. Neither touching. Both watching.

My mouth was dry.

“So,” Ningning said, stretching again, “are we just gonna sit here pretending this isn’t weird?”

“Yes,” Giselle answered.

“Shame.”

A long pause.

Then Ningning leaned in, her voice low in my ear. “Did she make you beg?”

Giselle sat up straighter.

“I mean, she looks like the type,” Ningning continued. “All soft at first, then suddenly you’re the one on your knees.”

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Giselle’s face didn’t change.

But her hand reached behind her and tugged her pillow onto her lap like a shield.

Ningning didn’t miss it.

“She told me you were good.” she whispered.

That pulled my attention.

I turned to Giselle, slow. “You told her?”

Giselle didn’t blink. “She wouldn’t stop asking.”

“That’s not a no.” Ningning said brightly.

The air got heavier. Tighter. Like all it would take is one touch and the whole thing would ignite.

“I’m gonna make tea,” Giselle said suddenly, standing up. “Either of you want some?”

“No thanks,” I said.

“Sure,” Ningning chimed.

Giselle rolled her eyes but left the room.

The moment the door clicked shut, Ningning turned to me, voice lower now. No smile.

“She’s not okay.”

I blinked. “What?”

“She’s pretending she is. But she’s not.”

“She said—”

“I know what she said. I also know what she looks like when she’s hurt.”

My voice dropped. “And what’s this? Helping?”

“Maybe.” Ningning shrugged. “Or maybe I’m just curious what you’ll do when we finally stop pretending we don’t want the same thing.”

I stared at her.

And she smiled, slow and wicked.

Ningning stayed close.

Too close.

She didn’t touch me, but everything about her presence screamed intentional. Her thigh rested just shy of mine. Her shoulder turned toward me, open, relaxed. Like if I leaned even slightly, I’d fall into her orbit.

“She’s strong, you know,” she said, voice softer now. “Giselle.”

I nodded.

“But not invincible.”

Her gum clicked once. Then silence.

The door creaked a moment later, and Giselle returned with a single mug — hers.

She didn’t ask why Ningning hadn’t followed her.

Didn’t ask what was said.

She just walked back to the bed and stood in front of us, taking a long sip of whatever was steaming in the ceramic.

Then, quietly: “She’s still here?”

Ningning smiled. “You miss me already?”

Giselle didn’t answer. She set her mug down on the nightstand, then sat. Right next to me. Her hip brushed mine. It wasn’t subtle.

And suddenly, I was caught again. Giselle on my right. Ningning on my left. Both sitting too close. Both pretending they weren’t measuring me, but measuring each other.

“You ever feel like you’re in the middle of something?” I muttered.

“Usually means things are about to get interesting.” Giselle replied smoothly.

Ningning gave her a look. “You’re getting territorial.”

“Am I?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t have to. You’re still in my room.”

“Maybe your room is the most interesting place in the house.”

“Or maybe you just like an audience.”

That one landed.

But Ningning didn’t back down.

She looked at me, biting her lip like she was thinking about saying something worse.

Instead, she leaned in and whispered, “You’re real quiet for a guy caught between two girls.”

“I’m processing,” I said.

“Don’t take too long,” she said. “You might miss the fun part.”

I looked at her. Then at Giselle.

And I could feel it — the heat rising, slow and patient. Like the room itself had started listening.

Giselle leaned forward and grabbed the mug again, wrapping her fingers around the handle.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“I’m good here,” Ningning replied, stretching her legs out across the floor like she owned the space. “Unless Mylo wants me to go.”

Their eyes both found me.

And for a second, I wasn’t sure whose move it was.

But I could feel the pulse in my neck. The air around all three of us pulling tighter.

“I don’t want a fight,” I said.

“Then don’t start one,” Ningning said.

“I won't.” I said, turning to Giselle.

But Giselle’s expression had changed. It wasn’t angry, just… aware.

Her eyes met mine, and there was something new there. Not fear. Not jealousy. Just quiet understanding.

And under it — a question she hadn’t asked yet. You want this? You want her? I didn’t answer it out loud. But I think she saw it in my face. Her throat bobbed once, then she exhaled. And when she set the mug down again, her hand brushed mine.

Not a grab. Not a challenge. Just a reminder that she was here, that I wasn’t alone in this. And that maybe… neither was she.

The room felt warmer now.

Not just body heat. Something else. Tension crawling along the floorboards. Every breath between us a thread waiting to snap.

Giselle’s hand still rested near mine, fingers not quite touching, and on the other side, Ningning shifted closer—just enough to let her bare thigh press against mine.

They didn’t look at each other. But I could feel the weight of them on either side of me, gravity pulling in both directions.

Then Ningning smiled, slow and teasing.

“Okay,” she said softly, “I’ve been good. I haven’t touched.”

She leaned in, breath brushing my ear.

“But I’m done being good.”

Her lips grazed the shell of it. Not a kiss. Just the suggestion of one. Her hand slid to my knee and stayed there, warm and bold.

Giselle moved instantly.

Not rough, not loud—just decisive. Her fingers laced into mine, pulled my hand to her thigh, where her skin was already hot.

“He’s not yours,” she said coolly.

Ningning’s eyes flicked down. “Doesn’t seem like he’s yours either.”

“He came here for me.”

“And stayed for me.”

“Funny,” Giselle said, “I don’t remember him moaning your name last night.”

“Oh?” Ningning turned to me. “You moan for her?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

She was already climbing into my lap.

Her hands slid up my chest, smooth and slow. She straddled me without hesitation, grinding once—slow enough to tease, firm enough to be felt.

But Giselle didn’t back down.

She leaned in from the other side, her lips grazing my neck as her fingers dipped under the hem of my shirt.

“Let’s see if you’re still so cocky when you’re crying under my mouth,” she murmured against my skin, and I shivered.

Ningning laughed. “Babe, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Her tongue traced my collarbone. And then—Their mouths met right there.

Giselle leaned over me and kissed Ningning hard, open-mouthed, aggressive. Not for her. Not for passion.

For me.

A show of force.

Ningning moaned into it, not backing down. Her hand dropped to my belt, tugged it open without asking. Her hips rocked forward as she kissed Giselle harder, nails dragging down my stomach.

I could barely breathe.

Giselle pulled back, breath shaky, and turned to me.

“Lie back.”

I obeyed.

They followed.

Ningning yanked my shirt off while Giselle stripped her own. Their hands moved fast, not clumsy—confident, practiced. Clothes disappeared like they’d done this a dozen times.

Only this time, it was for me.

And then Giselle was on her knees beside me, straddling my thigh, her lips dragging a hot trail down my chest.

Ningning grinned and climbed over me, facing the other way, her thighs caging my head. Her mouth met my cock just as Giselle’s tongue found my nipple.

I groaned—deep, guttural—fingers gripping the sheets.

They were in sync, but not gentle.

Ningning’s mouth was greedy, messy, stroking and sucking with zero pretense. She made noise on purpose—slurping, moaning, letting spit drip and drag down my shaft like she wanted Giselle to hear it.

Giselle bit my chest, not hard, just enough to leave a mark.

“You’re loud,” she said flatly.

“Jealous?” Ningning gasped.

“Focused.”

Then she shifted down, her tongue following the trail of skin Ningning wasn’t touching.

I was losing it.

Ningning's hand cupped my balls, rolling them gently as she bobbed deeper. Giselle’s mouth dragged down my stomach, teeth grazing just enough to pull a hiss from my throat.

I looked down—Two heads, pink and dark hair brushing against each other, mouths working opposite ends of me, completely focused. No hesitation. No shame. And both of them watching each other out of the corners of their eyes like they were keeping score.

I was going to lose it fast.

“Fuck—slow down,” I gasped.

“Make us,” Ningning said, pulling back with a wet pop.

Giselle just smirked.

And then she wrapped her mouth around the base of my cock while Ningning took the tip again, their tongues briefly brushing—fighting—for control. It was like they were trying to devour me from opposite ends.

Ningning moaned first. A little loud, a little performative. She popped off me with a gasp, slapped my cock against her cheek twice, then turned her face just enough to let the shaft smear against her lips.

“God, he’s throbbing,” she said with a breathless laugh. “You gonna let me win this one?”

“I don’t let anyone win,” Giselle snapped, and in one motion she slid her mouth all the way down my cock—past halfway, deeper, wetter, slow and brutal.

My whole body jolted.

“Fucking—Giselle—”

Her name spilled out without meaning to.

Ningning raised an eyebrow. “Round two, huh?”

She leaned in, licked up the underside of my cock where Giselle wasn’t, and then pulled the other girl’s hair aside to kiss her cheek as she bobbed up.

“You missed a spot.”

She dove back down.

Giselle didn’t yield.

Instead, she grabbed the base of me in one hand, stroked what Ningning couldn’t reach, and bit her lip as she whispered, “You’re drooling all over him.”

“I am.”

Ningning went deep again, this time moaning on purpose around me, fingers kneading my thighs, her other hand creeping up to cup my balls as she sucked hard—sloppy, loud, relentless.

Giselle dragged her tongue over what was left of my shaft, licking around Ningning’s lips, not even flinching when their mouths collided again on me.

The sounds were obscene. Wet and raw and constant. I was sweating, trembling. My fists curled in the sheets.

“You wanna cum already?” Giselle asked me, voice deceptively soft as she looked up, her lips slick.

I shook my head. Couldn’t speak.

“I think he does,” Ningning teased, pumping me twice, her wrist twisting with precision. “Look at him. He’s about to beg.”

“I don’t beg,” I growled.

“Maybe not,” Giselle said, mouth brushing my base again. “But you break.”

And then she sucked hard—just the base—at the same time Ningning swallowed me down, deep.

“Fuuuck—”

My hips twitched and they both felt it.

“Almost,” Ningning purred. “Someone’s close.”

Giselle didn’t stop.

She just squeezed tighter at the base, held me there with one hand, and took over completely—mouth gliding, lips tight, tongue working in cruel little flicks under the head.

Ningning backed off, eyes locked on me, watching every stutter in my breath.

“Come on, baby,” she whispered. “Let’s see whose mouth wins.”

Giselle looked up, never breaking rhythm.

My hips buckled.

“I’m—fuck—”

“No,” Giselle said, pulling off instantly, gripping my cock tight.

My head dropped back.

Painful denial.

“You don’t cum yet,” she said, stroking slow, mean.

Ningning smirked. “Aww. He was so close.”

Giselle tilted her head. “Good. He’s staying hard for round two.”

Ningning straddled my chest like a cat in heat—smirking, smug, her thighs pinning me down while her fingers toyed with the hem of her shirt. The oversized tee she’d come in still clung to her hips, soaked through with sweat and tension, her nipples already hard under the thin cotton.

“I think I want to ride your face next,” she said playfully, leaning forward. “Think you can handle that, Mylo?”

She barely finished the sentence before Giselle yanked her back by the hair. Not rough. Not violent. Just… dominant.

Ningning gasped, not from pain—but shock.

Giselle’s grip was firm, the other hand sliding to her hip, spinning her off of me like she weighed nothing.

“Not yet,” Giselle said. “You’re forgetting who finishes first.”

“Excuse you?” Ningning snapped, but she was already on her back, legs tangled in the sheets.

Giselle didn’t answer.

She climbed on top of her.

One thigh between Ningning’s legs. One hand gripping her wrist and pinning it above her head. Her eyes, cool and focused, locked down like a predator who’d just lost patience.

“You want to be loud, Ning?” Giselle asked, lips hovering inches from her mouth. “Wanna act like you’re the one he wants?”

Ningning bared her teeth in a grin. “He came in my mouth last night.”

“And he fucked me raw the night before that.”

They were nose to nose now. Breath to breath, no laughter left, just electricity. And then—Giselle kissed her. Hard. Not sensual, not romantic. Claiming.

Ningning bucked against her, one hand trapped, the other scrambling to grab Giselle’s side—but she didn’t stop it. She moaned into the kiss like she’d been waiting for it, hips grinding up against Giselle’s thigh with something between frustration and heat.

When they finally broke apart, both of them panting, Giselle leaned in and whispered something I couldn’t hear.

Then she sat up, still straddling Ningning’s waist, and pulled her shirt over her head. No bra underneath. Her tits bounced free, sweat-slick and flushed, nipples hard as glass.

Ningning licked her lips.

“I hate you,” she muttered.

“No, you don’t,” Giselle said.

She reached over to the nightstand drawer.

I didn’t know what she was looking for.

Until I heard the jingle of metal.

Cuffs.

Real ones. Not fur-lined. Not decorative.

Stainless steel.

The sound made Ningning freeze—just for a second.

Then she smirked. “You’re seriously cuffing me?”

“You don’t get to make the rules tonight.”

“Giselle—”

“Hands. Up.”

She said it like a command, not a request.

And Ningning—bratty, cocky, untouchable Ningning—obeyed.

She lifted her arms over her head, wrists together.

Giselle snapped the cuffs on fast, locking them to the headboard with a flick of her wrist.

Then she looked down at Ningning, spread and restrained, shirt pushed up under her arms, her bare thighs squeezing together from anticipation.

She looked fucking ruined already.

And Giselle hadn’t even started.

“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “You’ll still get his cock.”

Then she turned to me.

“But not until you beg for it.”

Ningning snarled. “Fuck you.”

Giselle laughed. “Later, maybe.”

She slipped down her own panties, tossed them aside, and sank lower between Ningning’s thighs. The younger girl shuddered, ankles flexing as Giselle kissed her inner thigh—once, twice—then bit it just hard enough to leave a mark.

“Fuck—Giselle—”

“Shh,” she said.

Her tongue slid over Ningning’s folds in one long, hot stroke. Ningning moaned, loud. Giselle did it again. Then sucked. Then licked faster.

Ningning’s back arched, fists clenched in the cuffs, and she let out a string of breathless whimpers that barely formed words.

“Oh my god—fuck—fuck, right there—”

Giselle didn’t let up.

She gripped her thighs and spread her wider, tongue working in circles, then flicks, then deep strokes that made Ningning gasp and writhe.

“Fuck—Giselle—I’m—”

“No,” Giselle said, pulling back instantly. “Not yet.”

“Giselle—please—don’t—fuck—don’t stop—”

“You want to cum?” Giselle asked, eyes gleaming.

Ningning nodded furiously. “Yes—fuck—yes—please—”

“Beg better.”

“Giselle—please—I need it—need your tongue—please—fuck—just let me cum—”

Giselle went back in, tongue relentless, mouth tight around her clit.

Ningning came like a fountain—back arched, legs shaking, mouth open in a silent cry that broke into a sob.

Giselle didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow down.

She held Ningning’s hips down and licked her through it, over and over, until she was jerking, twitching, gasping for air. And still cuffed. Still helpless.

When she finally stopped, Giselle sat up, mouth slick, and turned to me.

“She’s not done,” she said.

Then she reached for the rope.

Ningning let out a shaky breath. Her legs trembled. Her chest rose in ragged bursts. But her eyes—red, wet, wide—were still defiant.

Still burning.

“I said I’d make her beg,” Giselle murmured, as much to herself as to me.

She turned to the nightstand and unspooled the rope in slow, fluid movements—knots already half-formed, like she’d done this before. Like she had planned to do this again.

“Come here,” she said to me without looking.

I moved. Silently. Kneeling beside the bed as the heat off Ningning’s body reached me in waves. Her skin was glowing. Her arms still pinned above her, wrists cuffed to the headboard. Her pussy was soaked—spread, twitching, pink and sensitive as hell. And her voice was hoarse from the moaning.

“You’re gonna help,” Giselle said, passing me one end of the rope. “Lift her leg.”

I didn’t hesitate.

I hooked my hands under Ningning’s thigh and pulled it up, bent and open.

Giselle looped the rope around her ankle, quick and snug, tying it to the side of the frame with a flourish. Then she did the same to the other—until Ningning was bound open, her knees parted wide, arms still cuffed, body completely exposed between us.

She squirmed, pulling against the restraints.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “You guys are—fuck—”

“Quiet,” Giselle said.

She moved between her legs again. Her fingers ran down the inside of Ningning’s thighs, featherlight, teasing.

“You’re gonna cum for him this time,” Giselle said, glancing back at me. “You’re gonna let him watch every second of it.”

I swallowed. My cock throbbed. Just seeing her like this—splayed out, dripping, gasping—was enough to make my head spin.

“She’s yours for now,” Giselle added, crawling backward on her knees to make room. “But keep her begging.”

I leaned over her.

Ningning’s eyes met mine, wide and wet. Her bottom lip trembled.

“Mylo,” she whispered. “Please—touch me—I need it—I can’t—”

I slipped two fingers inside her without a word.

She screamed.

Her body arched so violently the headboard thudded against the wall. Her back bowed, her arms trembling in the cuffs.

“AHHH—FUCK—YES!”

She clenched hard around my fingers. Still so tight. Still fluttering from that last orgasm.

I stroked inside her—deep, firm, curving just enough to brush that spot that made her wail.

“YES—oh my god—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop!”

I didn’t.

I pumped harder. My palm slapped her clit with every thrust, wet and loud and nasty. Her body fought the restraints like she was trying to throw herself into me.

Her legs trembled violently.

She gasped.

“I'm—I’m gonna—Mylo—fuck I’m gonna—”

I stopped.

Dead still.

Two fingers inside her. One second away from the edge.

She screamed.

“NO! Mylo—fuck—you asshole!”

Giselle smirked behind me.

“Aw. Poor thing.”

“She’s shaking,” I said, pulling out just enough to feel her clamp down, desperate.

“Give her a break?” Giselle teased. “Or make her work for it?”

I looked at Ningning.

Her head was thrown back, cheeks flushed, chest heaving.

And still—still—she looked cocky.

Just barely.

“Work,” I said.

Giselle laughed. “Good choice.”

She reached between Ningning’s legs and gave one slow drag of her fingers over that soaked, trembling clit.

Ningning twitched.

“Beg again,” Giselle said softly.

Ningning growled. “You bitch—”

Slap. Not hard. But firm, right across her pussy. Ningning howled.

“AHHH—fuck—okay—okay please—please—let me cum—I’ll do anything—I swear—please Mylo—please—!”

I slipped my fingers back in. Deep. Giselle leaned in and sucked her clit. And Ningning exploded, she screamed so loud it cracked.

Her thighs shook so violently the rope tensed. Her body locked—completely—like a live wire, shuddering and gasping as the orgasm ripped through her like lightning.

“FUCK—FUCK—FUCK—YES—AAHHHHH—MYLO—!”

I didn’t stop.

Neither did Giselle.

We made her feel it. Made her ride it. Dragged it out until she was sobbing, soaked, babbling through clenched teeth. And still tied up. Still ours.

Giselle pulled off her with a pop and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Then looked at me.

“She’s ready for round two.”

She was still panting.

Wrists trembling against the cuffs. Hair stuck to her face. Sweat pooling at the bend of her neck. But Ningning’s eyes were already sparking again. That same wicked, bratty fire back in full blaze.

“She’s ready for round two,” Giselle said, wiping her mouth, cool and smug.

“Damn right I am,” Ningning hissed.

I looked at her—then back to Giselle. Although Giselle was cute when she was in charge, I wanted to see her beg.

“She’s earned something.”

Giselle tilted her head. “You think so?”

“I think,” I said, stepping closer, “you’re overdue.”

And before Giselle could reply, I leaned down and undid the cuffs.

Ningning’s wrists dropped limp at first, tingling, red-ringed. Then she pushed herself up. Slowly. Deliberately. Stretching her back, rolling her shoulders, cracking her neck like she was preparing for a fight.

Giselle raised an eyebrow.

“What now, baby?”

Ningning lunged.

She shoved Giselle back onto the bed in one smooth motion, knees straddling her hips, hands pinning her arms. The sheer force of it left Giselle breathless for a second—and Ningning grinned.

“My turn.”

Giselle tried to smirk. “You think I’ll just lie here?”

“You’re not gonna lie,” Ningning whispered. “You’re gonna squirm.”

Her hands shot down and yanked Giselle’s wrists up over her head, fast and sure, and before Giselle could twist away, click. She had grabbed the cuffs. One locked. Then the other.

Giselle gasped. “Are you fucking serious—”

“Dead serious,” Ningning purred. “You said I was loud, right?”

She leaned in, tongue trailing over Giselle’s collarbone.

“Let’s see how quiet you can be.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Ningning dragged her nails down Giselle’s sides—slow, hard enough to leave lines.

Giselle bit her lip.

“You’re bluffing.”

“Oh, babe,” Ningning said, dipping her head. “I never bluff.”

Then she bit her nipple.

Giselle yelped.

“Fuck—!”

“Oh, did that hurt?” Ningning teased, licking the tip.

“Do it again,” Giselle growled.

Ningning did. Harder.

I watched Giselle squirm—hips shifting, legs twisting, eyes squeezed shut, breath shaky.

“You’re dripping,” I said.

Ningning glanced down. “Oh, I know.”

She climbed off her chest, dropped between her thighs, and spread her open with two fingers.

Giselle moaned without meaning to.

“Still think I’m bluffing?” Ningning asked.

“Do your worst.”

“I plan to.”

She ducked her head and went to town.

Her tongue was everywhere. Sloppy, aggressive, fast—completely different from how Giselle had taken her apart. She wasn’t building pressure. She was breaking it.

Giselle bucked hard.

Her wrists strained against the cuffs. Her legs tried to close—but Ningning held them wide.

I stepped in. Grabbed one thigh and pinned it.

“Good boy,” Ningning said without looking.

I stroked Giselle’s leg, fingers grazing her skin, as Ningning ate her like a meal. Her mouth was loud—wet, messy, cruel. Every lick made Giselle twitch. Every suck made her whimper.

And then—

“Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—”

Ningning stopped.

Dead silent.

Giselle growled.

“Don’t—fucking—edge me.”

Ningning grinned. “Now you get it.”

She reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the vibrator.

“Wait—wait—” Giselle’s voice cracked. “Not that—”

“Oh yeah.”

The toy buzzed to life.

“Remember this?” Ningning said sweetly

Giselle thrashed. “You little—fuck—don’t you—”

Ningning pressed it right against her clit. Giselle screamed. Not loud. Violent.

Her body locked instantly, thighs trembling so hard I thought she’d tear the rope off the frame. The toy never left her—just constant, brutal vibration while Ningning licked right beside it.

“I hate you!” Giselle cried out.

“I know.”

“You bitch—fuck—Mylo—!”

I knelt beside them.

Held her hips down.

Watched her fall apart.

“Let it happen,” I said.

She did. And came like a storm.

Giselle was gasping, twitching—still cuffed to the headboard, legs shaking from the vibrator pressed relentlessly to her clit. She’d just come hard enough to shake the bed.

And Ningning? She wasn’t done. Not even close.

She shut off the toy and tossed it aside, crawling up over Giselle like a panther licking blood from her teeth. Her eyes sparkled, cruel and gleeful. She straddled Giselle’s chest, leaned down so close their noses nearly touched.

“Aww,” she cooed. “Poor princess can’t handle a little tongue?”

Giselle glared through her sweat-soaked bangs. Her chest still heaved. “Fuck… you.”

“Oh, you wish,” Ningning said, tilting her head. “But you don’t get to make demands right now.”

She grabbed a pillow from the side, stuffed it behind Giselle’s head, then reached for the waistband of her own panties. Slowly—tauntingly—she peeled them down.

And dropped them across Giselle’s face.

“Since you like mouthing off so much,” she said, “maybe try mouthing this.”

Giselle froze.

Her breath hitched.

Then Ningning slapped her lightly across the cheek with the damp fabric. “Open up.”

Giselle didn’t move.

So Ningning did it for her.

Two fingers between her lips, prying them open just wide enough. Then she shoved the balled-up panties into her mouth and pressed her palm against Giselle’s chin to hold them in.

“God, look at you,” she said, grinning down at her. “Still cuffed, still dripping, now gagged with my panties. Tell me, Giselle—do you still feel like the one in charge?”

Giselle moaned behind the gag—frustrated, humiliated, and fucking soaked.

I watched, hard as a rock, my cock twitching from the sight of it. Giselle’s thighs still trembled. Her cheeks were red. Her tits rose and fell under Ningning’s knees.

She looked wrecked. And Ningning wasn’t done. She leaned forward again, closer to Giselle’s ear.

“You act so tough,” she whispered. “So perfect. The hot one. But the moment you get a little pressure, you come like a needy little cumslut.”

Giselle whimpered—low, guttural, almost a sob.

“Pathetic,” Ningning said, licking her lips.

Then she turned to me.

“Mylo,” she said sweetly, “do you know how many guys dream about her?”

I nodded, eyes locked on the mess between them.

“And now look at her,” Ningning said, grabbing a fistful of Giselle’s hair and yanking her head back slightly. “Stripped. Gagged. Cuffed. Thighs twitching like a toy.”

She leaned down and spat on her chest.

It hit just above her nipple, sliding down her breast.

Giselle moaned again, louder now, almost desperate.

“Oh,” Ningning laughed, “you like that, don’t you?”

She turned back to me.

“Tell me,” she said. “You still think she’s in charge?”

I didn’t answer.

I just moved beside them, hard and leaking, and stared down at Giselle’s red, ruined face.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Ningning whispered, dragging her thumb through the spit on Giselle’s chest. “You’ll get a taste of redemption soon.”

“But first,” she said, “I want to see you break for him.”

Giselle was gagged and cuffed, cheeks flushed, chest still wet with spit. Her thighs trembled. Her breath came in short, shaking huffs. And Ningning?

She was glowing.

Crouched over her like a devil in heat, eyes gleaming, voice velvet-edged with cruelty.

“She looks mad,” she said, pinching Giselle’s cheek. “You mad, baby?”

Giselle didn’t respond. Couldn’t—not with Ningning’s soaked panties stuffed in her mouth. But the way her eyes burned was enough. Her jaw tightened. Her chest hitched like she wanted to scream.

Ningning leaned closer. “Want me to take it out? Hm? Let you talk?”

She reached down.

Slid the gag out slowly—dragging it along Giselle’s tongue.

The panties dropped onto her chest with a wet slap.

“Say something.”

Giselle spat.

Not at her—just to clear her mouth. Then she whispered, hoarse and shaking: “You’re going to regret this.”

Ningning laughed. Then slapped her across the face. It wasn’t hard. But it echoed. Giselle flinched. Not from pain—from shock. Her mouth opened in protest, but the words didn’t come.

Ningning slapped her again. Opposite cheek. Same sting. Giselle gasped. Her arms pulled at the cuffs. Her back arched. But the moan she made? It didn’t sound angry. It sounded wet.

“She likes it,” I said, watching her nipples harden.

“She does,” Ningning said, grinning. “She just doesn’t want to admit it.”

She reached up and grabbed a fistful of Giselle’s hair, yanked her head to the side, exposing her throat.

“Tell him,” she hissed. “Tell Mylo how much you like being slapped.”

“Fuck you—” Giselle started.

Slap. She cried out. Then moaned again. Her hips rolled. I moved closer.

Watched her chest rise and fall in desperate waves.

“She’s close,” I said, staring at her pussy—still glistening, still dripping, even though she hadn’t been touched in minutes.

Ningning glanced at me.

“You wanna help?”

I didn’t answer. I just reached out and grabbed one of Giselle’s tits, rough and fast. She whimpered. Then I slapped it.

She gasped—sharp and loud—and her legs twitched.

“Holy shit,” Ningning said, biting her lip. “Do it again.”

I slapped her again. The sound was filthy. Her tit bounced hard, skin flushed. Giselle made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a cry. It was somewhere in between.

“I think she likes being our toy,” I said, leaning in.

Ningning crawled over to the other side and slapped her opposite breast—synchronized.

Giselle broke.

“F-fuck!” she cried. “Fucking stop—”

But her hips didn’t stop. They fucked the air. I grabbed her jaw. Made her look at me.

“You’re soaking the sheets,” I said. “You want more?”

She shook her head.

But her thighs said otherwise.

Her clit throbbed. Her chest heaved. Her voice cracked.

“You want to be used,” Ningning whispered, pinching her nipple until she whimpered. “Admit it.”

Giselle bit her lip.

“No.”

Ningning leaned down. “Then why are you still dripping?”

“Because—fuck—because—”

I reached between her legs.

One finger—barely inside her.

She clenched.

“Because you’re mine,” I said.

“No—fuck—stop—”

But I didn’t.

I fucked her slowly—just my fingers—and watched her squirm.

Her eyes rolled.

She didn’t want to come.

But her body begged.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Don’t stop—don’t—please—”

Ningning smirked. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say you love it.”

She shook her head.

Then Ningning slapped her again—light, fast, teasing.

Giselle screamed.

“I love it—fuck—I love it—please—just let me cum—please—”

Her eyes found mine.

Desperate. Wet.

And I saw it.

She was a mess.

Wrists still cuffed, arms stretched above her head, chest glowing red with slaps and spit. Her thighs trembled, hips rolling helplessly into my hand, soaking everything under her. Her eyes were glassy—half-defiant, half-broken—and her lips trembled every time she tried to form a sentence.

And Ningning?

Still straddling her chest, watching her squirm.

"You hear that, baby?" she purred, brushing a thumb over Giselle’s swollen lip. "You’re dripping all over for us."

“Mmnh—” Giselle whimpered.

Ningning leaned in and kissed her cheek, then nipped at her ear.

“You’re such a good little girl when you’re falling apart.”

I ran my fingers down her thigh. Slow, soft. The kind of touch that would’ve made her squirm if she still had strength left. I reached between her legs again, fingers sliding through slick heat.

She twitched.

"She’s so sensitive," I muttered, watching her melt.

“She can take it,” Ningning whispered. “Right, baby?”

Giselle nodded once. Barely.

“Say it,” I told her.

“I… I can…”

“Louder.”

“I can take it,” she gasped. “Please—please let me—please—”

“Aw,” I cooed. “Princess wants to cum?”

Giselle nodded again, desperate.

“Like a good girl?” I said.

She whimpered. “Y-yes—yes, like a good girl—”

We moved together.

Ningning slid down to kiss her again—deep and wet and claiming—while I lined up between her legs and pushed into her in one slow, thick stroke.

She screamed.

“AHHH—f-fuck—Mylo—!”

I started slow. Deep. Cruel. Every thrust designed to make her feel full, helpless, owned.

Ningning held her face, whispered things between kisses.

“You’re so pretty like this, baby… so perfect when you cry… keep taking it… show us how good you are…”

Giselle sobbed.

“Please—please—ohmygod—I’m gonna—”

“Not yet, princess,” I said.

Her walls fluttered around me. She writhed.

Ningning dragged her nails down her sides. “Hold it, baby. Just a little longer. Be good.”

I slammed into her harder. Faster. Giselle’s body lifted off the bed with every thrust. She begged with her whole body—arched, stretched, trembling.

“Please—I c-can’t—Mylo—please—Ning—I need—”

“Now,” Ningning said, voice low and firm. “Cum for us, princess.”

“Cum like a good girl,” I whispered.

And she did.

She screamed.

Long, high, broken.

Her whole body convulsed. Her thighs locked around my waist. Her cunt clamped down and milked my cock like she never wanted to let go.

She sobbed through it, moaning both our names, her voice cracking on every syllable.

Ningning kissed her again.

“Good girl… good girl…”

I didn’t stop.

I kept fucking her through it. Giselle was trembling, her moans dissolving into whimpers. Her eyes fluttered. Her whole body gone, melted, wrecked.

And I was close.

Too close.

Ningning watched me, smirking. “Give it to her.”

I slammed in deep and came—hard, full, spilling everything inside her. My groan was low, rough, desperate.

Giselle shuddered around me, riding every pulse of it. We stayed there like that—tangled, breathless, dripping. She blinked slowly, eyes dazed.

Ningning brushed hair from her face. “Still with us, baby?”

Giselle nodded weakly.

“Good girl,” I whispered again.

And she smiled.

Just barely..

Ningning leaned back on her knees, messy and smug, fingers trailing down Giselle’s cheek like she’d just won a war. Her grin said it all—she thought she was done. That we were finished.

But Giselle was already lifting her head.

Eyes glassy. Hair wild. Lips swollen from the gag and kisses. Still trembling—but smiling now. A slow, wicked smile.

I reached up and unlatched her cuffs from the headboard. She shook her wrists out once, then sat up.

And I saw it click. She wasn’t broken. She was waiting.

Ningning turned toward me, ready to bask in her chaos—and that’s when I moved.

I grabbed her by the hips and flipped her down onto her back, her body hitting the mattress with a gasp. Before she could scramble up, Giselle slid over and grabbed her wrists.

“What—wait—” Ningning started.

But she was too slow.

I snapped the cuffs around her wrists before she could squirm away, locking them to the same headboard Giselle had just been strung up on.

“Shit—what the fuck—” she thrashed once, then stilled, staring at both of us. “You guys are serious?”

Giselle leaned in close, chest still glowing from slaps and sweat. “You think you’re the only one who gets to have fun?”

Ningning’s eyes darted to me. Her mouth opened like she had something clever to say—but I kissed her before she could. Rough. Claiming.

She moaned into it.

And her hips rolled.

Giselle slid down, kissed her neck. Then lower. Her mouth traced the curve of Ningning’s tits, sucking until deep red marks bloomed under her tongue.

“Still think you’re in charge?” she asked.

Ningning didn’t answer.

So I slapped her breast.

Not hard.

She gasped—loud, shocked.

Her back arched and her thighs clenched.

“She likes it,” Giselle said, licking a slow path across her stomach. “Of course she does.”

I slid between her legs, palms on her thighs, holding her open.

“She made a mess of you,” I said. “Time to return the favor.”

Giselle smiled. “Together?”

“Together.”

Ningning tried to pull away—but the cuffs held. And her pussy?

It was dripping.

I ducked down and dragged my tongue through her folds, slow and thick. Her hips bucked. She tried to twist, to get away from it—but I didn’t let her.

I held her down and devoured her.

Giselle climbed up, straddling her chest again, dragging her fingers through Ningning’s hair, keeping her pinned.

“You gonna be our good girl now?” she purred.

“F-fuck you—” Ningning gasped, voice already cracking.

I slapped her thigh. Bit the inside of it. She screamed.

Then I dove back in.

Tongue on her clit. Two fingers inside her. My pace merciless. Wet. Filthy.

She was thrashing. Moaning. Her voice was breaking.

“Please—please stop—please—”

Giselle leaned down.

“You didn’t stop when I begged.”

She slapped her. Just once. Sharp across the face.

Ningning whimpered. And she came. Just like that.

Her whole body snapped, her legs clamped around my head, and she screamed—a loud, wild sound that cracked halfway through.

I didn’t stop.

I licked harder, deeper, fucked her until she was sobbing.

Giselle reached back and pinched her nipple, twisted it until she was writhing beneath both of us.

“Please—please—I can’t—I can’t—” Ningning begged, shaking.

I pulled back, just enough to speak.

“You can.”

Then shoved my tongue back in.

She screamed again. And broke.

Tears streamed down her face. Her body thrashed. Her thighs shook. She came so hard she soaked my mouth, the sheets, everything.

She looked ruined. Beautifully, perfectly ruined. And we weren’t done. She was still cuffed.

Still flushed from the last orgasm, thighs twitching, lips parted like she needed more but wouldn’t admit it. Her body said yes, but her eyes? Still holding that spark. That edge.

The brat hadn’t surrendered.

Yet.

I knelt beside her, dragging two fingers along her inner thigh. She shivered, but didn’t move. Her hands tugged at the cuffs. Not to escape—just to feel it.

“You look good like this,” I said.

She turned her head, eyes locking with mine. Her smirk was faint but there.

“Don’t think I’m saying thank you.”

I grinned. “Didn’t ask.”

I leaned in, stroked her cheek. She let me. But when I brushed my thumb across her lip—

“Don’t call me baby,” she said sharply.

I blinked. “What?”

“Or princess. I’m not your little anything.”

Giselle let out a slow laugh behind me. She was sprawled on her side, legs still damp and red from where Ningning had wrecked her earlier. She propped herself up on one elbow and raised an eyebrow.

“Well. That’s new.”

Ningning tugged at her cuffs again, chin tilted high.

“I can take whatever you throw at me,” she said. “But don’t think I’m one of your soft little toys. You don’t own me.”

Her voice cracked just slightly on the last word.

I reached out and grabbed her jaw, not hard—just firm enough to stop the noise.

“Not yet,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed.

And I saw it—the flash of heat beneath her defiance. She liked pushing. She just didn’t know how much she wanted to be pushed back.

I leaned closer. My cock pressed against her cheek, wet and heavy.

“You open your mouth when I tell you.”

She stared up at me. Didn’t move.

So I slapped her. Not hard. Just enough to sting. Enough to make her eyes widen.

“Open.”

She did. But her glare didn’t drop.

I slid in—slow at first, letting her feel the weight of it on her tongue. Her throat clenched reflexively. She gagged once. Then again. But she didn’t pull back.

Didn’t whimper. Didn’t break.

Not yet.

I grabbed her hair and started to move. Shallow thrusts at first, then deeper. Her spit coated everything. Her chest rose faster, her toes curled against the sheets. But her eyes never softened.

Giselle moved behind me and slid her fingers between Ningning’s legs.

“She’s soaked,” she said softly. “But still so fucking proud.”

“Not for long,” I muttered.

I shoved deeper. Ningning’s moan caught in her throat. She tried to twist her hips—away or toward, I couldn’t tell. Her body wanted it even if her pride didn’t.

“You gonna be good for us?” I asked, sliding out just enough for her to speak.

She coughed once. Spit clung to her chin.

“Fuck. You.”

I smirked.

“Princess, huh?” Giselle said, fingering her faster.

“I said—fuck—don’t—call me—”

Her voice broke. Her hips bucked.

“You feel that?” I growled. “That’s your body saying yes while your mouth still lies.”

She moaned. Loud. Uncontrolled.

And I knew. The brat act was unraveling. Bit by bit, she was starting to need this. Starting to fall. She was trying so fucking hard to hold it together.

Giselle had her fingers back inside her, slow and cruel. My cock rested heavy against Ningning’s cheek, glistening from where she’d gagged and moaned and nearly choked around it. And still—somehow—she had that look.

Like she was stronger than this. Like she could come out the other side and laugh in our faces.

Her wrists tugged uselessly against the cuffs.

Her legs shook.

And when Giselle curled her fingers just right, she flinched—but bit her lip instead of screaming.

“Still holding on, huh?” I said.

She didn’t look at me. Didn’t dare.

“Answer me, princess.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m not your princess.”

Giselle laughed softly and pressed a kiss to her stomach. “She’s still got fight.”

“Not for long,” I muttered.

I slid two fingers into her mouth. Wet. Rough. She moaned around them—but she didn’t suck. Didn’t give me that satisfaction.

So I pulled them out.

And slapped her clit with the fingers.

She screamed. Her hips jerked off the mattress—and I knew that one was close. I could feel it in her body. That tension. That edge. But Giselle pulled her fingers out.

I slapped her pussy again—light, fast, just enough to drag her back down.

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

“I—fuck—please—”

“Please what?”

She bit her lip again. Hard. And that pissed me off.

So I leaned down and bit her nipple. Not gently.

She arched off the bed, crying out as I sucked hard, teeth grazing the soft skin until her breath came in sobbing gasps.

“Still not ours?” I growled against her chest.

She shook her head. “I—I—”

Another moan. Her hips twisted again, looking for anything—anything—to grind against.

Giselle smirked, brushing her lips across Ningning’s inner thigh.

“She’s close.”

“She doesn’t get to be.”

I reached down and rubbed her clit in hard, fast circles—just enough to make her hips stutter, her mouth drop open—

Then stopped. She let out a ragged cry, almost a sob. I did it again. Same rhythm. Same pressure.

Then stopped right at the edge.

“No!” she gasped, pulling at the cuffs. “No, please—I was—fuck—I was—”

“You were what?” Giselle asked sweetly, kissing her hipbone. “Cumming? About to cum for us?”

She whimpered. But still didn’t say it.

So we did it again.

And again.

And again.

Ten times.

Twenty.

Every time she got close—every time her body started to tremble, every time her moans pitched up, every time she gasped like she couldn’t breathe—

We stopped. And every time, she begged a little harder. Not for release. Not yet. But for mercy. For anything.

Her thighs were soaked. Her voice was shot. Her chest was flushed and rising in frantic waves.

She was breaking.

Finally.

“Please,” she panted. “Please—I need to—I can’t—”

“You can,” I said. “You will.”

“I’ll be good,” she whispered.

I tilted my head. “Say it louder.”

“I’ll be good.”

“Say what you are.”

She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “Don’t make me—”

I grabbed her jaw. “Say. It.”

She choked on the words. Struggled. Fought.

Then, finally—

“I’m yours.”

I paused.

Giselle looked up at me.

I leaned down.

“You’re whose?”

She moaned.

“Yours, Mylo. Giselle’s. Yours. I—I belong to you—please—please let me—”

But we didn’t.

Not yet.

She hadn’t earned it.

And she knew it.

Tears slid down her cheeks. Her pussy clenched around nothing. Her body bucked, straining against the edge we held her on like it might kill her to stay there.

She didn’t say no anymore. She didn’t say anything. Just soft, broken whimpers of please, over and over, like a mantra. Like worship. Like surrender.

And when I slid my fingers into her mouth again, she sucked them eagerly—desperate, needy, completely wrecked.

Giselle leaned up and kissed her cheek, soft and slow.

“That’s our baby.”

And this time?

Ningning didn’t protest.

She was crying now.

Not sobbing. Not afraid. Just… shaking with the need. Her cheeks were wet, lips swollen, arms stretched taut against the cuffs above her head. Her body had given up. Her pride was gone. The brat? Buried under sweat, spit, and surrender.

I cupped her jaw and tilted her face toward mine.

“Say it again.”

Her voice was barely there. A rasp soaked in tears and desperation.

“I belong to you…”

“To who?”

She swallowed. “You. Mylo. Giselle. Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

Giselle kissed the inside of her knee.

“Good girl.”

Her legs fell open wider without us even asking. Her eyes flicked from me to Giselle to the space between her thighs, like she didn’t know what she wanted first—just that she needed it.

“Let her have it,” Giselle said, crawling up beside me. “She earned it.”

“I don’t know,” I said, rubbing one knuckle against Ningning’s oversensitive clit. “Feels like we should make her say it one more time.”

She gasped.

“I’ll say anything,” she breathed. “Please—I’ll say anything—do anything—”

I slid two fingers inside her and watched her whole body seize up.

“Anything?” I asked.

“Yes! Please—I—I need to—please—I can’t take—”

I added a third finger.

She screamed. Her hips lifted off the bed, her cuffs rattling hard enough to shake the headboard. Giselle sucked on her nipple, tongue flicking fast. “Come for us, baby.” she whispered.

And Ningning broke. Hard.

Her orgasm ripped through her like lightning—violent and loud and devastating. Her back arched. Her mouth dropped open. And the sound she made? It didn’t even sound human.

“AAHHH—fuhhh—MYYLO—fuckfuckfuck—I’M CUMMING—!”

Her pussy clamped down on my fingers like she never wanted them to leave. She was twitching, shaking, gasping—eyes wild, legs kicking.

And it didn’t stop. Because I didn’t stop. Neither did Giselle. We forced it to keep going. Over and over.

Every time her voice cracked, I curled my fingers deeper. Every time her thighs locked, Giselle dragged her tongue up the inside of one. Every time she cried out, we gave her more.

Until she was nothing but sound and wetness and broken moans.

Until she was limp in the cuffs, eyes glassy, mouth slack.

Until she whispered it on her own—no prompting, no order.

“I’m yours,” she breathed, again and again. “Yours… yours… yours…”

And we believed her.

Because now?

She knew.

The only sound in the room was Ningning’s breathing—broken, shallow, too light for someone who’d just screamed her voice raw.

She hadn’t moved.

Her body was slack, arms still stretched from the cuffs, wrists pink. The defiance that had burned in her just minutes ago had vanished, drained out through her skin along with everything else. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at either of us.

I didn’t wait.

I got up first. Found a fresh towel, ran warm water from the bathroom sink. I soaked it, wrung it out. The mirror caught my reflection for a second—hair wrecked, chest rising with the kind of high that comes only from the most intense experiences.

But I wasn’t thinking about myself.

I was already back at the bed, already kneeling beside her.

Ningning flinched slightly when the towel touched her inner thigh.

“Easy,” I said, my voice lower, slower now.

Her eyes opened—barely. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

She blinked, trying to focus. “I feel…”

“Overloaded,” I said. “Yeah. I’ve got you.”

Giselle watched from the other side, head propped in her hand, gaze soft but quiet now. She didn’t move to interfere.

I ran the towel between Ningning’s legs, gentle, careful, like I was wiping away more than just the mess. Her breath hitched. Not from pain. From… whatever was settling in her now. She turned her face toward the sheets and let me keep going.

“Let me see your wrists.”

She hesitated. Then raised them.

Pink. A little red. No welts, no breaks. Just pressure marks. I kissed each one without thinking, then rubbed my thumbs in slow circles over the skin.

“You okay?”

Her throat worked. “I think I left my body.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I noticed.”

She made a small noise—not quite a laugh. Then: “I wasn’t expecting… all that.”

“You didn’t have to be. We were watching you.”

“I liked it.”

“I know,” I said, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. “That’s why we did it.”

Her lashes fluttered. She looked tired. Glowing. Messy and open and real in a way I hadn’t seen before.

“Do you want some water?” I asked.

She nodded.

I helped her sit up, cradling the back of her neck with one hand, slipping the bottle to her lips with the other. She drank slow, eyes on me the whole time.

When she finished, I wiped her mouth and kissed her cheek.

She closed her eyes again and leaned against me.

No words. No bratty lines. No biting.

Just trust.

That weight hit me all at once. She’d let us wreck her. And now she was letting me hold what was left.

Giselle finally moved, pulling a blanket up over Ningning’s legs. She didn’t speak—just rested a hand on her thigh and met my eyes.

You’re doing good, that look said.

I wrapped both arms around Ningning and let her settle into my chest.

“Stay here,” I said. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

And she did.

Ningning was warm against me. Warm and limp, her body curled into my side like she belonged there, her breath still a little shaky. She hadn’t said much since she came down. Just small hums, tiny nods. I kept stroking her hair.

PART 5

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 3┃ Still Think I’m Soft?

Male reader x Ningning Word count: 6.8k Tags: facefucking, anal, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, teasing PART 1 PART 2

She didn’t slam the door.

That would’ve been easier.

Karina just stood there. Her hand still on the knob. Eyes on me.

Not on Giselle. Not the bed. Not the scattered clothes or the marks still cooling on her skin.

Me.

I’d never been looked at like that. Not with disgust. Not even with shock.

Just... like she was measuring my worth.

Like she was pulling up a chair in her mind and watching me bleed without touching the knife.

Giselle pulled the sheet tighter around herself. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Her face was flushed, lashes damp, mouth still kiss-bitten. She looked like what she was — someone who’d just been fucked hard and loved every second of it.

And now she was trying to hide it.

Karina’s gaze didn’t move.

I sat there. Half-covered. My breath still uneven. Muscles tensed in places I hadn’t known were still working. My shirt was somewhere on the floor. My jeans, still open. The air was warm, but I felt cold.

“Karina,” Giselle finally said, voice soft. Unsteady. “This isn’t— I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

No answer.

From behind her, I heard another voice. Softer. Curious.

“Is everything okay?”

Another followed. Lighter, with a spark.

Karina stepped forward slightly. Just enough for the other two girls to peer inside.

I didn’t know their names.

But I knew when people were sizing me up.

One of them let out a low whistle. “Huh.”

The other didn’t say anything.

Karina’s voice was level.

She didn’t yell.

Didn’t ask what happened.

Didn’t call security.

Just looked at me like I already didn’t belong here.

And said: "You need to leave."

I looked at Giselle.

She was already standing. Bare feet on the floor. Sheet wrapped around her like a robe, but it couldn’t hide the tension in her shoulders. Or the bruises shaped like fingerprints on her thighs.

“No,” she said. “He’s staying.”

Karina didn’t blink.

“Giselle.”

“I invited him.”

Silence.

The girl who whistled leaned against the doorframe like this was all a performance. The other just watched, unreadable.

Karina’s voice dropped half a degree. "We're not just talking about you room, Giselle. We're talking about this house. About all of us. And you brought a stranger into it like it didn't mean anything."

Giselle’s jaw clenched. “I’m not ashamed of this.”

“Doesn’t mean it was smart.”

Karina didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t scold.

She didn’t have to.

It was in the way she looked at Giselle — like she expected better.

And in the way she looked at me — like I had no business being there.

This wasn’t about sex.

It was about respect.

About the lines you don’t cross when you’re part of something bigger than yourself.

No one moved at first.

Not Karina. Not the two girls flanking her. Not even Giselle, who stood like she was bracing for a slap that hadn’t landed yet.

It didn’t matter that I wasn’t ashamed.

The silence made me feel like I should be.

Karina turned without another word, the door swinging wider as she walked out. The girl who’d whistled followed a beat later, still silent but smirking, like she was filing the whole thing away for later.

The last one lingered.

She looked at me — not like Karina had, not like I was a stain on the rug — but like she was curious. Her head tilted slightly, just enough to let a piece of her hair fall into her eye. She didn’t move it. She didn’t say a word.

And then she left too.

The door stayed open.

I sat there, bare-chested on the bed, trying to remember how to breathe.

Giselle was already moving — collecting my shirt from the floor, tossing it onto the bed like it was a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” she said, without looking at me.

Her voice was sharp. Not angry. Just embarrassed — not at me, but because of the situation.

“You don’t have to be,” I said.

She pulled a hoodie from the back of a chair and tugged it on. Her hair was a mess. Her cheeks still blotchy with sex and tension. Faint bruises were already blooming on her thighs — places I’d gripped too hard, places she hadn’t told me to stop.

She looked like someone who wanted to be anywhere else but here.

I slipped my shirt over my head and stood, grabbing my jeans off the edge of the bed.

“Maybe I should go.”

Her eyes snapped up.

“No.” 

Then softer, almost like she regretted how fast that came out. 

“I mean… unless you want to.”

I didn’t answer right away. My fingers fumbled with the button on my jeans.

There was a sound down the hall — a door closing. Then another. The house had that strange, eerie quiet big places always had when something loud had just happened.

Giselle exhaled through her nose, pacing. “She wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

“I figured.”

She gave a hollow little laugh. “Of course she’s early. Karina’s always early.”

I sat back on the edge of the bed, half-dressed, waiting for the panic or guilt or even anger to kick in. Nothing did.

“You in trouble?”

“With her?” Giselle asked. “No. Not really.”

She paused.

“But if she decides to make it a problem... I’ll know.”

“You regret it?”

She didn’t answer right away.

She was sitting beside me — not touching, but close enough that it felt like she wanted to.

The hoodie she threw on hung off one shoulder, and her hands were curled around the edge of the mattress like she needed to grip something solid.

Then: “No. Not even a little.”

She said it too fast. Like she wanted it out of her mouth before she could change her mind.

I nodded slowly. “Good.”

She glanced at me. “You?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

I met her eyes. “You want me to lie?”

She smiled. Not her flashy stage smile — the real one. Small, unguarded, like I’d caught her off balance and she didn’t hate the feeling.

“That’s the part I wasn’t ready for,” she said softly. “You… not treating me like I’m made of glass.”

“You’re not.”

“Some people act like I am. Like if they say the wrong thing, I’ll cry or call my manager.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Only if I need to.”

That got a laugh out of me.

She bumped her shoulder against mine.

I let it linger.

We sat there for a while, quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath. Like the room itself knew something had shifted and didn’t want to jinx it.

Her hand slid across the blanket and brushed mine.

I took it.

Her fingers curled around mine like they’d been waiting for permission.

“I don’t do this,” she said.

“Invite guys into your room?”

“Let them stay.”

I looked at her profile — the way lips compressed when she was unsure, how her gaze kept dancing around the room like it was safer to look anywhere but at me.

“Do you want me to go?”

She hesitated.

“No,” she said. Then, quieter: “But maybe you should.”

“Because of Karina?”

“Because of all of it.”

She looked at me then — really looked — and I saw it: not fear. Not shame. Just the recognition that something real had happened. And real things had a way of changing everything around them.

“This wasn’t how you planned it, was it?”

She looked down. Her fingers picked at the edge of the sheet.

“No. Not really.”

“You mean, it was supposed to be casual.”

“Controlled,” she added.

“You mean you were supposed to be in control.”

She didn’t argue.

I didn’t leave right away.

I thought I would. Get dressed, find the door, disappear before anyone changes their mind.

But I didn’t.

We sat there a few more minutes — her with her legs drawn up and her hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, me with my elbows on my knees, trying not to think too hard about what came next.

Eventually she stood and stretched, the fabric of her hoodie riding up just enough to tease. She caught me looking and didn’t hide her smirk.

“I should get dressed for real,” she said.

I nodded and stood, brushing off my jeans.

“I’ll give you a minute.”

She didn’t say anything, just watched me head toward the door like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to stop me.

Out in the hallway, it was darker. Quiet.

I didn’t get two steps before someone was there.

Shorter than me. Wide eyes. Long dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail and a silk robe she hadn’t bothered to tie properly.

She was leaning against the wall across from Giselle’s door, arms folded, like she’d been waiting.

We locked eyes.

She didn’t look surprised to see me.

“Hey,” she said, like we were old friends who’d just run into each other in line at the grocery store.

“Hey,” I replied, slower.

She tilted her head slightly. “You’re not very good at sneaking out.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

That got a little grin. “Bold.”

I nodded toward the far end of the hall. “You standing guard?”

“I’m standing.”

“Right.”

We both looked at each other for a second too long.

Then she pushed off the wall and took a few steps closer. Her bare feet made no sound on the hardwood.

“Just so you know,” she said, voice lower now, “I don’t think you should feel bad.”

“About what?”

“Whatever happened in there.” She glanced toward Giselle’s door. “She’s not stupid. And she doesn’t usually let people in like that.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

Ningning gave a little shrug. “Well. You got past the front gate. That’s something.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing.

She stopped in front of me. Not close enough to crowd me. Just close enough to see her eyes weren’t as playful as her tone had been.

“You have a name?” she asked.

“Mylo.”

Her lips curved just slightly. “I’m Ningning.”

I nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

She leaned in — not to whisper, just to keep the moment between us.

“You’re already causing trouble,” she said. “Might as well enjoy yourself while you’re here.”

Then she walked past me, back toward her room, not looking back.

The hallway felt colder after she walked away.

I stood there for a few seconds, staring at the space she left behind. Then I turned, walked back to Giselle’s door, and knocked lightly before pushing it open.

She was sitting on the bed with her legs folded under her, now in a fresh pair of loose shorts and a tank top. Hair combed, skin scrubbed, no makeup — just her. The kind of raw, pretty that didn’t need effort.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She nodded, but something in her expression told me she’d been thinking too much.

“I ran into Ningning.”

Her mouth twitched. “Let me guess. She flirted with you.”

“Little bit.”

“She’s shameless.”

I sat on the edge of the bed. “Clearly.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then Giselle looked up, hesitant. “You’ll text me?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She walked me to the door, barefoot. No words this time. Just stood in front of me, fingers playing with the edge of her shirt.

“I liked tonight,” she said.

“Me too.”

Her eyes flicked to my mouth. “Don’t ruin it.”

I smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She leaned in and kissed me. Quick. Soft. Final.

Then she nodded toward the hallway. “Guest room’s second door on the left.”

I smiled. “So I’m not kicked out after all.”

“Not yet.”

She opened the door.

The sheets were too clean.

That was the first thing I noticed when I lay down. Everything smelled like detergent and linen spray and something vaguely floral — nothing human. No warmth. No breath. Just a pristine bed in a house too big for comfort.

I lay there with one arm behind my head, eyes on the ceiling, not really thinking. Or maybe thinking too much. Giselle’s kiss still sat at the edge of my mouth. The way she looked at me — not like an idol, not like someone who knew how to pose for cameras — it stuck.

I heard footsteps.

Soft, then softer. Slowed just before my door.

I didn’t move. I waited.

Nothing.

Then another step — this time toward the guest bathroom. A creak. Running water. Silence.

The door across the hall clicked.

I closed my eyes.

I should’ve stayed in bed. Should’ve slept. Should’ve done anything but what I did.

But I got up.

I cracked the door open just as her light went on — a soft gold spill from the room across the hall. Her door wasn’t shut. Not fully.

And I swear I saw her silhouette pause at the mirror. Then her eyes flicked toward me.

And then?

She walked out of sight.

Leaving the door half open.

I didn’t knock.

I told myself I would. Told myself I’d stay on my side of the hallway, be the respectful guy, the guest with boundaries. But the door was cracked just enough — just wide enough to whisper you can instead of you shouldn’t.

And I stepped inside.

The room was warmer than mine. Not just physically. It had that lived-in feel — cluttered vanity, a hoodie draped over the desk chair, perfume bottles scattered like forgotten glass chess pieces. Her phone was face down, glowing faintly. The music was low, some soft synth line playing under a steady pulse. And Ningning?

She was brushing her hair.

Slow, methodical strokes. Like it wasn’t about untangling anything. Like it was a ritual.

She caught my reflection before I said anything.

“I was wondering how long you’d wait.”

“I wasn’t—”

She looked at me through the mirror. “Yes, you were.”

I didn’t argue.

She kept brushing. “You sleep okay in the showroom guest suite?”

“Haven’t tried it yet.”

Ningning set the brush down and turned on the stool, crossing one leg over the other. Her robe had slid halfway down one shoulder. Not by accident.

“You don’t strike me as the polite house guest type.”

I shrugged. “You left your door open.”

“Did I?”

She stood slowly and padded toward me barefoot, the hem of her silk robe swaying just above her knees. It wasn’t tied shut. Just overlapping at the front, loosely. One wrong movement and it’d fall open.

I didn’t look away.

She stopped in front of me. Close. Not touching. Just hovering at that delicious, unbearable distance.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“You’re not.”

That got a smile. “Fair.”

I waited. I didn’t know what for.

She moved first. Her fingers brushed the hem of my shirt, light and deliberate.

“You already broke one rule tonight,” she murmured. “Might as well break a few more.”

I caught her wrist gently. Not to stop her. Just to slow it down.

“This isn’t a game,” I said.

Her eyebrow arched, amused. “Sure it is.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.” Her hand twisted in my grip, fingertips sliding up my forearm. “That’s why it’s fun.”

Her other hand came up, palm flat on my chest. She didn’t push. Just let it rest there.

“You’re not mine,” she said, low. “I know that.”

“I didn’t say—”

“But you’re not hers, either.”

I hesitated.

“That’s what makes this okay,” she added, stepping even closer, pressing her body to mine. “We’re not breaking anything. We’re just… seeing what fits.”

Her lips brushed my jaw — a test, not a kiss. Her breath smelled faintly like green tea and strawberries.

“Still thinking?” she whispered.

I didn’t answer.

She pulled back, just a little, and looked up at me. “You can leave. Right now. No hard feelings.”

I didn’t move.

“Or,” she said, fingers sliding down the front of my shirt, “you can stop pretending you don’t want this.”

I kissed her.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was the kind of kiss that says I’ve already made my decision. She tasted exactly like she smelled — bright and sweet with something darker underneath, something playful, biting.

Her arms slid around my neck. Mine found her waist. The robe shifted.

“I thought you were the quiet one,” she breathed between kisses.

“Only when I’m not being kissed like that.”

She laughed, and it turned into a moan as I sucked lightly on her lower lip.

Then she pulled back, just a step. Enough to look me over.

“Take off your shirt.”

I did.

She let her eyes roam, open and slow, not shy about it. She stepped forward again and ran her fingers across my chest, down my stomach. Nails dragging. Barely.

“Don’t get shy now,” she teased.

“I’m not the shy one.”

“Oh? You think I’m shy?”

I gave her a look.

Ningning stepped back and shrugged off her robe in one fluid motion. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

Not lingerie. Not a bra. Not even a pair of shorts.

Just skin and heat and that cocky little smirk she wore like armor.

“Well,” she said. “Now you know I’m not.”

I stared for a second too long. She knew I would. Her body was smaller than Giselle’s, but just as dangerous — smooth lines, delicate curves, a kind of quiet athleticism that said she could climb you like a rope and make you thank her for it.

She climbed onto the bed without a word.

Then looked back at me, on her knees, hair falling over one shoulder, mouth parted.

“Your turn.”

I stood at the edge, shirt off, hard as hell, pulse drumming behind my ears. She looked at me with her legs folded underneath her, hair slipping down one shoulder. Her nipples were already hard, rising and falling with her breath like she was trying not to pant.

“You're gonna stand there and admire me,” she said, licking her lower lip, “or are you gonna do something?”

I didn’t answer.

I crawled onto the bed.

She gasped when I grabbed her hips and pulled her forward in one clean motion, forcing her to lie back. Her head landed on a pillow, eyes wide but hungry. My mouth met hers hard — no teasing, no soft warm-up. Tongues colliding. Teeth scraping. Her moan vibrated against my lips as my hand slid between her thighs and pressed.

“F—fuck—yes,” she breathed, hips lifting into my palm.

Wet didn’t even begin to cover it. She was soaked. Dripping. Her legs opened wider without me asking, one hand gripping the sheets like she needed something to anchor her.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” I said into her mouth.

She nodded fast, whining a little. “Yes. Yes. God, yes.”

My fingers slid through her folds, and she choked out a moan, already squirming.

“You like it messy?”

She didn’t answer — just bucked her hips again.

I kissed her neck, dragging my teeth along her collarbone, and pressed one finger inside her pussy. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. Then—

“Aghh—ahh! F-fuck, yes…”

I pumped once, twice, watching her unravel with just my hand. Her hips rolled like she couldn’t decide if she wanted more or was already overwhelmed.

“Another,” she gasped. “Give me another—fuck—yes—there—right there—”

I added a second finger and curled them just right. Her back arched. Her thighs trembled.

She reached for me blindly, nails scratching down my back, pulling me close enough that her breath hit my cheek.

“I want your cock so bad—please, please—just—God—”

I pulled my hand away.

“No—!”

She whined, actual frustration in her voice.

“I didn’t say stop…”

“You didn’t say please.”

“I did—!” she gasped. “Twice—fuck—please, please—”

I reached down and grabbed a pair of panties from the floor. Light blue, still warm, still damp. I balled them up and brought them to her mouth.

“Too loud,” I said.

Her eyes widened, then darkened.

And she opened her mouth.

I stuffed the panties in slowly. She moaned behind the gag, lips closing over the fabric as her hips rolled against the air, searching.

“Good girl,” I said, kissing her jaw. “You’re gonna stay quiet now.”

She nodded — barely — and I could see her trying to breathe through her nose, flushed from the buildup, thighs squeezing together.

I pulled back just enough to admire the view.

Ningning. Spread open. Gagged with her own panties. Dripping wet and twitching under me like she was wired to explode.

“You ready for it?”

She moaned against the gag. Nodded hard.

“Don’t cum until I tell you.”

Her eyes rolled.

And then I slid down the bed, hands pushing her legs apart, breath brushing her soaked cunt — tongue about to meet heat.

I didn’t ease into it.

The second my tongue met her, she convulsed — thighs twitching, toes curling, a desperate muffled moan vibrating behind the panties stuffed in her mouth. I flattened my tongue against her clit and dragged it slow, deliberate, from bottom to top. She clenched hard.

Her taste was perfect. Salty-sweet, slick, fever-hot. Her pussy was already swollen, soaked, begging. And I hadn’t even used my fingers again yet.

She whimpered behind the gag — soft, choked, and feral.

I reached up and pressed a hand flat against her stomach, holding her down as she tried to grind against my mouth. Her hips had no rhythm now — just jerks of raw need. Her body couldn’t decide if it was trying to run or pull me deeper.

She tried to say something behind the gag. Couldn’t. Just a desperate, high-pitched moan.

I circled her clit with the tip of my tongue, then flicked harder — faster. I didn’t stop. I didn’t let up. She was panting through her nose like she couldn’t take it.

Then she started crying — not sobbing, not pain. Just overstimulated tears that spilled sideways from the corners of her eyes.

Her whole body writhed.

She was right on the edge.

And I didn’t stop.

I locked my arms under her thighs and kept eating. Tongue lapping, lips sucking, eyes locked on the way her stomach kept twitching under me. Her muffled voice was wrecked now — whines and moans bleeding together, hands clawing the sheets, one leg jerking involuntarily every time I sucked hard.

She tried to shake her head. I looked up.

Her eyes were wide. She was trying to tell me something.

I reached up, pulled the gag gently from her mouth.

She gasped the second it came out, chest heaving.

“C-Can I cum?” she begged. “Please, please—Mylo, fuck—please let me—”

Her voice broke.

I growled against her pussy, then nodded once.

“Do it.”

She shattered.

Her scream ripped from her throat as her thighs locked around my head. Her back arched clear off the bed, hips bucking like she was being electrocuted. Her pussy clenched and throbbed, gushing against my tongue — so wet I could feel it drip down my chin. Her hands tangled in my hair like she couldn’t tell if she was trying to pull me off or keep me there forever.

“AHH—ahh—fuck, fuck, I’m cumming—!”

I didn’t stop.

I kept licking. Slower. Then faster again.

Her scream cut off into choked moans — then laughter, then moaning again, her voice completely undone.

“Ohmygod—oh fuck—stop, I—I can’t—”

I didn’t stop.

She started shaking.

Her hips lifted — then collapsed — then lifted again.

“No—no—fuck—too much, too much—!”

Her body betrayed her. Another orgasm slammed into her out of nowhere — a second wave she didn’t see coming.

She sobbed through it.

And I kept going.

I pulled back only when she physically tried to crawl away from me — legs twitching, voice wrecked, pussy throbbing and red and soaked.

I crawled up her body, licking my lips.

She was breathless.

Hair tangled. Face flushed. Drool at the corner of her mouth. Her nipples were stiff, her chest heaving, and her thighs still trembled.

“Y-You’re a fucking psycho,” she whispered, half-laughing.

I smiled.

“You’re not done.”

She turned her head slowly. Met my eyes.

Then smirked.

“No,” she said. “You’re not done.”

She pulled one leg up, bent at the knee. Her fingers slid behind her, teasing herself — then stopping just long enough to say:

“Do me here.”

I blinked.

She nodded, biting her bottom lip. “I want you in my ass.”

I didn’t move.

“I want to feel all of you,” she whispered. “Stretch me out. Use me. Don’t be gentle.”

Then she grabbed her panties from where they were still damp on the sheets.

Smiling, breathless, glowing.

“I’ll need these.”

She said it with a smirk, voice rough and breathless, holding out her damp panties like she was giving me a challenge. Her legs were still trembling, her chest flushed, lips parted with that smug, post-orgasm haze painted all over her.

I took them from her hand.

But instead of turning around for me — instead of staying soft, pliant, desperate — she rolled onto her side and gave me a look. A raised brow. That same spark from earlier, only sharper now. Hungrier. Dirtier.

“You’ve got no idea what to do with me, do you?”

I blinked once.

She tilted her head, dragging her nails across her thigh, slow and deliberate.

“That little tongue act? Cute. Real cute. And maybe that sweet-boy edge works on Giselle, but me?” She ran her fingers between her legs, deliberately collecting the slick I’d left there, then licked them clean while holding eye contact. “I need more than a guy who thinks making me cum twice is enough.”

I didn’t speak.

“Thought you were dangerous,” she added, voice soft and mocking. “Right now, I feel like I should pat your head and call you adorable.”

That did it.

I grabbed her by the hips and yanked her hard, dragging her onto her stomach. She yelped, legs kicking instinctively, but she didn’t resist — not really. Not when I shoved her thighs apart. Not when I spread her ass and let that second of silence stretch.

She was soaked, still twitching. Her cunt glistened. Her asshole clenched when the air hit it.

“You sure you want this?” I asked low, voice near her ear as I leaned over her.

She grinned into the sheets.

“Break me.”

I poured lube straight down the middle of her, cool and slick. She gasped, just once, and then pressed her hips back against my hand. Shameless. Eager.

“You gonna take it like a good girl?” I muttered, lining up behind her.

She looked back over her shoulder, eyes gleaming.

“I’m not a good girl.”

I shoved the panties between her lips.

“Then shut up and take it.”

She groaned — deep, needy — and her hips twitched the moment the head of my cock touched her. I pushed forward slowly at first, watching her face, her body, the little flinch of resistance.

And then I didn’t wait.

I pushed all the way in.

Her scream was muffled by her own panties, loud and broken. Her hands clawed at the sheets, body bucking underneath me as I buried myself inside her tight, tight ass.

“Ffff—fuck—mmmph—!”

I stayed deep for a second, feeling the way she clenched around me. Then I pulled back — almost all the way — and slammed into her again.

Her body jolted.

Again.

And again.

Harder. Rougher. Her ass rippled with every thrust, every slap of skin echoing through the room. She moaned into the gag, messy and half-strangled, drooling now, her face wrecked and twitching.

She tried to push back against me — match my pace — but I grabbed her wrists, pinned them to the bed above her head, and really started to fuck her.

Brutal.

No rhythm, no mercy. Just sound. Just flesh.

She couldn’t form words anymore.

Only screams.

Only sobs.

Her legs started to give out. Her face smashed into the pillow. Her body trembled violently with every thrust. But I didn’t stop.

I was going to ruin her like she’d fucking asked.

And she was loving every second of it.

Half-screaming into the panties stuffed in her mouth, drool running down her chin, her entire body trembling under me like every nerve had been lit up and exposed. Her wrists strained against my grip, but not to escape — just reacting, raw and helpless, twitching under the weight of every thrust.

Her ass was red now, every slap echoing. My cock slammed into her with no softness left, just wet heat, friction, and tight, relentless pressure. I was buried to the hilt every time. She took it. Every inch. Every time.

And she didn’t stop moaning.

Not once.

She was gasping around the gag like she needed air between sobs, but her hips still pushed back on instinct. Her cunt was soaked — dripping onto the sheets — and every time I bottomed out, her body clenched again like she was trying to milk me from both ends.

She was shaking violently.

Her legs twitched. Her toes curled. Her arms gave out and her face dropped to the pillow. Her back arched like she was being held in place by invisible strings.

Still, I didn’t stop.

I grunted as I leaned forward, yanked the panties from her mouth, and grabbed her chin, forcing her head up.

“You still think I’m soft?”

She tried to speak. Nothing came out but a broken sound — part laugh, part sob.

I slowed down just enough to let her catch one word.

“More.”

It wasn’t even a whisper. It was a prayer.

I growled and pulled out.

She collapsed face-first, moaning when I let go of her wrists. Her whole body quivered. Her ass stayed high, begging. Her pussy was glistening and wide open, twitching like it hadn’t been touched in hours, even though it had just been flooded with her own juices and my cock rubbing past it.

I pushed her flat onto her back. She groaned — too limp to help me move her, but not resisting. I kissed her once — slow, rough — and grabbed her thighs.

“You want more?”

She nodded weakly. Then smirked.

“Don’t slow down now.”

Her voice was wrecked, hoarse, scratchy with use — but that smile. That cocky little curl.

She wasn’t broken.

Not yet.

I caught the glint of something on the nightstand drawer- a small toy, black and sleek, the switch already worn from use.

I spread her legs, grabbed the vibrator on the drawer and turned it on. The hum was low. She flinched when I pressed it to her clit.

“No—no—fuck—” she gasped, laughing like she couldn’t believe it. “Mylo—Jesus—oh my God—”

She screamed.

There wasn’t a better word for it. Just a ragged, full-body cry as her pussy clenched around me again — hotter, wetter, tighter than before. Her legs locked around my waist and her nails clawed my back, but I didn’t stop moving.

“You’re insane—ahh! Fuck, I’m gonna cum—don’t—don’t—don’t stop—”

I didn’t.

She came again.

Hard.

Her body jerked. Her voice cracked. Her whole core clenched like she was trying to push me out and pull me deeper all at once.

I felt her break.

Her arms went limp. Her hands slapped against the mattress. Her eyes rolled back for half a second, and a drool thread slipped from her open mouth.

She moaned like she couldn’t help it.

Again. And again.

And then?

She laughed.

This breathless, dizzy little laugh.

“Still think I can’t take it?” she choked out.

I slowed.

Then pulled out.

She blinked — dazed.

“What—?”

I grabbed her by the jaw. Lifted her chin. My cock pressed against her lips.

“Open.”

She blinked again.

Then smiled — half-wrecked, all heat.

Her mouth opened slowly, still catching her breath, eyes half-lidded and lips glistening from moans and drool. I gripped my cock at the base, slid the tip across her bottom lip, and watched her tongue dart out like instinct.

She wasn’t broken.

She was starving.

I didn’t slide it in gently.

I pushed past her lips, past her tongue, to the back of her throat.

She choked once — a reflex — but didn’t pull away. She looked up at me with tears brimming, gagging around the thickness like it was nothing new.

I groaned. “That’s it.”

I grabbed a fistful of her hair, both hands now, and started thrusting — short, controlled strokes at first, then deeper. Sloppier.

Her moans vibrated around me, low and wet, her jaw flexing as her spit ran down my length. Her eyes didn’t close. She stared up at me while I used her mouth like it belonged to me.

Then I said it:

“Touch yourself.”

Her brows twitched. Her hands slid down.

“Yeah,” I growled. “Rub that ruined little pussy while I fuck your throat.”

She obeyed.

I felt it before I saw it — her body shifting slightly, hips squirming, legs twitching. Then her moan turned desperate. Higher. Faster.

“Good girl,” I muttered.

Her eyes rolled back as I pushed deeper, forcing her nose to my skin. She gagged, eyes fluttering, and I pulled back just enough to let her breathe before I rammed in again.

Again.

And again.

Her spit coated my shaft, dripping down her chin, mixing with the mess already painting her face. Her fingers moved faster between her legs now — wild and sloppy — and every time I bottomed out in her mouth, her thighs flexed.

“You want to cum?” I asked, hips slamming forward again. “Make yourself cum. I want to feel you fall apart while you choke on me.”

She whimpered, barely audible, her throat full.

I didn’t stop.

Her nails dug into her thighs. Her legs trembled. Her moans grew frantic, desperate little gulps of air between strokes. Her whole body jerked when I stayed deep just a second longer.

Then she started to twitch.

Her thighs clenched.

Her pussy clenched around her fingers.

She was cumming.

Sobbing and choking around my cock, her whole body writhing as she came for the fourth — fifth? — time tonight. Her scream was trapped inside me. Her lips sealed around the base. Her eyes rolled back.

I was close.

I gripped her hair tight and let go — thrusting deep, staying there.

“Fuck—take it—take all of it—”

I came hard.

Down her throat.

Hot, thick, pulse after pulse, and she took it — moaning as I filled her, drool and cum leaking from the corners of her mouth, her body still twitching, her hand still working her pussy like she couldn’t stop.

When I pulled out, she gasped once — then let her tongue loll out, panting, face soaked and wrecked.

I dropped to my knees and kissed her.

Hard.

Tasting myself. Tasting her. She moaned into my mouth, and I felt her legs give out.

We sank down together — breathless and shaking, sprawled across the sweat-damp sheets, skin to skin and fucked clean out of words.

And just before she drifted off — eyes fluttering shut — she mumbled it.

“Mylo…”

Then, softer.

“Goddamn.”

I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep until I woke up to her laughing.

Not loud. Just this low, breathy giggle, like she was trying not to move too much but couldn’t help herself.

She was lying sideways across the bed, one leg thrown over mine, face buried in a pillow, bare ass peeking from under a sheet. Her hair was tangled, lips shiny and pink, and when I shifted, she blinked slowly like she’d forgotten I was real.

“That was you,” she murmured. “Huh?”

I rubbed my eyes. “You're just figuring that out?”

“No,” she said, yawning. “Just processing.”

She flopped back beside me, arm stretching over her head.

“Damn,” she whispered. “I thought I was gonna break you.”

I snorted. “You tried.”

“I succeeded.” She poked me in the ribs. “You were shaking at one point.”

“You were sobbing.”

“You gagged me!” she laughed.

“You handed me the gag.”

She smiled, smug and satisfied. “I know. And I stand by that decision.”

The room was quiet again for a beat. She curled up beside me, head nudging into the crook of my shoulder, like it was a habit she hadn’t realized she had.

I ran my fingers slowly down her back. She hummed at the touch.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Better than okay,” she said. “Just… quiet.”

Her hand moved to my chest, resting flat.

“People always think I’m loud,” she said. “Like, nonstop. Funny. Bubbly. That’s what they want, you know? The energy.”

I stayed quiet.

“But I like quiet, too,” she added. “Like now. After.”

“Yeah,” I murmured.

She looked up at me. “Do you always fuck people like that?”

“Like what?”

She laughed again. “Like you’re trying to prove a point.”

I didn’t answer.

She traced slow circles on my chest.

“I liked it,” she said. “Just so we’re clear. You’re not in trouble.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Mmhm.”

Another beat.

“Do you think Karina heard anything?”

I blinked. “I—what?”

“I mean, her room’s down the hall.” She stretched her arms above her head. “And I was loud.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“She’ll pretend she didn’t. But she’s definitely going to say something passive-aggressive at breakfast.”

I groaned and dragged a pillow over my face. Ningning cackled.

“She’ll be fine,” she said. “Eventually.”

“Right. Because she loves me.”

“No. She doesn’t.” Ningning rolled onto her side. “But that’s not your fault.”

I peeked at her under the pillow.

“She’s under a lot of pressure,” Ningning said, tone softer now. “She has to be the leader, the oldest, the one who keeps it all together.”

She paused.

“People forget that it takes a toll.”

I stayed quiet. Let her keep going.

“She’s always expected to protect everyone. Keep us moving. Carry the image, the team, the weight. But nobody ever really stops to think…”

She trailed off.

“To think what?” I asked.

Ningning’s gaze flicked toward the ceiling.

“Who protects her?”

It sat heavy and quiet in the room, louder than her laughter, more grounded than her teasing.

After a moment, she sighed, shifting so her cheek rested on my chest again.

“You should go soon,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” I said.

Neither of us moved.

I dressed quietly.

Ningning didn’t move much — just curled deeper into the mess of blankets, her breath soft and even, one arm tucked under her head like she’d melted into the bed. She was flushed, glowing, hair fanned out on the pillow like the aftermath of a storm.

For a second, I didn’t want to leave.

I pulled my shirt over my head and watched her shift slightly, murmuring something incomprehensible. Her lips parted, then closed again.

I grabbed my jeans. Shoes in hand.

Careful.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in low amber light from the sconces. Quiet. Not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful — the kind that felt like it was watching.

I crept down the hall, heart beating faster than I wanted it to. Not fear, exactly. Just awareness. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this hallway, not on this floor, not in this part of the story.

I paused at the top of the stairs.

The house was beautiful in the dark. Expensive without being loud. Sculpted. Stylish. But sterile, too. Like every piece had been approved by a manager and a stylist before it earned a place on the shelf.

Like nothing here belonged to them. Not really.

I started down.

Halfway to the landing, my phone buzzed.

I flinched. Fumbled it from my pocket.

Giselle.

A text.

The last thing she’d sent: "Tell me if you leave?”

I stared at it.

Then I looked away.

I kept moving.

The front door came into view. I reached for the handle — paused when I caught my reflection in the glass.

Shirt rumpled. Hair a mess. Lips swollen. Scratches across my neck.

No hiding what happened.

The guilt wasn’t sharp. Not a stab. Just a slow curl in my chest. A twist.

Giselle and I weren’t anything. No promises. No label. But there had been… something.

Connection.

I hadn’t forgotten it.

I just hadn’t known what to do with it.

I stepped outside.

Cool air hit my face. Night still hanging low. The stars blurred into the city haze and the wind carried just a hint of jasmine from the garden. I breathed it in and closed the door gently behind me.

The driveway was empty. The gates were still open.

I walked.

No noise. No music. Just the sound of my shoes on pavement and the thoughts I didn’t want to hold onto:

Giselle’s hand in mine. Her voice. Her breath in my ear when she told me she wanted me again.

The way she looked when I kissed her goodbye at the door.

I wasn’t sure what I’d say if she asked.

If she looked at me with that half-smile and said, Did you miss me?

I didn’t know.

But I was starting to wish I had.

A woman’s voice pulled me back. Soft. Familiar.

Across the street, a mom was helping her kid into a carseat. Brushing the hair from his face.

“Come on, sweetie. It’s for our own good, remember?”

My stomach twisted.

I stopped walking.

The words echoed in a different voice. One I hadn’t heard in years.

"It’s for our good, okay?" My mother. Not looking at me. Not meeting my eyes. The hallway light yellow and sick. A man in a suit smiling at me. An envelope changing hands. The click of a door closing. The sound of a zipper.

I blinked.

Came back.

The woman was gone. Just taillights now. Fading around a corner.

I breathed out and rubbed at my face with both hands.

Kept walking.

I didn’t know where I was going.

But it wasn’t away from her.

Not anymore.

TO BE CONTINUED... PART 4

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 2┃ You asked for it

Male reader x Giselle

Word count: 6k

Tags: BDSM, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, teasing PART 1

The door clicked shut. The lock turned.

Giselle stood there for a moment, her back to me, her breath still shallow.

She didn’t move right away.

She just pressed her forehead against the door like she was listening for something on the other side — a second knock, maybe, or the sound of footsteps walking back in.

Nothing.

Slowly, she turned around. Her face was still flushed. Lip gloss ruined. A faint pink bite mark at the edge of her collarbone. Her shirt hung wrong. Her eyes scanned me head to toe like she was checking for evidence.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she said, breathless.

I was already walking toward her. She didn’t resist.

The kiss landed fast, messy, a little too desperate — like we needed to remind ourselves that we were still here, still touching, still not caught. Her mouth was slick and soft, and when her hands slid up under my shirt, I didn’t stop her. I didn’t want to.

She was the one who broke away first.

Her laugh came low and a little uneven. “Fuck.”

I swallowed hard. “Think she saw anything?”

Giselle shook her head. “No idea.”

There was a beat of silence. I saw it then — not fear exactly, but tension. Like she wasn’t sure if she’d played it off well enough.

“She asked if I was alone,” she said, quieter now. “I told her I was.”

“Did she believe you?”

She shrugged. “Karina’s hard to read.”

I exhaled. The storm inside me hadn’t passed yet. My pulse was still racing like we were mid-act.

But Giselle looked at me and grinned again — that crooked, chaotic grin — and just like that, it tilted the whole mood back into something dangerous.

“I’m guessing she doesn’t usually walk in on you after you…” I trailed off, motioning vaguely between us.

She tilted her head. “After I what?”

I gave her a look. “You know.”

“Oh,” she said, like it had just occurred to her. “After I fuck someone during intermission?”

“Something like that.”

She grinned. “No. That was a first.”

I nodded. “Glad I could help you check something off your bucket list.”

She took a step closer, her fingers curling into the front of my shirt.

“You’re not off the hook yet,” she said.

My stomach did that twist again. That low, coiled thing she always seemed to provoke.

Then, without warning: “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

She held out her hand. “Phone. Now.”

I hesitated.

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t make me steal it. I’m good at that.”

I handed it over.

She typed fast, thumbing her number into my contacts like she’d done it a hundred times. Then she hit call on herself.

From somewhere down the hall, a faint buzz.

“There,” she said, handing it back. “Now you have me.”

“Just like that?”

She shrugged. “I’m efficient.”

���You do this often?”

“Only when I want seconds.”

That pulled a quiet laugh out of me.

She stepped back, pulling her hair into a lazy knot that immediately fell apart again.

“I want dinner,” she said.

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow.” She paused. “Nothing fancy. Just somewhere I can look at you across a table and decide if I want to jump you again.”

My eyebrows rose.

“And if I say no?”

“You won’t.”

Her tone wasn’t arrogant. Just… certain.

I looked at her. Still messy. Still glowing.

“Okay,” I said.

She started toward the door, then turned back one more time.

“Oh,” she said, casual as anything. “Don’t jerk off tonight.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I want you starving.”

She left me there in the hallway, every nerve in my body still lit up and humming like a live wire.

The door closed behind her with a soft click. Just enough to seal the moment in place.

I stood there in the hallway, alone again.

But not the same.

My shirt was still unbuttoned at the top, collar loose. My jeans sat low on my hips, not quite zipped all the way. The heat between my legs had cooled just enough to make my skin start catching up to the air around it. There was still a smear of lipstick under my jaw. Her smell clung to me — skin, sweat, and perfume I didn’t know the name of but would probably chase for the rest of the night.

I rolled my shoulders out, took a breath, and let the weight of everything settle.

She was gone. But the high she left behind hadn’t faded.

Mylo, meet chaos.

And somehow, it suited me.

I wasn’t the type to get swept up in things. I liked knowing the score. Knowing what came next. I handled my own business. Kept things simple. People trusted me because I didn’t get rattled, and I didn’t bullshit.

But Giselle? She was like setting fire to the plans I didn’t know I had. She pulled me into something fast and sharp, and the part of me that should’ve hesitated… didn’t.

It didn’t feel like losing control.

It felt like matching energy.

And yeah — I liked the way it felt.

I rubbed the back of my neck and made my way to the rear stairwell. The hallway lights were soft, gold-toned, humming low like the building was trying not to wake up. I took the steps down two at a time, not rushing — just needing air.

The door opened into the back alley behind the venue. Cool night air hit my face. It smelled like asphalt and leftover smoke and something wet. I leaned against the wall and looked up.

No stars. Just a low ceiling of cloud and haze, washed gray by the city lights.

I stayed there, breathing, not thinking too hard. Just letting it all run through me.

She wanted a date.

That part echoed.

Not a one-night thing. Not a brush-off. A real date.

The girl who walked circles around a stadium full of people had pulled me into her world — and now wanted to see if I could handle it outside the fantasy.

I could.

I didn’t need to prove myself. I didn’t chase. But when I cared? When I gave a fuck? I didn’t back off either.

If I said I’d show up — I would. If I said I’d take care of something — I did. That’s who I was. Always had been.

And right now? I wanted to know what came next. Not because she was beautiful. Not because of the sex. But because… somewhere between her mouth and that look she gave me when she said, “Don’t be boring,” I started to care.

Just a little.

Enough to make it matter.

By the time I got home, I’d stopped sweating, but not thinking.

The city was dead quiet. Just a few late-night food trucks packing up, their metal shutters slamming like distant doors. The kind of hour where even the rats move slower.

I let myself in, shut the door behind me, and leaned back against it for a second before turning on the light.

The room looked the same as always — two-room studio, clean because I didn’t own enough to mess it up. No posters. No souvenirs. Just me, a desk, a couch, and a mattress on the floor. My bag was in the corner where I dropped it this morning, back when today was supposed to be boring.

Now I was standing here, half-undressed, lips still tingling from hers, with dried sweat at the small of my back and the ghost of her mouth burned into my skin.

I dragged my shirt off and tossed it on the bed. Stood in front of the mirror, just for a second.

Neck a little red. Jaw tight. Chest marked up faintly from her hands, her mouth. I looked like someone who’d just had sex in a closet.

And somehow… not out of place.

I rinsed my face, grabbed a clean tee, and sat on the edge of the bed.

I wasn’t spinning. I wasn’t flustered. But there was something in my chest that hadn’t settled — a kind of electric tension, not from the sex, but from the way she looked at me after. Like I’d passed some test without knowing I was being graded.

And maybe I didn’t mind.

I’ve never been someone who needs validation. But when I care — when I really care — it sticks. I remember how people treat me. I remember the way their voice shifts when something real slips out. And I remembered hers, right before I left:

“Pick somewhere good.”

Not fancy. Not performative.

Just… honest.

I leaned back, stared at the ceiling.

This wasn’t some cheap hookup.

She gave me her number. Told me she wanted more.

And whether that was about the sex, or about something else entirely — I already knew I was showing up.

Not because I had something to prove.

Because I wanted to see her again.

That was enough.

I woke up half-hard and annoyed about it.

Not because I didn’t want her — I did, obviously. But because she told me not to jerk off, and now my dick was acting like we were following orders.

The clock said 10:13. Too early for a weekend. Too late to still be pretending last night didn’t happen.

I rolled over and checked my phone.

One notification.

[Unknown Number]

1 new message

9:41 AM

"Still starving?"

No emojis. Just that.

It didn’t say her name, but it didn’t have to.

I stared at it for a second longer than I meant to.

Starving was the right word.

I thumbed out a reply.

"You’re lucky I’m not the type to eat alone."

Three dots. Then a pause.

"Pick a place. Make it worth my time."

I smirked. She really didn’t do emojis.

I pulled myself out of bed and went to make coffee, the kind of slow ritual that kept me grounded. Ground beans. French press. Two fingers of oat milk. A full glass of water on the side. Everything in order, because that’s what I could control.

Her? Not so much.

I sat at my desk in just my boxers, scrolling through places in walking distance. She didn’t seem like a diner girl. But not the type to get impressed by reservations, either.

Somewhere in the middle. Clean lines. Good light. A menu that didn’t try too hard.

I picked a spot. Sent it to her.

"6:30. Laine’s on 4th. Booth by the window’s usually quiet."

Her reply came back instantly.

"If it sucks, you’re paying twice."

I stared at the screen.

I didn’t want to smile.

But I did.

She was already there when I arrived.

Corner booth, back to the wall, hoodie draped over the seat beside her like she owned the place. Black top. Minimal makeup. Hair down. Not stage-ready — real. And somehow even hotter for it.

She didn’t look up right away. Just kept stirring something in her glass. Like I was the one late.

I slid into the booth across from her.

“Hey,” I said.

Now she looked up. And smirked.

“You clean up,” she said. “Didn’t think you’d own pants without holes.”

“You look—” I paused. “Not like someone who gives a fuck about concerts.”

She tilted her head. “You still don’t know anything about me, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

The waiter came. She ordered a whiskey sour, neat. I asked for the same. She raised an eyebrow, impressed but not surprised.

We didn’t talk about last night.

Not yet.

Not in words.

But I felt it every time her eyes lingered a little too long on my hands. Every time her foot shifted under the table and brushed mine. Every time her fingers ghosted along the rim of her glass like she wanted it to be skin instead.

“You said you do UX,” she said.

“Freelance.”

“You good at it?”

“Yeah.”

“You like it?”

I shrugged. “I like building something clean. That works. That feels right without needing to be explained.”

She nodded once. “That’s sexy.”

I blinked. “UX is sexy?”

She leaned in a little. “Making something intuitive? Something smooth? No friction?” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah. That’s sexy.”

I laughed. Just once.

She smiled like she won that round.

The drinks came.

She sipped hers like it was water. I watched the way her tongue grazed the rim of the glass when she wasn’t thinking about it — or maybe she was. With her, it was hard to tell.

“You really didn’t know who I was?” she asked, finally.

I shook my head. “Didn’t recognize you. Still kinda don’t.”

Her expression flickered. Not offense. Just surprise. Then curiosity.

“Everyone always recognizes us.”

“I’m not everyone.”

“No,” she said, eyes locking onto mine. “You’re not.”

We let the silence sit between us. It wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that says, we could say something important right now, but neither of us is ready to.

“So what’s your deal?” she asked, leaning back. “You live alone. You don’t fanboy. You can hold eye contact without turning red. What’s the catch?”

“No catch.”

“Bullshit.”

I shrugged. “I don’t play games.”

She smirked. “That’s what people say when they’re losing.”

“Or when they’re already winning.”

That earned a real laugh — low, genuine.

“Okay, Mylo.”

She said my name like it tasted good.

She looked at me for a long time after that. No blinking. No cover. Just… looked.

And something about the way her leg brushed mine under the table didn’t feel accidental anymore.

“Bathroom break,” she said suddenly, sliding out of the booth.

I watched her walk away, eyes on her shoulders, the sway of her hips. She didn’t look back.

But I knew she knew I was watching.

She came back with her hands damp, her lips freshly glossed.

The booth creaked when she slid in again. Her knee brushed mine and didn’t move this time.

“Miss me?” she asked, reaching for her drink.

“You were gone thirty seconds.”

“That’s a no.”

“It’s a neutral.”

She grinned. “Noted.”

We didn’t talk about anything serious after that — just movies, food, bullshit. She asked if I liked spicy food. I said yes. She said she didn’t trust people who didn’t sweat.

The vibe shifted halfway through her second drink.

Not dramatic. Just a lean. A look.

She tapped her nails on the table, slow. Let her shoe nudge mine once, twice.

“You’re still not nervous,” she said, not quite a question.

“I don't see a reason to be.”

“That’s new.”

“Why? Because guys usually can’t stop staring at your tits?”

“They usually can’t stop talking. Or apologizing.”

“For what?”

“For wanting something.”

I let that sit a second.

Then: “I’m not sorry.”

She glared, just a little, then bit the cherry floating at the top of her drink. She didn't spit the pit. Just chewed it like it wasn't even there.

“That supposed to scare me?” I asked.

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

"You're hard to read."

"Good."

Her smile curved slow.

“You want to get out of here?”

She didn’t whisper it. Didn’t blush.

Just dropped it like a fact on the table between us.

I met her eyes. “Yeah.”

She pulled her phone out, typed fast. Then looked up.

“Ten minutes. Our driver’ll be outside.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Our?”

“You’re coming to my house.”

“Just like that?”

She leaned in close, her voice lower now.

“You think I’m letting you jerk off to me alone after last night?”

Pause.

“You’re cute.”

The car was already waiting when we stepped out.

Not matte black. Not flashy. Just sleek and low enough to say, this ride doesn’t stop for everyone.

The driver didn’t ask questions. Just gave her a nod and pulled off once the doors shut.

She sat beside me, not across. One leg crossed over the other. Close enough that I could smell her again — something floral layered with sweat and leftover lipstick. Her thigh brushed mine, but she didn’t lean in.

She didn’t have to.

I watched the city lights flicker across the windshield. Neither of us talked. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a different kind of foreplay.

Her hand landed on my knee. Casual. Like it belonged there. She didn’t move it. Just let it rest — skin to skin through the denim, light enough to make my breath hitch once before I masked it.

“You keep surprising me,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got that look. The kind that says you’re either gonna fold, or you’re gonna own the table.”

I glanced at her. “Which is it?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The car turned sharply. She didn’t flinch. Just kept her hand on my leg like she had the right.

We pulled up to a private building — tall, clean lines, polished glass, the kind of place with no visible front desk and a keycard entry. She thanked the driver. I didn’t ask if he heard anything.

Inside the elevator, it was just us. No music. No mirrors. Just the dull buzz of electric tension and the slow tick of floors passing.

She stepped closer.

Not to kiss.

Not to tease.

Just to stand in my space and look up at me.

I didn’t flinch either.

Ding.

Top floor.

She stepped out without looking back.

I followed.

Her place was quiet.

Big windows. Open space. Low light. No mess. No small talk. The kind of place that doesn’t ask what you think — just waits for your reaction.

She led the way down the hall like she didn’t care if I was impressed. I liked that.

Halfway to the bedroom, she stopped at a drawer. Not a nightstand. Something built into the wall. She opened it and pulled something out without even looking.

I stepped closer.

There were things inside.

A pair of cuffs — soft black metal, with D-rings. Clean, simple, lined with something smooth on the inside. A coil of rope. A slim crop. A blindfold folded tight. A black flogger and a vibrator.

She held up the cuffs by one of the straps.

Then turned to face me.

“You remember the last time?”

Her voice was even. Like this wasn’t a big deal. 

“I do.”

“You were good,” she said. “Very good.”

She stepped closer. Barefoot now. Calm.

“I bought these yesterday,” she said. “After you left.”

“You thinking about me when you picked them out?”

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite denial.

She handed them to me.

I turned them over in my hand. Light. Smooth. Real.

“You want me to use these on you?”

She didn’t say yes.

She just stepped back.

Turned.

And walked toward the bedroom like she already knew I’d follow.

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t have to.

I followed.

Her bedroom looked exactly how I expected.

Big bed. Dark sheets. Clean lines. Dim light from one warm lamp in the corner. A mirror leaned against the wall, half-dressed in its own shadow. Everything about the space felt intentional. Controlled.

Until she was in it.

Then the room belonged to her.

She stood near the bed, watching me. Still not speaking. Still waiting.

I closed the door behind me.

Held the cuffs up between us.

“Last chance,” I said.

She didn’t move.

“Tell me to stop.”

Nothing.

I stepped closer. Close enough to hear her breathing change.

“Say it.”

Her voice was quiet. Steady. “No.”

I nodded once, then reached for her wrists.

The cuffs clicked around her wrists — metal, cold, and snug.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t shift or resist. Just held her arms up and watched me like she already knew what kind of night this would be.

I tied her wrists to the headboard. Not tight. Just enough to remind her she wasn’t going anywhere unless I let her.

Then I reached for the blindfold.

“You want this?”

She nodded, lips slightly parted.

I slipped it over her eyes. Watched the change — the little twitch in her breath, the subtle way her lips curled like she already missed seeing me.

Now she couldn’t.

That was the point.

I stepped back and let the silence build. Let her hear nothing but her own breathing.

Then I opened the drawer again.

Pulled out the flogger.

Metal tails. Weighted. Cool in my hand.

I ran it lightly down her chest. No impact — just tease. Let the cold strands drag across her nipples, over her stomach, between her legs.

She whimpered.

Then I gave her one light strike on the thigh.

She gasped.

Another — higher.

“Ah—!”

A third, between her legs, just barely.

Her hips bucked.

“Mm—please…”

I said nothing. I watched her. Fully exposed. Blindfolded. Hands bound. Legs trembling. Not from fear — from need.

I grabbed the vibrator. Switched it on.

Low hum.

She twitched.

I held it just above her slit, hovering.

“What is that?” she asked, voice already shaky.

I touched it to her clit for one second.

She moaned. Loud.

Then I pulled it away.

“No—!”

I smiled.

Did it again. Again. No rhythm. No warning. Just pulses of pressure and denial. Her body started shaking with every almost-release.

“Fuck—fuck, please—Mylo—let me—”

I pressed it harder.

Her legs tensed.

Then I turned it off.

Her mouth dropped open, desperate.

“You want to cum?” I asked, leaning in close.

“Yes. Please. I—fuck—I need it—”

“Then beg.”

“Please—please, I’ll do anything—just—Mylo—let me—”

I pressed the vibrator against her clit and didn’t move.

She shattered.

“Ahhh—fuuuck—!”

Her whole body jolted — back arched, wrists yanking in the cuffs, thighs clenching around nothing. Her mouth opened wide as she screamed, loud and shameless.

“FUCK—yes—yes—yesyesyes—!”

Her legs trembled, hips rolling, caught in a rhythm she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. Her pussy twitched, pulsing wet around nothing as the orgasm wrecked her, fast and raw.

But I didn’t take the toy away.

“Ah—ahhh—fuck—wait—!”

She tried to twist her hips. I held her down.

The toy stayed right there — humming directly into her clit, soaked now, slick and swollen.

“No—Mylo—fuck—I—oh fuck, I just—!”

She was shaking. Hard.

She came again.

It ripped out of her like it wasn’t supposed to happen. A scream, broken in half. Her hands clenched into fists above her head, her toes curled, legs kicking against the bed.

“AHH! Ahhh—please—I can’t—I can’t—!”

“You can,” I said.

Her blindfold was wet. Her face flushed, mouth hanging open, drool at the corner of her lips.

The sound coming out of her now wasn’t even a voice — just gasps and cries, high and hitched and cracking under the pressure.

“Stop—stop—no—don’t—ahh—fuck—yes—no—”

Another orgasm hit before the last one finished.

Her entire body locked — then bucked. Her thighs slapped against my arm, then collapsed open again.

“AAHH! OH FUCK—OH FUCK—!”

Her words blurred. Her brain went soft. Her moans turned into something unhinged.

Wet sounds. Slapping skin. Vibrations soaking straight into her.

“No more—please—no more—Mylo—I’m—I’m—I’m—”

“Say it.”

She sobbed. Her chest heaved. Her head rolled.

“I’m yours—fucking—yours—please—don’t stop—just—fuck me—break me—”

Her legs trembled.

Her clit twitched under the toy.

Her body went still — then—

Another wave.

Louder. Harder.

Her scream broke in her throat and came out in a choked sob.

And I still didn’t stop.

She didn’t know what she was saying anymore.

Just noise.

High, fast, broken.

“Ahhh—nnn—ah—Mylo—please—no more—please I—ah—fuck—”

Her legs spasmed. Her hips twitched. Every time I moved the toy, even slightly, her whole body jerked like it was being shocked.

Her pussy clenched under it, dripping, glistening, soaked from her own mess. Every nerve in her was fried, screaming.

But I didn’t lift it.

She sobbed. Loud now. Mouth wide, blindfold soaked with sweat, wrists limp in the cuffs.

“P-please—Mylo—I can’t—I can’t—oh f-fuck—”

“You said don’t stop,” I murmured.

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean—ahhh—ahhh GOD—”

Her thighs fluttered open and closed like she didn’t know what to do with them. Her hips bucked up, then slammed back down, chasing it and running from it at the same time.

Then she came again.

No warning. Just a ragged scream and a full-body snap like her muscles had turned on her.

“FUCK! AHHH—AAAHHH—OHMYGOD—”

Her pussy pulsed hard, again, again, and she lost it — every bit of grace gone, hair stuck to her cheeks, tears down her face, spit on her chin.

I turned off the toy.

She gasped like she was drowning. Like her lungs had only just remembered how to work.

Her head lolled to the side. Her lips trembled.

“…t-thank you…”

I kissed her inner thigh, gently.

She twitched.

Then I reached up and slipped the blindfold off.

Her eyes blinked hard against the low light, glassy and dazed. She looked at me like she wasn’t sure I was real.

But she was still mine.

Still cuffed.

Still open.

Still shaking.

I leaned close, lips at her ear.

“You’re not done.”

“Please—please, I’ll do anything—just—Mylo—let me—”

I pressed the vibrator back to her clit and held it there.

She screamed.

Her body jerked so hard the headboard thudded behind her. Her legs snapped together, then kicked wide open again, as if her muscles couldn’t decide between running and begging for more.

“AHHH—ahhh f-fuck, I’m—I’m—!”

Her whole body seized. She didn’t moan. She sobbed. Wrists pulling against the cuffs like they might magically come loose if she thrashed hard enough.

Her pussy clenched , pulsing visibly, soaking wet, slick and twitching from the force of the orgasm tearing through her.

“FUCK! AHH—AAAHHH—!”

I didn’t move the toy. Didn’t ease off. I kept it right on her clit as it twitched under the pressure, not letting her calm down.

Her hips bucked again, sharper this time, and her breath broke off in a choked whimper.

“Nngh—no—no, I just came—I can’t—I c-can’t—!”

She tried to twist away. Her body shook. Her back arched and dropped, arch and drop, trying to shake me off without saying the words. Her voice cracked.

“Ahhh fuuuck—fuck, Mylo—please—fuck me, or stop, or—something—!”

“Not done,” I whispered. “You asked for this.”

She screamed again as another orgasm ripped through her. Her thighs clamped around my wrist. Her pussy contracted, hard and fast, and she thrashed through it like she’d gone feral.

“AHHH! OH GOD—OH FUCK!”

Tears smeared down both cheeks. Her lip trembled. Her chest rose and fell too fast, air wheezing in and out of her lungs. Her eyes stayed shut behind the blindfold, but everything in her face was naked.

Wrecked.

Ruined.

Perfect.

“Please,” she sobbed. “No more—I’m gonna—I'm gonna—ahhhh!”

Her whole body shivered violently. She came again. It broke her voice, broke her rhythm, broke something deep in her chest.

She was trembling beneath me.

Tears streaked her cheeks. Her lips were parted, slack with exhaustion, but her breath still came in short, rapid gasps. Her legs were twitching—uncontrolled, overstimulated, her pussy pulsing in the aftermath of a climax I hadn’t let her recover from.

Her hands were still cuffed. She didn’t move them. Didn’t even try.

She was wrecked.

And I was still hard.

Still hovering just above her thighs, stroking the vibrator once across her swollen clit as she sobbed and flinched away.

She gasped. “No—no more—please—”

I turned it off and set it down.

Then I kissed her stomach—soft, slow.

One hand reached for her wrists. I unbuckled the cuffs carefully, one at a time, easing her hands down from the headboard like they were fragile. Her arms collapsed onto the sheets.

No resistance.

Just shivers.

I trailed kisses down her chest. Her body twitched at every touch, every shift of pressure.

Then I slid one arm under her waist, the other across her hips.

“Roll over,” I whispered.

She didn’t move.

I waited.

Then, slowly, shakily, she turned.

On her stomach first. Then pushing up, dragging her knees under her, face still pressed to the sheets. She whimpered—too gone to talk.

I knelt behind her.

Ran my hands down her back, over her ass.

Her thighs were still wet, soaked with sweat and slick and everything I’d pulled out of her.

I grabbed her hips and pulled them up—arched her just enough.

“Just breathe,” I said, my voice low, steady.

Then I slid my cock against her—slow at first, just the tip, dragging through the wetness, pressing to her entrance.

She moaned into the mattress. One long, helpless sound.

And I pushed in.

Deep.

She gasped, loud—then choked out a broken moan as I bottomed out inside her.

“Fuuuck—Mylo—!”

Her pussy clenched down around me like it was trying to hold me there. Hot. Tight. Still trembling.

I pulled back slowly.

Then slammed into her.

Hard.

She cried out, arms shaking beneath her, face buried in the sheets.

Again.

And again.

Her moans turned into sobs. Loud, wet, desperate.

But she didn’t say stop.

She pushed her ass back into me every time I slammed in, even when her knees shook and her voice broke. Her whole body was a mess — red, sweating, twitching. Her pussy was drenched, gripping me every time I bottomed out inside her.

I grabbed her hips and used her.

Harder.

Deeper.

Faster.

“AHH—fuck—fucking—yes—!” she cried.

Her head dropped between her arms. Her back arched beautifully, hips bouncing back against me as if her body needed it more than her brain could process. The slap of skin on skin was obscene — wet, punishing, constant.

I reached up and grabbed a fistful of her hair. Pulled back.

She yelped — “Ahh!” — but her pussy clenched tighter around me.

“You’re not done,” I growled.

“N-no—fuck—I’m—ahhh—”

“You’re going to come again,” I said, snapping my hips forward hard enough to make her scream.

She choked out a sob, half-cry, half-moan. Her legs buckled. She collapsed onto her elbows and I didn’t stop. I followed her down, one hand sliding around to grab her throat, the other pinning her ass in place as I fucked her into the mattress.

Each thrust made the bed creak. The headboard hit the wall.

She was gasping.

Sobbing.

Moaning.

“F-fuck me—please—don’t stop—ahhh—oh God—Mylo—yes!”

Her face was pressed to the sheets. Her thighs shook. Her pussy was so tight, so wet, so overused that every movement felt like she was trying to squeeze the cum out of me.

I leaned in, mouth to her ear.

“Say you want it.”

“I—I want it—fuck—I want it so bad—please!”

I pulled all the way out.

She whimpered.

Then screamed when I slammed back in.

She lost it.

“AAAHH—oh fuck—fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—!”

Her pussy started to clench, flutter, lock down. Her body tensed like a live wire, and she screamed one last time—

“MYLO—AHHH—YES—YES—FUCK!”

She came again.

Loud.

Wrecked.

Ruined.

And I fucked her right through it.

She came like she couldn’t take it anymore.

Back arched. Body convulsing. Hands scrabbling at the sheets, mouth open in a soundless cry. Her pussy squeezed me in waves, milking my cock like it didn’t want to let go. She shook. Twitched. Shuddered. Utterly gone.

And I was still inside her.

Still throbbing.

Still right at the edge.

I pulled out, slow, savoring the heat sliding off me as her body clenched once more in aftershock.

“W-wait…” she whimpered, collapsing onto her side. Her voice was hoarse. Her thighs still trembled uncontrollably. Her lips were swollen. Her face glowed with sweat and sex.

I grabbed her by the hair—gently—and guided her onto her back.

“Look at me.”

She blinked up, eyes glassy, mascara smudged, cheeks damp. Her legs fell open again without thinking.

I stroked myself—tight, fast, leaking over her stomach.

Her gaze dropped.

Her mouth opened slowly.

Tongue out.

Like instinct.

Like invitation.

“Good girl,” I muttered, shifting forward to straddle her chest.

My cock hovered just above her lips, dripping.

She kept her tongue out. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just waited.

I tapped the head against it once. She moaned. Just from that.

My hand moved faster. My thighs tensed. She whimpered again, eyes pleading even as she kept her mouth wide, ready to be used.

“You want it?” I growled.

She nodded.

“Say it.”

“I want it,” she whispered. “Cum in my mouth.”

That pushed me over.

I growled—deep and guttural—as the first thick spurt painted her tongue.

She moaned loud.

Another hit her bottom lip. Then her chin. Then more, hot and endless, ropes of cum splashing across her face while she kept her tongue out, greedy, shaking.

Her thighs rubbed together. She was getting wet again. From this.

“Don’t swallow,” I ordered.

She froze.

Mouth full.

Dripping.

Eyes wide.

Obedient.

I leaned in, grabbed her face lightly, thumb brushing her jaw as I watched her tremble with restraint.

“You’ll wait,” I said, cock still twitching. “And then I’ll tell you when.”

She lay beneath me with her mouth open and full.

Cum streaked her lips, her chin, her flushed cheeks — her tongue stretched out like she was starving, and I hadn’t fed her enough. Her hands twitched at her sides, the rest of her still limp from everything I’d already taken from her.

But she kept still.

Didn’t swallow.

Didn’t blink.

My hand was still curled lightly around her throat, just enough to feel the flutter of her pulse. I tilted her face toward the light — slow, deliberate — and looked at what I’d done.

Mess.

Ruin.

Perfect.

“Show me your tongue.”

She lifted it slightly.

A thick line stretched across the middle of it, hot and heavy. She was breathing through her nose now, trying not to choke, eyes wide and wet and waiting.

“Now swallow.”

She did.

Slow. Visibly.

Her throat moved, and her eyes fluttered shut for just a second — like the taste hit somewhere deeper.

When she opened them again, I kissed her.

Hard.

No hesitation. I crushed my mouth to hers, licking the taste of myself off her tongue. She moaned into it, hands lifting to grab weakly at my shoulders, pulling me closer, trying to climb into my skin.

Her legs wrapped around my waist again.

Desperate.

Still not done.

I broke the kiss. Moved my mouth to her ear.

“You liked that.”

She nodded fast. “Yes.”

“You want more?”

“Yes—please—”

I slid two fingers between her thighs and found her soaked again. No surprise. I pressed against her clit and she bucked into my hand like her body was starving.

“You’re still fucking needy,” I growled.

She moaned. “I can’t help it.”

“You don’t have to.”

I dragged the vibrator up from the sheets, switched it back on.

She gasped.

“No—wait—!”

I pressed it against her pussy and she twitched like she’d been shocked, hips jerking hard, a sharp, wild gasp escaping her lips.

“Fuck! Mylo—ahh—n-no, I just—just came—!”

“Too bad.”

I pushed it harder.

And her whole body shook.

She collapsed into me, body still twitching, hair damp, lips parted in stunned silence. Her breath stuttered out of her like she didn’t even remember how to inhale all the way.

I kissed her shoulder.

She flinched. Still sensitive. Still raw.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “I think I’m broken.”

Her arm curled over her face. Her thigh pressed against mine, slick with sweat. Her chest rose and fell fast, erratic.

“I’ve never—” she began, but stopped.

I didn’t need her to finish.

She was wrecked.

Completely.

And then—

Knock knock knock.

Three sharp taps on the door.

She bolted upright.

Eyes wide. Panic blooming instantly.

“Fuck—” she hissed. “No—fuck, that’s Karina.”

I sat up too fast, already looking for the closet, my shirt, anything—

But the door handle turned.

She spun to me, frantic. “Wait—hide—!”

Too late.

The door opened.

Light from the hallway spilled in — and Karina stepped inside. Hair in a loose bun. Hoodie. Phone in hand. She stopped cold.

Giselle stood in the middle of the room, naked except for the sheet clutched to her chest. Her skin still red, thighs visibly trembling. Lip gloss smeared. A trail of sweat at her temple.

Karina blinked once.

Then her eyes slid past Giselle — and landed on me.

Sitting half-covered at the edge of the bed.

Her expression didn’t change.

She didn’t raise her voice.

Didn’t gasp.

Didn’t smile.

She just looked at me for a long second.

Then back to Giselle.

“…Who is this?”

TO BE CONTINUED... PART 3

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 1 ┃ The Wrong Door

Male reader x Giselle

Word Count: 6.5k

Tags: squirting, dom/sub, rough sex, dirty talk, teasing

I didn’t even want to be here.

Concerts aren’t my thing. Screaming fans? Crowds packed shoulder to shoulder, sweating, pulsing to the bass of some pop anthem? No thanks. I like silence. I like my own space. And I sure as hell don’t like being herded like livestock through a stadium entrance just to watch people I’ve never even heard of pretend to sing over backing tracks.

But Jackson insisted. And Dev had already bought the tickets. “It’s not about the music,” they said. “It’s about the experience.”

The experience. Right.

Now here I was, drowning in noise and neon and perfume and sweat, trying to keep my breathing steady while Korean girls I didn't care about danced like their lives depended on it. The crowd—mostly teenage girls and a few dangerously enthusiastic fanboys—screamed every time one of them so much as flipped their hair. Phones were everywhere. Lights blinked like strobes. It was a full-on sensory assault.

And I? I wasn't interested. I was one wrong beat away from walking out.

I got lucky. The screen overhead blinked INTERMISSION — 15:00 and the music stopped. The crowd didn’t exactly calm down, but they started shifting, standing, stretching, running for merch and bathrooms and selfies. I used the opportunity to slip out the side aisle and into the nearest hallway marked RESTROOMS + VIP SUITES.

It was quiet almost immediately. Blessedly so.

The noise of the stadium dropped behind me like a curtain, replaced by sterile lighting and the low thrum of vents overhead. I passed the bathrooms but kept walking. I needed a breather more than anything, a second to think, to feel like myself again. I checked my phone—no signal—and kept walking down the hall.

That’s when I saw it: a door left ajar. Soft light spilled out.

I should’ve turned around. I should’ve thought, Maybe this is someone’s private space. But something about the glow—the hush, the mystery of it—pulled at me. I was curious. And when I get curious, I don’t stop.

So I pushed it open.

It took me a second to realize I wasn’t alone. The room was dim, expensive, quiet. Everything in soft gold tones and warm leather. A mirrored vanity glowed along one wall, surrounded by bulbs. The scent hit me next—perfume, heady and rich, wrapped around the chill of champagne. I was halfway through processing the velvet couch and the untouched strawberries on crystal glassware when I saw HER.

She was standing barefoot in front of the mirror, half-turned, her back to me. Her outfit was more lingerie than clothing—black mesh, sequins, leather straps. Her pink hair was up but imperfectly, pieces falling like silk down her neck. She was in the middle of unclasping something at the back of her neck, unaware of—or ignoring—me.

And then she spoke.

“You’re early.”

Her voice was smooth, low. American accent. A little amused.

I froze.

“I’m sorry,” I said, instinctively. “I think I’m—uh, lost.”

She didn’t turn right away. Just paused with her fingers on the clasp. Then she looked at me over her shoulder—one eye catching the light, sharp as a blade.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think you are.”

I blinked. “I really am. I was looking for the bathroom and I guess I just—”

“You opened a marked door.”

“I didn’t see any signs—”

“There were signs,” she said, finally facing me.

She was beautiful. I’m not saying that in the way people do when they meet a celebrity. I didn’t know who she was. I didn’t recognize her. I wasn’t starstruck. I was just... caught.

She had presence. Poise. Her body was slim but curved in all the places that made it impossible not to look. Her eyes didn’t smile, but they weren’t cold. They were calculating. Like she was building a character around me, testing how I’d react.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Mylo.”

Her head tilted slightly. “Is that real?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You don’t look like a Mylo.”

I smirked despite myself. “What do I look like?”

She thought for a bit. “Like someone who doesn’t belong here.”

“Believe me, I don’t. I was just leaving—”

“No,” she said again, softly. “Stay.”

That word—that tone—should’ve sent me walking. But it didn’t. I stayed.

She moved toward me slowly, a kind of predatory grace in her bare feet and parted lips. Her body language was relaxed, but deliberate. Every step said she was in charge. Not of the room. Of me.

And I let her.

I couldn’t explain why, not then. Maybe it was the way she looked at me—not like I was a stranger, but like I was hers. Like she already knew what she wanted to do with me and was just deciding whether I’d be worth the effort.

“You’re not one of the staff,” she said, mostly to herself.

“No.”

“You’re not with the crew. And you didn’t come with security.”

“No.”

She smiled. “Then what are you doing here, Mylo?”

“Wrong door,” I said again, but it sounded less convincing this time.

She took one more step, close enough now for me to feel the heat of her skin. Her eyes traveled down my body, not shy, not rushed. She lingered on my chest, my hips, the tension in my fingers.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” she asked.

“No.” I hesitated. “Should I?”

That amused her. I could see the moment her mask cracked and something real flickered beneath it—surprise, maybe. Or interest. Or something darker.

“No,” she said finally as if she didn't believe me. “That makes this easier.”

She didn’t move for a long time.

Just stood there in front of me, arms loose at her sides, one foot slightly forward like she was deciding whether to get closer or make me come to her. She didn’t blink much. She watched me like she was reading, not listening. And somehow, I was the one who felt exposed, even though I still had all my clothes on and she… didn’t, really.

There was a quiet sort of violence in the air. Not danger exactly. More like potential. She hadn’t said what she wanted. But I knew she wanted something.

She turned back to the mirror without another word and picked up a square of folded tissue, wiping under one eye with careful precision. Glitter dusted onto her collarbone like something expensive and accidental. The strap of her outfit was still hanging loose, but she made no move to fix it.

I wasn’t sure if I should speak. So I didn’t.

“You said your name’s Mylo,” she said, her voice low again, casual. “Where are you from?”

“Long Beach.”

“Not local, then.”

“Close enough.”

She nodded, then looked at me in the mirror.

“What are you doing now?”

“Wrong turn.”

“No.” She tilted her head. “Now. In life.”

I let out a breath, almost a laugh. “That’s a hell of a question.”

“I’m serious.”

“Right now I’m… working freelance. Web development. Bit of UX. It’s not exciting.”

She turned. “Then why did you say it like it’s a secret?”

I didn’t have an answer.

She stepped closer, slowly, like she was making sure I didn’t spook. And I didn’t. I stayed exactly where I was.

Her perfume hit me again—soft, floral, expensive. I still didn’t recognize her, but that was starting to feel irrelevant. She could’ve been an actress, a singer, a rich girl playing pretend. None of it would have changed the way she looked at me.

Like she was curious about how far she could push me before I’d say no.

“You’re nervous,” she said.

“I’m not.”

She smiled. “That’s cute.”

“I’m not cute.”

“No,” she said. “You’re not.”

Her hand brushed the front of her thigh, fingers trailing slowly along her skin, just shy of deliberate. My brain scrambled for something to say, something to anchor me to reality. I was in a stadium. There was a concert happening. There were fifteen thousand people and a very real possibility that someone would walk in and see this.

I didn’t care.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“You’ll find out when you’ve earned it.”

“Is this a game to you?”

“No.” She tilted her head. “But you’re fun to play with.”

Her foot arched slightly against the rug as she took another step forward. Close now. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of her skin, could see the light sheen of sweat at the hollow of her throat. I wanted to touch her. Just one fingertip. Just to know she was real.

“Don’t,” she said softly, like she’d read my mind.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Liar.”

A pause.

She looked down at the front of my shirt, then up again. “You don’t look like the type who follows orders.”

“I’m not.”

Her smile was slow and private. “Good.”

She reached for the strap still hanging loose on her shoulder. Slid it back into place. Not to hide. Just to reset the board.

“Sit,” she said, nodding toward the velvet loveseat.

I hesitated.

“I said sit.”

So I did.

She crossed the room without looking at me again, poured a fresh glass of champagne, dropped a single strawberry in like a garnish. Then she sat on the couch—opposite to me, one leg tucked under the other, facing me directly. Like we were equals. Like this wasn’t her room and I wasn’t the one trespassing.

“You ever break into places, Mylo?”

“No.”

“Shame. You’re good at it.”

I watched her run a finger down the side of her glass. Slow. Rhythmic.

“You think this is a mistake?” I asked.

She looked up. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

She grinned. “Me too.”

Neither of us moved.

She didn’t touch me.

Not at first.

“You’re being quiet,” she said.

“You’re being... a lot.”

Her smile curled slightly. “Too much?”

“No.” I shifted. “Not enough.”

She tilted her head, pleased. Her eyes dropped to my hands. I didn’t realize I’d been clenching them. She noticed everything.

“You like following orders,” she said.

I shook my head. “No. Not usually.”

Her smile didn’t fade. “But you’re not leaving.”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

“I guess I want to see what happens next,” I said.

That seemed to satisfy her. She leaned back into the couch, legs crossed, and looked me over like I was both trespasser and specimen.

“Take off your jacket,” she said.

I didn’t move.

She gave me a look—subtle, expectant.

I took off my jacket.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was intentional. Like she was seeing how comfortable I could get under pressure.

“You ever think about what it would be like,” she said, “to be told what to do?”

“I’ve had bosses before.”

She laughed. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

A pause.

She stood. Walked over to me—slow, barefoot, measured—and knelt in front of the chair I was sitting in. Her knees brushed mine. She didn’t reach for me. Just looked up, eyes steady, close enough that I could see the darker ring around her irises.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said.

“I know.”

“But I am going to take you apart.”

My breath caught.

“And when I do,” she added, brushing her fingers just barely against the inside of my thigh, “I’ll expect you to say thank you.”

Still, I didn’t move.

Her eyes stayed on me.

She watched the way I exhaled. The way I shifted in my seat. She could feel the tension building, and she didn’t need to do a damn thing to feed it.

“You like restraint,” she said, almost to herself.

“You’ve seen me for ten minutes.”

“I don’t need more.”

I smirked. “And what do you like?”

“Control.”

“That’s obvious.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “Not power. Not winning. Just control.”

“Is there a difference?”

“One makes you loud. The other makes you patient.”

She stood again and walked past me toward the mirrored vanity to admire herself. This time, she didn’t check to see if I was watching.

She knew I was.

“I don’t usually let people in here,” she said.

“I don’t usually wander into strangers’ rooms.”

“Yet here we are.”

She turned, walking back—slow, sure, calculated. There was nothing casual about it. Her bare feet made no sound on the rug, but she moved with the intention of heels. Stopping just in front of me, she leaned in and placed both palms on the arms of the chair. She didn’t touch me. Not quite.

But her body was close enough that I could feel the heat coming off her skin. Her breath was just below my mouth. Her perfume wrapped around me like a second atmosphere.

“You want to kiss me right now, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Say please.”

I hesitated.

And she smiled—knowing, satisfied.

“Thought so,” she whispered, and pulled back before I could say anything at all.

She sat on the edge of the couch again, back straight, watching me like a tiger lounging just out of reach.

“What do you do,” I asked, voice a little hoarse, “when you get bored?”

Her smile was a slow burn. “Get un-bored.”

She tapped the empty cushion beside her.

“Come here.”

I did.

She turned to face me fully, legs folding under her again, this time closer. Her thigh touched mine. Her hand landed on my knee.

“You’ve been good so far,” she said. “I think I’ll keep going.”

The air in the room tightened.

She moved slowly—her hand trailing up my thigh, featherlight. Her nails grazed the fabric of my pants. Her fingers reached the crease at my hip and paused.

“You can stop me at any time,” she said.

I didn’t stop her.

I didn’t want to.

She leaned in. Her lips were glossy and full and tasted like strawberries and something darker. The kiss was slow. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Commanding.

She kissed me like she was showing me how. Like I’d do it wrong if she didn’t teach me.

Her hand kept moving—along the inside of my thigh, up, then over. She didn’t grip me yet. Just touched. Just explored. The anticipation was maddening.

And then she whispered it, low against my mouth:

“Undo your pants.”

Her voice wasn’t loud. Didn’t need to be. It threaded into me like static. I looked at her—half disbelieving, half burning.

She arched one eyebrow, still calm. Still collected. Like we were discussing dinner options, not sex.

My fingers moved before I could overthink it.

Button. Zipper. The sound was deafening in the quiet. Her eyes never left my hands. She watched the reveal like it was a gift she already knew she’d earned.

“Good,” she murmured.

Her hand slid under my waistband, nails grazing skin, and that was the first real contact that made my breath catch. Her fingers were warm, deliberate. She wasn’t shy. She wrapped them around me like she’d done it a thousand times—but wanted to relearn this exact shape.

She exhaled softly, pleased. “You’re hard.”

“Of course I am.”

“Because I told you to be?”

“No.”

She smirked. “Liar.”

Her thumb dragged slowly over the head of my cock. I flinched—too much, too sensitive, too not-in-control—and that just made her smile widen. She leaned in again, kissed me with that same slow, claiming heat, and her hand stroked lazily, like she had all the time in the world and knew exactly how fast not to go.

I kissed her harder.

Tried to take some ground back. Hands moving to her hips, her waist, her lower back. But she broke the kiss and pulled back an inch.

“No hands.”

I froze.

She held my gaze, waiting.

And I let go.

Her smile told me exactly what that gave her.

She leaned in again and bit my bottom lip—just enough to leave a sting.

“You’ll touch me when I say you can.”

And then she dropped to her knees.

My breath left me all at once. I didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

Her hands slid my pants down further, then my boxers, freeing me completely. Her eyes stayed locked on mine as she lowered her head and pressed the flat of her tongue against the base of my shaft.

Slow.

Upward.

Warm, deliberate pressure that sent a jolt through my whole body.

She didn’t rush. She licked. She tasted. She dragged her mouth along me like she was memorizing the shape of my shaft. Then, with the faintest hum of satisfaction, she took me into her mouth—just the head, just enough to make me want to shove my hips forward, just enough to make me hold still.

She knew.

She was watching for the twitch of my thigh. The clench of my jaw. Her hand stroked in time with her mouth, lazy, devastating, a rhythm designed to drive a man out of his body without ever letting him finish.

And she wasn't letting me finish.

Every time my breath caught, she stopped. Pulled back. Let her tongue flick once, twice, too lightly to give me relief. She kissed the tip like she was thanking me for the privilege. Then started again.

And again.

And again.

Until I was panting, fists clenched at my sides, every part of me straining not to move. Not to grab her. Not to fuck her mouth the way I wanted to.

She pulled back completely.

Wiped her mouth with her thumb.

Then looked up at me with those sharp, unfazed eyes and said, “Good boy.”

She stayed on her knees.

Not because she had to. Because she liked the angle. She liked the view. She liked that I was still sitting there, pants around my thighs, chest rising like I’d just finished a workout—and she wasn't letting me cum.

She dragged the back of her fingers up the length of my thigh, the touch so light it barely existed, like she was testing whether I was ticklish. I wasn’t. But I was sensitive. Every nerve tuned to her. Every inch of me vibrating from her touch.

She looked pleased with herself. No—she looked composed. Like she could’ve done that to anyone and stayed perfectly unaffected.

That bothered me.

Not enough to stop. Not yet.

“Still with me?” she asked, smiling like we were just chatting over coffee.

“Barely.”

“Good.” She stood. Slow again. Unbothered. She stepped out of the loose arc of my pants on the floor, hands smoothing down her sides as she crossed the room.

She didn’t go far. Just to the mirror again. Touched up her lips. Adjusted a strap. Like this was an intermission in her show.

She glanced at me through the mirror. “You’ve got a nice mouth when you’re quiet.”

“Thought you liked control.”

“I do.”

“Don't get used to it.” I said with a slight smile

That earned me a sharper look. But no protest. She let the tension sit.

Then she walked back to me, bent over, and kissed me again—harder this time. Her tongue pushed into my mouth with zero hesitation, and she moaned softly when I kissed her back like I meant it.

She tasted like strawberries.

Her body moved against mine—shoulders, chest, hips—grinding down slow as she pushed me back into the cushions. She swung a leg over and straddled me, her outfit brushing bare skin in all the right ways and none of the convenient ones.

She reached behind her, grabbed both my wrists, and pulled them up over my head.

“Don’t move,” she whispered.

I didn’t.

Her hips rolled against me once, then again. Her breath caught—just slightly—and I caught it, too. Her control wasn’t an act. But it had cracks. Beautiful ones. And I liked finding them.

She leaned down, mouth at my ear.

“You’re going to fuck me.”

I swallowed. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Not yet,” she said. “You’ll wait.”

Her hips shifted again—slow, deep grind, no friction where I needed it, just enough heat to scramble every thought in my skull.

“I’m going to ride you,” she said, like it was a lecture. “Until I’m done with you.”

I met her eyes.

“And what happens after that?”

She smiled.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

She reached between us, tugging the crotch of her bodysuit to the side with practiced ease. I heard the slick stretch of fabric, the shift in her breath as her fingers slid down—coating her inner thighs, spreading herself open right above me.

She was wet.

Not fake-moaning wet. Not porn-scene wet.

Dripping.

She held me in place, pressed the head of my cock against her entrance, and then—

She sank down, inch by inch.

No rush. No pause. Just steady descent, her heat swallowing me whole, her breath catching, then stuttering out in a quiet, barely-there gasp. My hands gripped the sides of the chair so hard I thought the frame might crack. Her walls clenched around me like velvet and vice, her thighs tightening at my hips, her nails raking lightly over my chest as she adjusted to the full stretch.

She didn’t move right away. She stayed seated on me, full and still, like the moment itself was enough.

And then she whispered:

“There.”

Her hips began to move—smooth, controlled rolls, grinding down into me like she wanted to leave a bruise. Every time she shifted, I could feel how deep I was inside her. I could see the concentration on her face. This wasn’t for me. Not yet. This was her rhythm, her pressure, her high.

And god, watching her take it was better than any porn I’d ever seen.

Her hair came loose as she moved. Her head tilted back. She bit her bottom lip hard, and I wanted to suck it out from between her teeth. Her body flexed, sweat starting to bead at her chest, and I couldn’t decide where to look—her tits, bouncing just under the thin mesh of her bodysuit, or her face as she came closer and closer to the edge.

I held still. Let her use me.

And then she started talking.

“Harder,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Faster—fuck—just like that.”

Her hands slid up my chest, to my shoulders, and she grabbed tight. Used me for leverage. Started bouncing, not gently now—driven, messy, beautiful. She moaned, cursed, clenched tighter with every bounce, until—

“Don’t stop,” she gasped, over and over. “Don’t fucking stop—”

She was riding me like she owned me.

And in that moment, I let her. I fucking loved it.

Her pussy was unreal—tight, soaked, gripping me like she wanted to wring every drop out of my body. Her thighs slapped down against me with each stroke, and the sound of it—wet, hot, shameless—made it impossible to think. I was deep inside her, over and over, my cock pulsing every time she ground down and stayed there just long enough to clench.

I looked up at her—body arching, lips parted, eyes half-shut—and I swear I could’ve come just watching her move.

She was into it.

Head thrown back. Moaning with every bounce. Fingernails dragging across my chest. Riding like she needed it, like she was getting off on the fact that I wasn’t allowed to move.

And I wasn’t. I didn’t grab her hips. I didn’t flip her. I held still and let her take it.

Because watching her unravel like this?

Fucking addicting.

Her hands found the back of the chair, bracing. She leaned forward and the change in angle made me groan—deeper now, tighter. Her tits bounced right in front of me, barely covered by her bodysuit. I leaned up, took a nipple in my mouth through the mesh, sucked hard.

She gasped. Bucked.

“Fuck—don’t stop—don’t stop,” she begged, riding harder, fucking me like her orgasm was right on the edge and I was the last thing holding it in.

I bit her. Just a little.

She lost it.

“Ahh! O.. Oh!... Aghh! AAAH!”

Her body locked down around me—tight, hot, pulsing as she came. Her moan was sharp, sudden, desperate. She grinded through it, wringing herself out on my cock until she was panting against my neck, shaking.

And then, breathless—still straddling me—she laughed.

Low. Lazy. Satisfied.

“God,” she murmured, “you fuck like you’re broke.”

That word hit different.

I blinked.

“What?”

She looked at me, smiling. Still high off it. “I mean it as a compliment,” she said. “You fuck like you need it.”

The air shifted.

She leaned in, playful, mouth against my ear. “Do you want me to take care of you?”

No answer.

“I could,” she purred. “You wouldn’t have to worry about anything. You could just do this—stay hard, stay pretty—let me keep you. I have a lot of mon-” 

My hand shot up, wrapping around her throat—not hard, not dangerous, just enough to shock her system.

Her breath caught. Her eyes widened.

“Ah—!”

I shoved her back, flat on the couch, my grip still snug around her throat, and she gasped again, this time sharper. Her legs twitched around me. Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something clever—but no words came.

“You think you can buy me?” I said, voice low, rough.

She shook her head slightly, lips parted.

“I was just teasing—”

“Bullshit.”

“Mylo…” Her voice cracked, breathy and high. “Wait—”

“No,” I growled. “You don’t get to lead anymore.”

Her pupils blew wide. Her chest rose faster.

But she didn’t push me off. Didn’t tell me to stop.

She wanted to know what it felt like when I wasn’t pretending.

I grabbed her wrists, pressed them hard above her head, and crashed my mouth down onto hers—biting, taking, tasting the gloss off her lips like punishment.

She moaned against me.

“Mmnh—fuck—!”

My hips slammed forward. She gasped again, eyes flying wide as I pushed back into her in one deep, hard stroke.

“Oh! Ohhh—f-fuck—!”

Her body jerked. Her legs reflexively wrapped around my waist, but I wasn’t gentle. I slammed into her again, holding her down, making her feel it.

“AHH—ah—Mylo!”

“You wanted this,” I snarled. “So take it.”

She whimpered.

“Yes—yes—fuck, don’t stop—!”

I gripped her hips and rolled them up, shifting the angle, and slammed in again, deeper this time. Her back arched and she screamed.

“OHHH! GOD—AAAH!”

Her whole body was starting to fall apart. Her voice was shaky, her hands scrambling for anything to hold. Her hair stuck to her flushed cheeks. Her tits bounced wildly beneath me with every thrust.

She bit her lip. Hard.

“Don’t hold back,” I growled. “I want to hear it.”

Her eyes fluttered.

And then she let go.

“…more…”

Her voice was barely a whisper, like it had to claw its way up from deep inside her.

But I heard it.

And I fucking delivered.

I grabbed her by the thighs, yanked her body to the edge of the couch, and stood up just enough to drive into her with my full weight.

“AHHH—!”

Her scream echoed.

She clawed at the cushions, gasping, moaning, totally undone.

Her pussy was soaked—wrecked—from her orgasm, still fluttering around my cock, begging for mercy it wasn’t going to get. I pounded into her, fast and deep, hips snapping against her ass, and the sound of it was obscene—wet and hot and perfect.

“FUCK—! Mylo—ohmygod—ohmygod!”

“You’re still talking?” I growled. “I thought you gave that up.”

“Ah—ahh—! I—I can’t—fuck—I can’t—”

“You’re taking every inch,” I said. “Don’t pretend you can’t.”

I pinned her thighs wide with one arm and leaned down, dragging my teeth across her chest before I sucked one of her nipples deep into my mouth. Her body arched.

“OHHH—oh fuck! Fuck—Mylo—yes!”

Her hands flew to my hair, pulling, scratching, grounding herself while I sucked hard, my hips never stopping. I bit down—just enough to make her cry out again—and switched sides, teeth grazing, tongue teasing, wet and relentless.

She was panting. Moaning. Whimpering.

Completely gone.

“Ahh! Oh—ohh fuck—I’m—I’m gonna—again—”

“Good,” I grunted. “Give it to me.”

I reached down, thumb circling her clit, tight and fast, no mercy.

“No—no no no—fuuuck!”

Her thighs clenched around me, hips bucking wildly, and then her whole body snapped. She screamed—

“AHHH—AAAHHH—OH MY FUCKING GOD—!”

Her pussy clamped down on me like a vice, her second orgasm crashing through her like it caught her off guard. She sobbed my name, twisting underneath me, heels pounding the couch, eyes squeezed shut as her whole body convulsed.

I didn’t stop.

I grinned.

“You’re not done.”

She whimpered—shaky, broken, breathless. “M-Mylo—please—!”

I pulled out.

She gasped at the sudden emptiness.

But I didn’t give her time to think. I grabbed her by the hips, flipped her over, and shoved her onto her knees.

Her hair spilled over her shoulders. Her back arched. Her ass was round, high, perfect—and dripping.

I lined up behind her.

“You’re gonna remember this,” I said.

And I slammed back inside her.

“AAAHHH! OH FUCK!”

Her hands clawed at the couch, knuckles white.

I gripped her hips and drove into her like I wanted to split her in half. Her pussy was tighter like this, deeper, hotter—perfect. She was shaking already, moaning like she couldn’t stop.

“F-fuck—yes—yes! HARDER—!”

“Like this?” I growled, slamming in faster.

“AHHH! FUCK YES—!”

Her ass slapped against my hips with every thrust, her breath coming in broken gasps, her cries bouncing off the walls.

“You love being used,” I said.

“YES—!”

“You love when I fuck you like this.”

“YES! YES—fuck—I’m yours—!”

My hand tangled in her hair, yanked her head back. I leaned over, chest against her back, lips at her ear.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped. “Fuck—Mylo—I’m yours!”

And then she broke.

Her whole body tensed, thighs shaking, pussy clenching so tight I nearly lost it.

“Ohhh—oh fuck—I’m gonna—gonna—AAAHHHH!”

She came again, louder than before, her voice hoarse from screaming, tears in her eyes, body jerking against mine like she couldn’t control it anymore.

I wrapped my arms around her and kept thrusting.

Long.

Deep.

Cruel.

She sobbed my name like a prayer. Like she meant it.

“Ahh… Mylo… ohhh—fuck—fuck—”

And I was still inside her.

Still pounding her. Still filling her. Still using her.

But slower now.

Crueler.

Each thrust was long, deep, deliberate. Dragging along every inch of her, making her whimper and gasp as her whole body melted forward against the cushions.

Her thighs were twitching. Her hands limp. She was trying to stay upright, trying to catch her breath—but I didn’t stop.

I wanted her at the edge. I wanted to fuck her into something wordless.

So I grabbed her hips and slammed into her again, harder than before.

“AHHH! Aghh—ohmygod—Mylo!”

She nearly collapsed. Her forehead hit the cushion. Her ass quivered with the shock of it. Her pussy clenched like she was trying to hold me in.

“You hear that?” I growled, pulling almost all the way out—then driving back in, fast, loud, wet.

Slap.

“F-fuck! Ahhh—yes—yes—!”

I kept going. Hard. Brutal.

My balls slapped against her with every thrust, heavy and obscene. Her moans pitched higher and higher—raw now, broken, no rhythm or performance left.

“AHH! AH! I-I can’t—! Mylo—I—”

“You can,” I snapped.

She tried to shake her head but her body betrayed her.

And then she started crying out.

Short, fast, choked cries between gasps.

“Ahh! Oh! O.. Oh! M-Mylo—I’m gonna—I’m gonna fucking—AAAHHH!”

I leaned forward, wrapped my arm around her waist, and hauled her up to her knees.

“Not yet.”

She sobbed. Literally sobbed.

“Mylo—I c-can’t—please—I’m gonna—”

I reached down and rubbed her clit. Just once.

That’s all it took.

She exploded.

Her whole body locked. Her mouth dropped open and a noise came out that wasn’t even human.

“AHHH! OHH! AAAHH—MYLO—FUCK—FUCK—FUUUCK!”

Her pussy milked my cock, hard. Over and over. Her orgasm ripped through her like lightning, twisting her body into mine, skin to skin, sweat to sweat. She was panting, trembling, completely wrecked.

I didn’t stop.

I pulled out—slowly, watching her body shake.

Then I flipped her over and dragged her down onto the rug in front of me.

On her knees.

Her face was red, glowing, dazed. Her lips were parted, shining with spit. Her chest rose and fell fast, tits marked from where I’d sucked them raw. Her thighs were trembling uncontrollably.

I grabbed my cock—wet, slick, twitching—and jerked it in front of her.

Her eyes fluttered open.

“I want you to see it,” I said.

She nodded. Barely.

I stroked. Hard. Fast.

She stuck her tongue out. Just a little. Just enough.

I groaned—fuck—I was close.

“Touch yourself,” I ordered.

Her hand slid between her legs instantly.

She moaned.

“Ahh… ah—fuck…”

Her fingers rubbed frantically against her clit, still sensitive, still soaked. She didn’t even try to play it cool anymore. She moaned like a whore—desperate, breathy, begging for it.

“Cum with me,” I said.

And we did.

I growled, jerked hard—and exploded.

Hot ropes splattered her lips, her chin, her tongue. She gasped, eyes closing, moaning as her own orgasm took her again—so raw she didn’t even scream this time, just shook, body twitching as I painted her skin.

She came without a word. Just noise.

“Mmhh… ahh… ahhh…”

She swallowed. Licked her lips. Eyes glazed, face ruined.

I dropped to my knees in front of her.

She leaned into my chest, breath hitching, heartbeat stuttering.

And for the first time that night—

She was quiet.

Curled up against me, silent, skin hot and flushed, her breath still uneven. I could feel her heartbeat through her chest, fast and light, ticking against my ribs like a metronome that hadn’t slowed down yet.

Neither of us spoke.

She didn’t need to.

Her body was saying everything.

The way she clung to me—legs tangled with mine, face tucked into the curve of my shoulder, one arm draped across my stomach like she couldn’t let go even if she wanted to. She felt small like that. Breakable. Even though five minutes ago, she was grinding on top of me like she was trying to kill me.

Now she was soft. Quiet. Bare.

My hand ran lazily up and down her back. Just skin and slow movement. Every few seconds she twitched, her hips jolting just a little—oversensitive, still riding out the shockwaves.

She made a little sound into my chest.

“Mmh…”

“You good?”

She nodded against my skin. “Mhm.”

“You sure?”

She laughed under her breath, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t think my legs work.”

I smiled.

“I can’t feel my face, either,” she added.

I reached up and ran my fingers through her hair, brushing it off her forehead.

“Cute,” I said.

“Shut up,” she mumbled, nudging me with her nose.

But she smiled. I felt it.

We stayed like that for a while. Breathing. Cooling off. The tension between us had gone slack, melted down into something warmer. Calmer. Her body fit against mine like it was supposed to be there.

I looked down and kissed the top of her head.

She shifted, nuzzling against my chest like a sleepy cat.

“Seriously though,” she said after a while, voice scratchy and small. “That was…”

She didn’t finish.

“That was,” I agreed.

She laughed again, then yawned, and her leg slid between mine.

“God,” she said. “You’re kind of dangerous.”

“Kinda?”

“Yeah. You fucked someone you don't even know the name of.”

“I asked. It also didn't seem that important at the time.”

“Still doesn’t?”

I glanced down. “I suppose it does. Your name?”

She looked up at me, half-lidded.

“Giselle.”

We just stared at each other for a second. Neither of us smiling now. Just… seeing each other.

“I liked when you didn’t know,” she whispered.

“I liked it too.”

She rested her cheek on my chest again. Slower now. Breathing deeper.

“Just… don’t get weird about it.”

I blinked. “Weird?”

“Yeah. Like…” Her voice softened. “Don’t start acting different now that you know.”

I hesitated. “Know what?”

She lifted her head, squinting slightly. “You know… that I’m… in Aespa?”

I blinked. “What’s Aespa?”

She stared at me. Silent. Waiting for the punchline.

“…Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

She blinked. Twice.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, half-laughing. “You really don't know!”

“Nope.”

“You came to our concert.”

“My friends dragged me.”

“Jesus.” She flopped back down on my chest, stunned. “I think I just came harder.”

We stayed like that for another few minutes. Her body pressed against mine, skin warm, lips still curled in that breathless little smirk. Every so often, she’d hum, or shift slightly, or let out this content, melted sigh like she still hadn’t landed yet.

“You’re insane, you know,” she murmured, tracing a lazy circle on my chest.

“Because I don't know who you were?”

“Because you don't care.”

I smiled, eyes closed. “Still don’t.”

Her fingers stopped moving. For a second I thought I’d said the wrong thing.

But then she whispered, “That’s probably the hottest thing you’ve said all night.”

I cracked one eye open. “That’s saying something.”

“Oh, I know. I was there.”

She leaned up and kissed me, slow and unhurried. I kissed her back, brushing my thumb along her jaw, letting her taste linger. She pulled back just an inch.

“So what happens now?” she asked, voice small.

I paused.

“Whatever you want.”

Her lips pressed together. Not uncertain. Just… thoughtful.

But then—

Knock knock knock.

Her entire body froze.

I lifted my head.

There it was again—three clean knocks, firm and casual.

“Giselle?” a voice called through the door. Female. Confident. “They’re waiting on us for the group shot.”

She swore under her breath and rolled off me, grabbing at the nearest sheet.

“Shit, shit—fuck, that’s Karina.”

“Karina?”

She gave me a wild look. “One of the girls. From the group.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

She scrambled for her phone and grabbed a tissue box off the vanity. I watched her wipe her inner thighs, dab under her eyes, fix her lips in the mirror. She still looked flushed. Hair tangled. But some of the damage was masked.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “I can’t walk out there looking like I just got wrecked.”

“You did,” I said.

“Don’t be proud of that.”

She shoved me toward the closet. “Hide. Please.”

I hesitated. She pushed again.

“Unless you want to get recognized and tossed off the balcony.”

That was enough.

I ducked into the small walk-in just as she called out, “Be right there!”

From inside, I heard the door unlock. Hinges creaking. Light footsteps.

“Everything okay?” Karina asked. Closer now. Her voice smooth. A little suspicious.

“Yeah,” Giselle replied, now perfectly calm. “Just needed a minute.”

A pause.

“You look like a mess.”

Giselle laughed, and it was almost too good. “Tried a new lash glue. Bad idea.”

Karina snorted. “It looks like you cried in a club bathroom.”

“I kind of did.”

“You want me to stall them?”

“No. I’m good now.”

Silence.

And then, just as the door started to close—

“You sure you were alone in here?”

My heart stopped.

Giselle didn’t flinch. “Of course I was,” she said, smooth as ever. “Why?”

Karina didn’t answer right away.

Then: “No reason.”

The door shut.

A lock clicked.

A few seconds later, the closet opened.

Giselle stood there—still glowing, still breathless, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she whispered.

I pulled her in for a kiss.

TO BE CONTINUED...

PART 2